by Kate Hewitt
The bathroom between the two bedrooms is empty, the door ajar; Grace’s bedroom door is also slightly open. I push it further open with my fingertips and peer inside.
It’s huge, bigger than our entire downstairs, with some kind of exercise machine in front of the window, a separate dressing room and bathroom, and an enormous king-sized bed. Grace is asleep in the middle of the bed, her mouth open, her hair lank, a thin sheen of sweat on her pale face. She looks awful.
Is that why she called me? Because she has the flu or something? Why didn’t she just say?
I step back out and close the door, deciding to let her sleep. I don’t need to get home right away; the girls can manage for themselves for a bit. I already texted Emma to tell her I’d be out.
I head back to the living room, injecting a bright note into my voice as I say to Isaac, ‘So, would you like a snack?’
He looks up from his iPad, blinking warily. I smile back. ‘Okay,’ he says at last, and it feels like a victory.
‘Let’s go see what’s in the fridge.’
He discards the iPad and follows me into the kitchen. I open the fridge, feeling like a spy or an invader. I survey the contents curiously, expecting expensive, organic foods, things I’ve never heard of, but actually it’s pretty empty: milk, some yogurt, a bag of carrots, some ground beef that looks like it might have gone bad.
Isaac slides onto one of the stools at the big island and watches me silently.
‘How about a yogurt?’ I suggest, and he shakes his head. ‘Carrot sticks?’
‘Apple sauce.’
I turn to face him, latching on to that one small detail, something I didn’t yet know. ‘Do you like apple sauce?’
He nods solemnly. He looks just like Kevin, with his wispy light brown hair and big eyes, those extravagant lashes. Like Kevin used to, when we were young and dreamy.
‘Where’s the apple sauce?’
Isaac hops off the stool and opens a built-in pantry cupboard that is filled with canned goods. He finds a box of apple sauce snack packs and hands it to me. I break off one, peel back the lid, and hand it to him. Then I open about six drawers before I finally find the silverware, and hand him a spoon.
The kitchen is completely silent as I prop my chin in my hands, my elbows on the island, and watch my son eat his apple sauce. I feel as if I could watch him forever – the way he slides his fingers through his hair, lifting his bangs away from his face, just like Kevin does. His eyes are slightly lighter than Kevin’s, more like mine, but he’s so obviously from both of us, and I never saw it as clearly as I do now. I never got the chance.
‘Do you like school, Isaac?’ I ask. I’m eager to know more about him, but he’s often so monosyllabic at my house I hardly learn anything. Maybe things will be different here.
‘It’s okay.’
‘What’s your favorite subject?’
‘Art.’
‘Art,’ I repeat, rolling this new information around in my mind like a marble, savoring its shape and texture. ‘You’ve got some nice pictures on the fridge.’
He glances at the drawings, hunching one shoulder. ‘They’re okay.’
‘Do you have a favorite game?’ He looks wary again, and I suggest lightly, ‘Maybe we could play it.’
He thinks for a minute. ‘I like Hungry Hippos.’
‘I love Hungry Hippos,’ I say, even though it’s not true. It’s a noisy, clacking game, but at least I know it.
Isaac finishes his apple sauce in two bites and then hurries toward the living room. ‘I’ll go get it,’ he calls back.
I clean up the apple sauce and then follow him out; he’s already got the game out, and is setting up the colored hippos on the coffee table, having moved an obtrusive sculpture onto the carpet. He must have caught my uncertain look because he assures me, ‘It’s okay, we always move it when we play games here. Mom doesn’t really like it.’
‘Doesn’t she?’ I picture the two of them like we are now, bent over a game, and it feels both good and sad at the same time. I kneel on the carpet next to Isaac while he sets up the game, lining the hippos up with an endearing precision. The object, I know, is to collect as many marbles as possible by opening and closing your hippo’s mouth with a lever. Amy used to love this game, and I feel a touch of nostalgia, remembering how I played it with her, how Lucy would always try to take the marbles, and how Emma was too slow, making Amy crow with victory.
