Lee’s breath escaped slowly, like air fizzing out of a tire. “Yeah, I do that, too.” She shrugged. “So, I guess we should chalk it up to middle age? That and we can’t party like we did in college?”
Caroline gave a small laugh. “That sounds about right to me. So now what?”
Before Lee could answer, there was another knock at the door.
Lee stole a glance at Caroline. “Javier?” Caroline shrugged and got up to see. She’d almost mentioned their fight to Lee but then had thought better of it—she wasn’t sure her friend would be sympathetic.
“Don’t you have a key?” she demanded when the door opened on Javier, but Lee was already brushing past her.
“Hi, Javier. Good to see you. Catch you guys later tonight?”
“Sure.” Surprise darted across Javier’s face, as if he couldn’t quite fathom why Lee was in their room. In his hands were two very large margaritas. “Am I forgiven?” he asked once Lee had gone.
“That depends.” Caroline stepped aside to let him by. “Normally forgiveness follows an apology. I don’t think I’ve gotten one of those yet.”
He set the drinks down on the table and came over to her, circling his arms around her waist. His head dipped down toward hers, his nose brushing hers. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have made you ride a scooter if you didn’t want to. I thought it would be fun.”
Caroline felt something soften in her. He sounded so sincere. It probably was his idea of a good time. “I know,” she said, “and usually I do like an adventure, but sometimes it’s too much, and I need you to listen when I say I’m afraid. I’m not as tough as I look, you know.”
He kissed her forehead. “You mean even the great Caroline Canton is sometimes afraid? I didn’t know this.” She stepped away to help herself to the margarita, which tasted like icy, delicious pineapples.
“Yes, I am, as much as I hate to admit it.” She sat down on the bed, across from him. “Speaking of which,” she began, “I think we need to talk.”
14
Abby hadn’t said anything to the boys, not yet. Only that she’d been feeling tired. Somehow, she and Sam had managed to keep the doctors’ appointments secret from them, Abby going in for visits during the school day. On the night that they biopsied the lymph node, Abby had fibbed and said she was staying over at her friend Marie’s because Marie wasn’t feeling well and needed help with the baby. Abby didn’t like lying to the boys. But as soon as they heard the news, she knew they would worry, and she wanted to protect them for as long as she could. In her mind, they were still her little boys. Why burden them unnecessarily until they were certain about what they were dealing with?
The doctor had mentioned options. “Something else will probably get you first,” he’d said in a grim attempt at levity, she supposed. There were pills she could take—was taking—a whole array of them in a variety of colors that were supposed to make her body stop attacking itself. And once her body adjusted to the medication—maybe in a few weeks, a few months—she’d start to feel more like herself, perhaps even put on a few pounds.
But the looming question was one that she and Sam had yet to discuss: Would she try the next step? The only true cure for what she had—a very rare type of leukemia—was a bone marrow transplant. Just the thought of such an invasive procedure made her want to crawl under her bed. That compounded with the slim odds of finding a match (especially since Abby didn’t have any siblings) made her less than sanguine. And, to tell the truth, she wasn’t confident that her body could withstand the procedure. She’d been feeling so tired lately. On the other hand, even without the transplant, she might still live another twenty years. People had. Abby had read the literature. Twenty years was plenty of time to see the boys graduate from college, get married. And really, who of them knew how much time they had left on this earth?
She slipped a book of poems she’d been reading into her bag while she waited for Sam. There were two that she wanted to include in tomorrow’s ceremony. Sam wouldn’t mind. As far as he was concerned, Abby could order up a mariachi band and it would all be fine. So long as we renew our vows, honey, I’m good. She sipped her gin and tonic, the tang of it delicious on her tongue. It had been so long since she’d had a cocktail! Not since the doctor had suspected something might be amiss. And now she was under doctor’s orders to abstain from alcohol while on the medication. But what could one little G & T hurt? A person didn’t get to celebrate twenty years of marriage every day. The way Abby saw it, the gin scrubbing at the edges of her anxiety, was that she’d earned it. If she couldn’t celebrate now, then when?
