Of course they recommended more toxic and invasive therapies, but given the success she had with alternative therapies last time around, she doesn’t want to go that route (and who would?). So we are back where we started. Only this time, we already have all the tools we need. We just need to use them.
Zoe went on to describe the dietary changes Marie would make and the protocol she’d follow to treat herself: coffee enemas, an intense course of supplements that included green tea concentrate, capsaicin, and baking soda, and regular visits to an herbalist who would recalibrate her system and rid it of toxins. Lizzie was skeptical, but she also knew cancer was a complicated disease, with many modes of treatment. Part of her wondered if Marie’s cancer had returned because she hadn’t used conventional treatments the first time around, but Lizzie also knew of many cases—both personally and anecdotally—where a person’s cancer recurred even after chemo, radiation, and drugs. If alternative medicine worked for Marie the first time around . . . well, Lizzie supposed there was no harm in trying again. As a general rule, Lizzie tried to keep an open mind about these sorts of things.
In the post, Zoe also included a quick note from Marie, in which she thanked all of Zoe’s readers for their “amazing support over the years”:
I’m a pretty private person, which is why I let Z be my proxy in our little health crusade. But please know how much it means to me that you keep reading and promoting this site. The lifestyle she writes about on here really does change lives, and thanks to her passion and enthusiasm I have no doubt I will be on my feet again in a flash.
There was another photo of Marie embedded in the post. She looked thinner in this photo, though not that much older than in the photograph Lizzie had already seen. Now Lizzie felt bad bugging Zoe about the recipes on her site. In the scheme of things, did it really matter? If anything, Lizzie felt bad for Zoe. She decided to send her an e-mail instead of confronting her face-to-face:
Hey, Zoe,
Just wanted to make sure you got the recipe I sent you. Did it make sense? Let me know if you have any questions.
Also, I saw the news about Marie. I’m so sorry. If there’s anything I can do, let me know. I have a lot of healthy recipes in my collection, so I can send a few your way or even develop a few with you especially for Marie. Happy to help in any way I can.
Hang in there,
Lizzie
Happy to help. Was she? Willing was more like it, and if she was being honest with herself she was barely that. But whether it was genuine concern or morbid curiosity, Lizzie wanted to know more about Marie’s story, so she hit Send and, though she hated to admit it, really hoped Zoe would reply—or, at the very least, wouldn’t delete the e-mail without ever reading it.
CHAPTER 19
Linda,
Thanks for sending along Dr. Rosenfeld’s information. I really appreciate your concern and hear he is one of the best oncologists in Philly. However, after doing a lot of soul-searching (and a lot of reading), I’d really like to go another way.
I know, I know—I can already hear your objections. But there are so many alternative options out there, and I’d like to explore them. I promise this has nothing to do with vanity. We both know you got all the good hair genes in the family. I even joked with the doctor after my diagnosis that I’d probably look better in a wig than I look with my real hair. But I just can’t bring myself to do chemo. I’m sorry, I can’t. So I’ve agreed to a lumpectomy and will follow that with a course of alternative, more natural therapies.
I have to say, Gary has been an absolute savior when it comes to researching treatments. He’s pointed me to all sorts of useful Web sites and information—so many and so much that I can barely wade through it all. I had no idea how many possibilities there were aside from chemo and radiation, which is all you ever hear about. Demuth, Kelley, Contreras—and those are just the beginning. You’re probably scratching your head and asking, “Demuth? Who’s that?” I was, too. But as Gary told me, that’s because the Medical Industrial Complex has suppressed these options because they would cut into the profits of doctors and hospital systems and pharmaceutical companies. He said, “When you’re a hammer, everything looks like a nail. All doctors want to do is operate and medicate. But what about treating the underlying cause? What about fixing whatever toxic conditions created the problem in the first place?” Makes a lot of sense, if you ask me.