Isaac releases the marbles and we begin to play; he’s winning easily, even when I try my hardest, as he operates the little plastic lever with intense expertise. When he’s concentrating, a furrow appears in the middle of his forehead, just like Kevin and Emma.
We play three games, and he beats me on each one. Isaac has started to relax, laughing and pumping his fist in victory.
‘You are trying, aren’t you?’ he asks suspiciously after the third game, and I laugh and roll my eyes.
‘It’s kind of insulting that you think I’m not,’ I tease. He frowns for a second, and then he figures out what I mean and grins. The sight of his unabashed grin, the ear-to-ear kind, feels like a fist wrapped around my heart. It’s almost too much to bear.
I look down, not wanting to show how emotional I am, simply because of a smile. I clear my throat and ask, ‘Want to play again?’
Before he can respond there is the sound of a door opening, and then Grace emerges from her bedroom, her arms wrapped around her middle, her step shuffling and slow.
‘Grace, hi.’ I sit up straight, moving a little bit away from Isaac and the hippos game. I feel a little bit guilty, almost as if I’ve been caught doing something wrong.
‘Heather, thank you so much for getting Isaac.’ She leans against the doorway, looking pale and exhausted. ‘I really appreciate it. How are you, bud?’ she asks, a smile softening her features.
‘Okay.’
‘Good.’
They share a moment, a kind of silent communication I don’t understand but acknowledge is going on. Then Grace’s glance flicks to me. ‘Thank you, Heather. Really.’
‘No problem.’ I’m not sure if her words are meant to be a kind of dismissal. I stay where I am.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
So it wasn’t a dismissal. I rise from the floor. Isaac lunges for his iPad. ‘Sure.’
We move into the kitchen, leaving Isaac sprawled once more on the sofa. Grace is moving slowly, as if she’s an old woman.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask. ‘Do you have the flu or something?’
Grace lets out a humorless laugh and goes to fill up a sleek-looking electric kettle made of chrome that looks like a piece of modern art. She leans against the counter and closes her eyes briefly. I realize she’s not going to answer.
‘Let me help.’ Except I don’t know where anything is. Somewhat to my surprise, Grace nods to a cupboard.
‘The cups are in there.’
I take two thick pottery mugs in a pretty, iridescent blue and put them on the counter.
‘Teabags in that jar,’ Grace says with another nod, and I fetch two. I look at her uneasily; she really seems rough.
The kettle clicks off and I pour the water while Grace watches. ‘Sorry,’ she mutters. ‘I’m not up for much right now.’
‘It’s okay.’ I find milk in the fridge. ‘Do you…?’
She nods. ‘Please.’
It all feels kind of weird, and Grace looks as if she could keel over. She moves slowly to the kitchen table tucked in an alcove and sits in a chair, wincing slightly as if every movement makes her ache.
‘Is there anything else I can do for you, Grace?’ I ask, because I’m wondering how she’s going to make it through the rest of the evening. ‘I could make dinner…’
‘Oh…’ Grace lowers her gaze as she takes a small sip of tea and then shudders.
‘Really,’ I say. ‘You look as if you should go back to bed.’
‘I probably should. Today’s been a rough day.’
‘How
long have you been sick?’
‘A while.’ I wonder why she didn’t call me sooner. How has she been managing? ‘Actually, Heather…’ She looks up, seeming to deliberate whether to say anything more. I wait, feeling tense although I’m not sure why. ‘The truth is…’ She puts down her mug with shaky hands, and a little tea slops onto the table. She looks at me directly, her expression so bleak something in me both freezes and then recoils. ‘I have cancer.’
Twenty-One
GRACE
Heather is looking at me slackly, her mouth open, her expression dazed. Clearly she wasn’t expecting that one. I debated whether I should tell her; in my better moments Heather would be the last person I’d want to tell. But I feel the need, the craving, to tell someone, to feel that sense of relief and liberation, the way I did with Eileen, because suffering through this alone is so damn hard. I know I should tell Stella, and I’m working up my courage for it, but it’s Heather who was there for me today, who bailed me out. She deserves to know.