She was satisfied with her poem selection and with her brief meeting with the ship’s chaplain earlier today. She’d wanted to make sure everything was set for tomorrow’s ceremony at noon at Horseshoe Bay. Lunch would follow at the Reefs Resort. The chaplain, a portly fellow with a mop of gray hair and an easygoing manner, had been just as Abby had imagined him when she spoke with him a few weeks ago from Boston. The ceremony would be a simple affair—a couple of readings, an exchange of vows. The chaplain seemed to understand. Better yet, he supported her wishes to keep the whole affair understated. In the Bermuda heat, short and sweet was best.
Abby searched the crowd again. Still no sign of Sam. For the hundredth time, she checked the screen above the bar that listed the forecast for tomorrow: Wednesday would be in the eighties and filled with bright sunshine. The ceremony would be lovely, and also, quite possibly, as hot as a fried egg. Thank goodness the Reefs Hotel had offered to pitch a modest white tent and chairs on the beach for the affair. It would protect them from the sun—and lessen the chances that someone would collapse from heatstroke.
Abby thought of her dress, a shimmering Badgley Mischka made of the softest ivory chiffon. The top was a simple halter that tied at the neck, and the skirt cascaded out from the waist like a waterfall. Wearing it made Abby feel like the most graceful woman in the world. She couldn’t wait to put it on tomorrow, to feel the drape of the chiffon against her skin, and, most especially, to see Sam’s expression when he laid eyes on her for the first time.
More people were beginning to gather on the ship’s dance floor, and Abby wondered if Caroline or Lee had found her way up yet. It was the night of the White Hot Party—which their cruise director, Simone, had been talking up all day. Above the parquet floor, a spinning disco ball threw off diamonds of light that illuminated passengers’ white shirts and dresses in a strange neon purple. It occurred to Abby that she had no idea where the kids were. Probably off at the karaoke bar or the arcade.
Forty-six was still young, which worked in her favor. And her particular kind of chemotherapy could be taken in pill form—the wonders of modern science! The doctor had mentioned she’d likely keep her hair, and for that she was grateful. She worried, though, that she would lose her mind before anything else. Sometimes she could sense little bits of information slipping away from her, Post-it notes ungluing from her brain, and Sam would give her a look as if she’d just told him to pour salt in his iced tea. Evidently, there was even a name for it—chemo brain.
Plenty of time to think about it, the doctor had said. Let’s see how the medicine treats you first. So, that’s where Abby stood, on the precipice of waiting and seeing. Of course, if the rogue cells in her body didn’t respond—or grew resistant—well, twenty years suddenly got whittled down to ten or five or two. But Abby pushed that thought out of her mind. When the test results had arrived two weeks prior to their sail-away date, the doctor had handed her the green light to go on vacation, as planned. She was fine to travel so long as she promised to get her blood work done the moment she returned home—something about counting the blasts and platelets darting around inside of her. The pills, of course, were meant to manage that, knock the blasty things down to a more reasonable level. Her body, it seemed, had a disturbing preponderance of white cells—big, muscular bullies (she imagined them sporting tattoos) that were crowding out the healthy red ones. Sometim
es she liked to imagine the chemo pills giving the bullies a swift kick in the nuts.
She flagged the bartender for an ice water. The revelers were warming up now, and she watched as people began to swing their hips with a more suggestive vibe. One man had already yanked off his shirt, and it now looped around his head like a turban. It was shocking, really, the things people felt free to do on vacation. What do they do for their day jobs? Abby wondered. Was the bare-chested man, for instance, the CEO of a very important company? Was the woman whose breasts threatened to break free from her halter top with every shimmy in fact the president of a prestigious Manhattan philanthropy board? It was hard to imagine.