I’m still trying to figure out which approach is best for me, but this week Gary is taking me to meet with a doctor who specializes in Demuth therapy. From what I gather, the Demuth protocol is pretty intense (lots of organic juices, enemas, things like that), but when you hear from people who’ve done it the results sound pretty amazing. We’ll see. I guess a part of me feels like it couldn’t hurt. I mean, is anyone really going to tell me eating more fruits and vegetables is a bad idea? And once they’ve cut out the lump, the cancer is gone anyway, so all I’d be doing is flushing out all the bad, toxic stuff in my body and beefing up my immune system so that the cancer won’t come back.
Anyway, thanks again for looking out for me. I really do appreciate your concern. You’re the best baby sister a girl could ask for (and yes, I still get to call you my baby sister—don’t fight it). But I’ve come to a point in my life where I am trying to live with fewer “shoulds” and instead am doing what makes sense for me. After losing a child, going through a divorce, and dealing with all of the other crap I’ve had to deal with, I think I’ve earned that right. I hope you understand.
Love you tons, and I’ll let you know how the consultation goes this week.
xxoo
S
CHAPTER 20
The morning after Lizzie e-mailed Zoe, Zoe disappeared. Lizzie knew referring to Zoe’s absence as a “disappearance” was a little melodramatic, but she couldn’t think of a better way to characterize it. One day Zoe’c car was there, and the next day it wasn’t, and neither was she, and no one seemed to know where either had gone.
Vanishing without so much as a good-bye seemed to be Zoe’s specialty, but whereas before Lizzie simply found it odd and a little rude, she now took it personally. Did her e-mail prompt Zoe to take off? The timing seemed fishy. Now there was no chance they’d run into each other and Zoe could ignore Lizzie’s note indefinitely.
Lizzie tried to pretend she didn’t care (she was just trying to be nice, after all), but she did, and it drove her crazy. Why couldn’t Zoe at least reply to thank Lizzie for offering to help? Probably because Marie’s health was none of Lizzie’s business. But that’s what rubbed Lizzie the wrong way. Zoe had effectively made it everyone’s business when she posted the news on her site, and given Lizzie’s background in healthy cuisine, Zoe’s silence felt like a slap in the face. Was she threatened by Lizzie? Was she afraid Lizzie would usurp her role as wellness guru? Because Lizzie had no interest in doing that. As much as she missed her days as a healthy cooking star, she didn’t see a role for herself in the world Zoe inhabited. It was too affluent and privileged.
That said, as much as it bothered her to admit it, Lizzie saw some of herself in Zoe. She’d been the twenty-three-year-old “expert,” dispensing advice to the masses about how to eat and cook healthily even though she had no background in diet or nutrition. She always felt a pang of guilt when she received an e-mail from a viewer asking for specific diet advice (“I’ve been a yo-yo dieter for years, and I’m sick of it! I’m ready to make a real change. Please help!”). What business did Lizzie have telling people what to eat and what not to eat? She wasn’t a nutritionist. She knew as much as any interested young woman knew about dieting: cut back on sugar and carbs; don’t drink too much; eat lots of fruits and vegetables and fish and lean meats. Beyond that . . . well, she didn’t really know what else to recommend.
Maybe Zoe knew more than she had, but somehow Lizzie doubted it. No matter how much research Zoe had done—and from the looks of her site, she had obviously done a lot—she was still only twenty-three. Aside from the fact that
Zoe hadn’t studied nutrition or, as far as Lizzie could tell, ever held an actual job, she was barely an adult. She had clearly gone through a trying experience with her friend Marie, but otherwise Zoe had lived a fairly sheltered life under the Silvesters’ roof. Lizzie didn’t think age necessarily correlated with expertise, but she also knew from her own experience that the word “expert” was often used without much to back up such claims. The only thing Lizzie considered herself an expert in these days was peaking too early in one’s career. She wondered if that’s why Zoe was keeping her distance, as if confiding in Lizzie would cause her own career to befall a similar fate.
The week passed, and still there was no sign of Zoe. Renata didn’t have any insider information, and Lizzie had learned not to ask Kathryn about Zoe—or anything, really—unless she wanted to lose at least thirty minutes of her life. As the week went by, all Kathryn seemed interested in discussing was Nate’s return and how much she hoped his trip would fall through.