‘Oh, Grace.’ Her lips form the words slowly. She still looks dazed. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s okay,’ I say, even though it’s not, not by a mile. But what else can I say? I try to smile, but my mouth wobbles, and suddenly I’m afraid I’m going to cry. And that is something I am not ready to do in front of Heather.
‘What kind of cancer?’
‘Breast cancer, stage four, invasive,’ I answer flatly. ‘It’s gone into my lymph nodes but no farther. I shouldn’t be surprised,’ I add, with a bizarre attempt at careless levity. ‘My mother died of breast cancer when she was forty-five, and I’m forty-six. I’ve always checked for lumps.’
‘So you found it quickly…?’
‘Not quickly enough,’ I reply bitterly. I was so diligent about checking; it feels unfair that the cancer had got to fucking stage four before I found it.
‘And have you started treatment?’
‘Why do you think I look so shit?’ I laugh, the sound both hard and hopeless. ‘I’m on my second round of chemo, to shrink the tumor so it can be operated on. After that, I’m looking at a double mastectomy.’ I haven’t even let myself think about that yet, or what comes after. My brain, my soul, can’t take anymore.
‘And then? I mean…’ She trails off, and I know what she is thinking but doesn’t feel is polite to ask. What is my prognosis?
‘I don’t know.’ It feels awful to admit that. Dr. Stein has given me pep talks, assured me what I’m experiencing now is normal, was perfectly calm when she discovered my tumor hasn’t shrunk enough yet. None of it matters. I don’t let myself think of that awful what-if, but it hovers on the horizon of my mind, the darkest cloud. ‘Hopefully, I’ll go back to normal life.’ Which feels like the best thing I could hope for. The only thing I want.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ Heather asks. ‘To help?’ I know she means it, just as I know she wants to help – not just me, but Isaac. Of course she does. I would be the same in her position.
‘Thanks,’ I say. I wrap my hands around the warmth of my mug even though I can’t stand another sip of tea, bland as it is. My stomach seethes and every joint aches. ‘I can’t think of anything right now. I have a nanny, Yelena…’ I trail off, because suddenly I feel as if I am being cruel. Would I rather Isaac spent time with the mostly indifferent, cold-eyed Yelena, or his anxious, needy birth mother? What a question. What a choice.
‘Okay.’ Heather nods, acting unconcerned even though I know I’ve hurt her. I’ve always known; it’s as if we’re irritatingly attuned to one another, to each infinitesimal shift in our moods. I can read every flick of her eyelid, every tightening of her lips. I wonder if she’s as attuned to me as I am to her, and I cringe to think that she is, that she might know the petty and ungenerous thoughts that creep into my mind so often.
‘Well, let me know,’ Heather says. ‘If anything comes up…’
‘Right. I will.’
We both lapse into silence, and then Heather rises from the table. ‘I probably should get back. The girls…’
‘Of course.’ I realize, with humbling suddenness, how much time and effort she’s taken out of her day to help me. ‘Thank you so much, Heather.’ I sound merely dutiful but I mean it. ‘I don’t know what I would have done without you. You’re a lifesaver.’
‘Anytime.’ She gives me a crooked smile and then goes to wash her mug in the sink.
‘You don’t have to—’
‘I don’t mind.’ She leaves the clean mug on the dish drainer and turns around. ‘Are you sure there isn’t anything else…?’
There are probably a million little things, but I have the weekend to catch up. I need to go food shopping, but I can do it online and it’s not as if I’d ask Heather for something like that. Not yet, anyway.
‘We’re fine,’ I assure her. ‘Really.’
‘I’ll just say goodbye to Isaac, then.’
I follow her out to the living room, where Isaac is still absorbed in his game on the iPad. My rules about screen time have gone right out the window, but I can’t feel guilty about that now.
Heather turns to me suddenly, a look of alarm on her face. ‘Does Isaac…?’ she whispers, and I shake my head almost frantically.
‘No.’