Abby tried to think back to six months ago. Had her own body shown signs of turning on itself? Were there inklings, other than some weight loss and general fatigue, that had escaped her notice? She’d just assumed it was all typical premenopausal stuff. The trick of leukemia, of course, was that it rarely introduced itself in obvious ways. Instead of forming a palpable lump, the infected cells coursed through your body, masquerading as blood, that life force. Abby had even boasted to friends about how rarely she was sick. Must be good genes, she’d joked. How strange to think that a year ago she was moving through her typical days, ushering the boys to sports games and appointments, meeting friends for lunch, without a clue that her body would soon be under siege.
Even harder to imagine was some unnamed technician “reading” her cells in a faraway lab. Were her sick cells dramatically different from her healthy ones, she wondered, somehow bent or misshapen? Did the technician consider what kind of person might provide a home to such cells? Did he conjure up Abby’s auburn hair, which hung just above her shoulders, or her hazel eyes? What about the more abstract things? Did he (or she, Abby reminded herself—it could be a woman technician) see a hologram of her, the wife of Samuel Bingham and the mother of two boys? A woman who loved her family deeply and wanted her life to stay exactly the same? How much could a person intuit from another person’s DNA?
The doctor had tried to reassure her, a flop of gray hair brushing over his eyes. “This is not a death sentence, Abby. Now is not the time to despair.” And Abby had remembered her first thought: what a cliché. Of all the ailments to take her down, it had to be cancer? Why couldn’t she have a rare disease, something exotic maybe, one that could be caught only in the wilds of India? Something that would get people’s attention for its rarity without instantly invoking their pity. Yes, Abby had been mad at her cancer not because it threatened her life but because it seemed so blasé, another statistic in her doctor’s day. If she were going to be taken out of this world, then she wanted a touch of drama, at the very least, a good story.
And then she’d gone online to read about her particular brand of cancer (precisely what the doctor had ordered her not to do) and learned that roughly four out of one million Americans were diagnosed with her type of leukemia each year. She’d called out to Sam to recite the astonishing statistic. Four in one million. They’d shared a perverse chuckle over that—“I have a better chance of getting struck by lightning, don’t you think?”—and the abrupt realization that her diagnosis was plenty unique.
Abby’s thoughts were interrupted by a woman, probably in her mid-sixties, blond hair and heavy makeup, who collapsed in the empty seat next to her. She ordered a Coke and tossed a smile Abby’s way. “Let me guess. Waiting on your husband?”
Abby raised an eyebrow. “Is it that obvious?”
The woman laughed. “You’d be surprised how many women on this ship find themselves in the same position.” She smiled. “Myself included. My husband’s mistress is the casino. I’m Nancy, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you. Abby.” They clinked glasses. “Where are you from?”
“Originally? Canada, up near Toronto. But these days, the ship is my home.”
“Oh, you travel a lot?” Abby asked.
“You could say that. My husband and I actually live on the Bermuda Breeze.”
Abby straightened in her seat, surprised. “Really? Do you work on the ship?”
“Heavens, no. We’re retired. It just so happens that we chose to retire on a big old boat instead of in a condo in Florida. This way we get to see some of the Caribbean and meet interesting new people every week. We love it.”
Abby cocked her head, considering the cruise in a fresh light. Could it be a balm to call such a floating house her home? She wasn’t sure that she’d ever get used to the idea of making it permanent. Casinos and shuffleboard were not her thing. Plus, Abby liked having her feet on solid ground as opposed to drifting on water with no discernible bottom. Still, she could see how the simplicity of it all, of having someone cook and clean for you, could be appealing. And when she kicked the bucket, a burial at sea sounded easy, peaceful even.
“You should look into it,” Nancy encouraged. “I’m sure they have some brochures at the front desk. It’s a good gig.”
Abby nodded. “It does sound pretty nice, actually.”
“Ah, the prodigal husband returns,” Nancy kidded as a man with a shiny bald head and a loud Hawaiian shirt approached them. “Did you win big, Larry?” she asked as he wrapped an arm around her.
He held up his fingers to form a zero. “Nada. Not my lucky day.”
“Too bad.” She shrugged. “Maybe tomorrow. Can I buy you a drink?”