“Apparently he is still coming,” she lamented Friday morning as she sipped a kale-apple juice in the kitchen.
“Tomorrow?” Lizzie asked.
“Around lunchtime. At least that’s what he told Jim. Traffic will probably be terrible, so unless he is leaving Washington at the crack of dawn I don’t see how he’ll make it for lunch, but then Nate is the master of wishful thinking. . . .”
“I didn’t realize he was a professor,” Lizzie said, recalling her conversation with him and Zoe.
“Of ‘sociology.’ ”
She used air quotes, as Zoe had done when referring to Nate as a professor. What was it with this family and air quoting Nate’s career? To become a sociology professor was a legitimate professional choice. Didn’t they know this? Did they also throw air quotes around “financial” “planners” and “kindergarten” “teachers”? Lizzie didn’t understand.
“He studies neighborhoods. Neighborhoods! How is that a real job? The only people who need to study neighborhoods are ones who are looking to buy a house. It’s ridiculous.”
“I’m guessing he looks at things like demographics and gentrification,” Lizzie said, trying to be polite but also trying to emphasize to Kathryn that neighborhoods were a legitimate area of study. She had taken a course on that topic during her sophomore year at Penn, and it was one of her favorite classes.
“Probably. Who knows. It just seems like such a waste. With his brains and talent, he could be doing something high-powered and meaningful, but instead he spends his days talking about ‘communities. ’ ”
Again with the air quotes. “I took a class like that in college and loved it, so—”
“At least that was at Penn. If he were at an Ivy League school, that would be a different story. I mean, I still say no one needs to learn about neighborhoods, but if it were Yale or Penn, we could point to that as an achievement. But he’s at American. I mean, seriously? I know he loves DC, but come on. He couldn’t even get a job at Georgetown or GW? Jim went to GW, so Nate is a legacy. He should have been a shoo-in.”
Lizzie couldn’t believe Kathryn’s intellectual snobbery. Had she even gone to college? And maybe Nate didn’t want to work at GW. From what Lizzie knew of their relationship, Nate’s legacy status would, if anything, be a turnoff.
“A friend of mine from high school went to American,” Lizzie said. “It’s a very good school.”
“Oh, I’m sure it’s a fine place for some people. But after two degrees from Princeton, it just seems so . . . meh.”
“Better than selling drugs, right?”
“At least then he’d be making money. . . .” Kathryn caught Lizzie’s eye and blushed. “I’m kidding. Obviously.” But given her expression, Lizzie guessed she wasn’t.
Kathryn slurped down the rest of her juice and glanced at the clock on the wall. “Right. Time to get moving. Barb is coming to hang by the pool and will stay for lunch, and Jim will be here by dinnertime. He’s requested turkey London broil. Well, actually, he requested London broil, but we both know that isn’t happening! Not after all the burgers and hot dogs on the Fourth. If he keeps eating like this, his cholesterol will be off the charts. I’ve seen his numbers, and let me tell you, they aren’t good. I keep telling him he should talk to Zoe about trying a vegan diet for a while, but he won’t hear it. Oh, but speaking of Zoe . . . you may have noticed that she hasn’t been around this week.”
Lizzie tried to downplay her interest. “I did. What’s she been up to?”
“I don’t know. Something about a friend of hers. I only heard from her today. But apparently she is coming back sometime this weekend, so plan on stocking some of her usual favorites—greens, avocados, nuts, that kind of thing.”
“Will do.” Lizzie took Kathryn’s empty glass and washed it in the sink. “Maybe she was visiting her friend Marie,” she suggested, looking up at Kathryn as she dried the glass with a towel.
“Marie?” Kathryn looked confused. “No, I think it was . . . Actually, now that you mention it, I don’t think she specified. Maybe it was Marie. I can’t keep track—Trevor, Kai, Yvette, Sasha. Too many names to keep straight.”