She nods and then kneels down, resting one hand on Isaac’s shoulder, to say goodbye to him. He mutters a farewell without looking up, and I don’t have the energy to insist on good manners. Heather grabs her purse and makes for the door. I follow her out.
‘I’m so sorry you’re going through this, Grace,’ she says in a low voice. ‘But breast cancer has a good, you know, survival rate, doesn’t it?’ She looks uncertain, as if she’s not sure this is the sort of thing she should say. What is the etiquette for talking to cancer patients?
‘Yes, it does,’ I say. ‘Generally.’
After she’s gone I lean against the front door, feeling lonelier than before, already missing the company. The weekend looms ahead of me, three long days to drag myself through, and somehow keep Isaac occupied throughout. I’m too tired to savor the time with him, even though I know how precious it is, and that is another burden, another hurt. I need to cherish every moment, suck the marrow out of it, because who knows how many I have left? Except I hate thinking that way. I’m going to beat this. Of course I am.
Then on Tuesday it all starts again – the chemo, the nausea, the pain. I also have to answer an email from Lenora in HR, who informed me, quite briskly, that I need to give ‘sufficient information’ for my request to take leave. How much information is sufficient, I don’t know. I know I qualify, and can tick the ‘serious health condition’ box, but will that be enough? Is Lenora going to make me spell it out? And why don’t I want to?
Telling Heather was a relief, but it also felt like opening a wound, leaving myself vulnerable. I hate that. For my whole life I’ve been contained, closed. Even my father, beloved as he was, didn’t get the whole me. I’ve always shown him my best side, Grace the straight A student, Grace the wunderkind at college, Grace the promising Wall Street intern, Grace the successful career woman. Now I’m none of those things. A side effect of cancer that I didn’t expect – I no longer know who I am.
At least I am Isaac’s mother. I walk slowly toward him. ‘Enough screen time, bud.’
He looks up reluctantly, and then surprises me by tossing the iPad aside. ‘Do you want to play Hungry Hippos?’ he asks.
‘Sure,’ I say, and I sit gingerly next to him on the floor. As he loads the marbles into the center of the board, I feel a pang of bittersweet longing. Such a simple moment, and yet I want to hold onto it forever, despite the nausea and pain, the fear and uncertainty.
Of course you can’t hold onto anything. I know that all too well, but I do my best over the long weekend, managing to find the energy to walk around the Central Park reservoir with Isaac. My steps are slow and he runs ahead, kicking a soccer ball; the sky is so blue it almost hurts to look at it, and everything is in bloom in
the park, the buildings of Fifth Avenue soaring above, pointing toward the horizon. The beauty steals my breath and hurts me deep inside, a wound that grows bigger with every passing day.
I’m falling prey to the classic cancer patient shtick of feeling so thankful. A couple of months ago I would have rolled my eyes at it all, at the subtle bragging of a so-called life of gratitude, all the posts on Facebook, hashtag blessed, of picnics and presents and gap-toothed children. Now I want to gather all the beauty in my arms, like sheaves of corn, a bounty of blessing I know I possess, despite all the hardships in my life, all the loneliness.
Why did I not see it before? I sit on a park bench while Isaac runs and plays on a stretch of verdant green grass and I practically shake my head in wonder.
Of course that passes too, just like the rest. By the time we get back to the apartment, Isaac having dragged his feet for the last half hour, I am feeling tired and nauseous and decidedly unblessed. I wish there was someone I could call to come over and make dinner, entertain Isaac for a few hours. If Stella were in the city… but she’s not, and she still doesn’t know. When am I going to tell her? When am I going to admit to myself that every part of my life is going to change? Then I think of Heather; she would come if I called. She would always come.
I end up lying on the sofa, half-dozing, while Isaac watches TV. Eventually I summon the energy to order pizza over the internet from a local place. I fall asleep when the doorbell rings, and then Isaac answers it, shaking me awake.
As he eats three slices of pepperoni pizza and I merely push it around my plate, I wonder if I should tell him the truth about my sickness. Cancer, the word, the concept, is completely off his radar. Does he even know what it is?