“The answer to that question, my dear, is always yes.” He winked. “How about a martini?”
After introductions, Abby confided that she was celebrating her twentieth wedding anniversary, and Larry insisted on ordering her another gin and tonic. “Next year is our fortieth,” said Nancy. “You should come back. It’s going to be a real party!”
But before Abby could construe an enthusiastic answer, Sam materialized by her side, a book in hand. She introduced him.
“I was just telling your wife how great it is to live on the boat. You meet tons of people, from all over the place.” Nancy clapped her hands together. “Let’s see . . . There was a couple from Holland, another from Brazil. Oh, and that nice young man from Tennessee. Who else? Think, Larry.” Abby caught Sam’s gaze, slightly pleading. After a few more minutes, the cruisers excused themselves for dinner, and Sam dropped into Nancy’s empty chair.
“Wow, do you think the cruise line hires her to get people to sign up for life?”
Abby laughed. “It’s possible. They do seem to like it, though.” She turned her face to catch the breeze. “Can you imagine? Nothing to do but sit by the pool during your retirement years? You wouldn’t even have to step off the boat.”
Sam shook his head. “No way. I’d be bored to tears.”
To tell the truth, Abby thought she would, too. But there was something to be said for getting away from it all. Was it possible, she wondered, for the ocean air and salt water to cure her particular brand of sickness? Maybe fighting her illness was simply a matter of mind over body, warm sunshine over punishing, gray springtime.
“Oh, look, there’s Lee.” Abby pointed as Lee made her way toward them through the throng of dancers, a water bug fighting the current.
“How on earth did you guys ever manage to get seats? This place is packed,” Lee huffed when she finally reached them, her cheeks flushed pink.
“It’s crazy now, but it was empty earlier.” Abby flagged down the bartender and ordered Lee a strawberry margarita.
“Have you seen the kids?” Abby asked. “I don’t think I’ve spotted Chris or Ryan in hours.”
“Nope,” replied Lee. “And I’m not going to worry about it. I’m sure they’re off having fun somewhere.”
“You’re probably right. How about Caroline? Any sign of her?”
“Last I saw the lovebirds, they were sharing margaritas in their cabin.”
“Aha,” said Abby and winked. “Perhaps tonight is the night then.”
“Perhaps,” said Lee slyly. Sam shook his head.
“You ladies,” he began, “are ridiculous. I say let Javier propo
se on his own time.”
“Do you know something we don’t?” Abby asked.
“No, nothing.” Sam held up his hands, feigning surrender. “As a guy, though, I have to say probably the last thing that would make me want to propose is knowing I was supposed to propose.”
Abby sipped her cocktail. “You have a point. But still,” she continued, “don’t you think it’s about time Javier sealed the deal?”
“You two are really all about the romance, aren’t you?” Sam teased.
Abby sighed. She only wanted her friend to be happy. She scanned the crowd to see if Caroline and Javier might be dancing, but instead her eyes landed on a young couple whose bodies appeared stuck together like mating dragonflies. She clicked her tongue.
“Honestly, don’t young people have any manners these days? There, over in the corner, look.”
Lee and Sam peered into the dimly lit area. “Hey, Abby—”
But Abby realized it at the same moment as Lee. “Honey? Doesn’t that look a little like Chris?” Before Sam could answer, the boy glanced in their general direction. Abby gripped Sam’s arm. “Oh my God. It is Chris. Honey, do something!” She nudged Sam hard enough that she could feel her elbow land in the soft flesh between his ribs.
“Ow! Go easy there, would you, killer?” He pulled back, squinting in Chris’s direction.
Abby huffed. Sam was hopeless in these kinds of situations, as if he needed to read the entire book before drawing a conclusion based on a mere chapter. If anyone was going to stop the scene unfolding in front of them, it would have to be her. Abby felt her body practically levitate out of its seat. As she marched toward her son, the thought crossed her mind that these men—her boys—would need someone else to save them from themselves when she was gone.
But she’d deal with that later. Right now, she was on a mission.
The Summer Sail Page 13