“Marie is the one who was sick. Or I guess is sick again.”
Kathryn’s expression hardened, and she stared at Lizzie for a beat. “Oh. Then no. No, I don’t think it was Marie.” She looked at the clock again. “Sorry—I have to go. I’ll see you at lunch.”
Then she turned and left, her sudden brevity ringing in Lizzie’s ears like an alarm bell.
* * *
As lunchtime approached on Saturday, Lizzie found herself both looking forward to and dreading Nate’s return. On the one hand, despite the Silvesters’ misgivings, he seemed like the most sane member of the Silvester clan. On the other, his presence promised to ratchet up the household drama by a factor of about a thousand and Kathryn would probably be even more frazzled and frantic than usual. He also, by definition, possessed Silvester DNA, so after a week of having him around Lizzie knew she might decide he was just as crazy as the rest of them.
She spent the morning restocking the pantry and preparing for the week ahead. Kathryn had requested a big chopped salad for lunch (“Lots of veggies—dressing on the side, please!”), so Lizzie set to work chopping a mound of lettuce, cucumbers, and tomatoes. Lizzie wasn’t clear on how many people would be at lunch. No one seemed to know when Zoe would arrive, and everyone agreed hoping for a lunchtime arrival on Nate’s part was overly optimistic. Add to that the frequent surprise visits by many of the Silvesters’ friends (particularly Kathryn’s) and Lizzie didn’t know whether to make enough salad for two or twenty. She suspected the number would be closer to four or five, so she made enough for twice that number to give herself a buffer.
As she dumped the chopped cucumber into a bowl, she heard footsteps behind her and turned around to see Nate walking through the kitchen toward the butler’s pantry. She noted the time: 11:45.
“Impressive,” she said. “No one thought you’d actually make it in time for lunch. Kathryn will be . . .”
“Thrilled?”
“Not the word I would have chosen, actually.”
He smiled. “Must be fun, dealing with the dynamics of our crazy family.”
“Another interesting word choice. But sure. Let’s go with ‘fun’ ”
“Dad seemed really happy with the way things have been going, so you must be doing something right.”
“There’s no magic to it. I keep my head down and do what I’m told.”
“Hey, competence is rarer than you’d think. If my research assistants kept their heads down and did what I asked them to do, I wouldn’t be so worried about making my deadline.”
“For?”
“A book. Or, at this point, a bunch of stuff on my computer that I’m supposed to turn into something people actually want to buy and read.”
“About ‘neighborhoods’?” Lizzie used air quotes and tried not to laugh.
Nate furrowed his brow. “Yeah. Good guess.”
/> “Kathryn mentioned that’s what you study—using air quotes, because apparently that’s the right way to talk about what you do.”
“In this family, yes. I’m a ‘professor’ of ‘sociology’ who ‘teaches’ and ‘studies’ ‘neighborhoods.’ ”
“And ‘communities’?”
“You bet.”
“I told Kathryn I took a class on all of that when I was at Penn. I think it shocked her a little when I said it was one of my favorites.”
“Oh, yeah? Who taught it?”
“Peter Goldberg.”
“For real? Goldberg is a rock star. I cited him a lot in my dissertation.”
“He’s published a lot of research to cite.”
“That’s for sure.” Nate watched as Lizzie chopped a pint of cherry tomatoes. “So, I have to ask. If you took classes with the likes of Peter Goldberg . . .”
“What am I doing here, cooking meals for rich people?”
Nate blushed. “Well . . . yeah.”
“I don’t think we have enough time before lunch for that story.”
“Sorry. I hope I didn’t . . . or, you know, I didn’t mean . . .”
“It’s fine. Trust me when I say you aren’t the first to ask that question. I’ve asked it myself, many times.”
“I feel like that kind of makes my asking worse, not better.”
“Not worse. Don’t worry.”
“Okay, but if not worse, then at least annoying.”
Lizzie grinned. “Sure. I’ll give you ‘annoying.’ That’s fair.”
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