by Nina Lane
She nods, yawning. Nicholas is always ready to eat breakfast as soon as he wakes up, but Bella likes to curl up on the sofa first and look at picture books. I get her settled with a blanket and a set of books about Max and Ruby. Leaving Dean to finish the morning breakfast routine, I go upstairs to shower and dress.
I turn the water on hotter than I usually do. The act of taking off my robe and nightgown is no longer automatic, as I’m acutely conscious of my naked breasts. My left breast, which looks like it always has, despite the presence of something unknown.
Lump. It’s a horrible word, indicating spoilage and wrongness. Curdled milk, mold, rusted metal, bad mashed potatoes. Lumps are an indicator of ruin.
I try to avoid touching it as I shower and dress, but I can still feel it, burning beneath my skin.
Nothing, I tell myself repeatedly. It’s nothing. A cyst. At the very most dramatic, a fibroid tumor. Not… that.
I push aside the gnawing concern and finish getting ready for the day. I have to work at the café, volunteer in Nicholas’s classroom, take Bella to gymnastics, and make arrangements for the Traveling Wonderland Café to host two weekend birthday parties. I don’t have time to worry about a cyst in my breast.
When I return downstairs, Dean has Nicholas dressed and ready for school, while Bella is finishing a bowl of oatmeal.
“Go get your shoes and coat on, buddy,” Dean tells Nicholas, ruffling his hair. “I’ll be right there.”
Nicholas holds out his arms and makes a zoom zoom noise as he flies toward the front door where his shoes and backpack are waiting. Dean shrugs into his suit jacket and picks up his car keys.
“Make the appointment, Liv,” he says. “Please.”
I don’t look at him, but I nod. I realize it’s better if I can see Dr. Nolan sooner rather than later. Then, when she tells me it’s nothing to worry about, we can put this whole situation behind us and get back to normal.
“All right,” I finally say. “But I don’t want you to come with me.”
His jaw tightens. He pulls on his winter peacoat.
“I don’t need either of us to make this into a bigger deal than it is,” I add.
Dean pauses to look at me, reaching out to brush his hand over my hair. “All right. But call me afterward and tell me what Dr. Nolan says.”
I bend to help Nicholas zip up his jacket. I hug and kiss them both goodbye before getting Bella ready for preschool. When I return to the kitchen to get her lunchbox, I see a note stuck to the fridge:
The note makes me smile, and I tuck it into my purse as Bella and I head outside. It’s a cold, rainy day with an iron-colored sky arching overhead. Bella stomps around in her fire-engine-red boots, splashing through mud puddles and bending to look at worms.
“Come on, honey, let’s go.” I hold open the car door and watch as she runs toward me, her jacket hood already half-off.
I drop her off at preschool, then drive to the café. After locking myself in the office, I call Dr. Nolan’s number and explain the reason for my call to the receptionist. She asks me to hold for a minute.
“Mrs. West, we have a cancellation this afternoon,” she says when she comes back on the line. “Dr. Nolan would like to see you then. Can you be here at one-thirty?”
My heart stutters. I was expecting to make an appointment for a couple of weeks from now, and mostly just to appease Dean.
“I… yes, I’ll be there,” I tell the receptionist. “Thank you.”
I hang up and text Dean to find out if he can pick Bella up after school and take her to gymnastics. He responds: Yes. Call me right after the appt.
I toss the phone aside. His sense of urgency is annoying, especially since there’s nothing to worry about. And considering the number of times he’s resisted going to the doctor (“It’s just a cold, Liv, not the flu”), his insistence feels a bit hypocritical as well.
I struggle against the urge to do an Internet search about breast lumps—I remember searching for “dizziness” a few years ago, after I’d gotten light-headed during a café shift. The resulting search led me to think I had everything from anemia to heart disease—when really it turned out I’d just forgotten to eat lunch.
I go to the front counter, where Allie is icing a tray of fresh éclairs and Archer is hunkered beneath the cold case with his toolbox, trying to locate and fix the source of a small leak.
“Allie, I need to leave half an hour early today,” I say. “I’ll finish payroll later tonight.”
“Sure, that’s fine. Brent’s coming in at two, so I might be able to get to it, depending on how busy we are.” Allie steps back to admire her handiwork on the éclairs. “Kid-related issue?”
“No, I…” Something sticks in my throat. I shake my head. “Something just came up.”
I feel her glance at me, as if she senses I dodged the issue. Part of me wants to confide in her, knowing she’ll give me a bucketful of gentle reassurances.
Allie was the one who convinced me to take cooking classes in Paris, and she and I Skyped and emailed on a weekly basis while I was abroad. A couple of years ago, Dean and I made a special trip back to Mirror Lake to attend her and Brent’s wedding. Not even an ocean’s distance has affected our rock-solid friendship.
But I don’t want to worry her for no reason. I pick up the coffeepot and turn to the counter, where Florence Wickham is sitting with her paramour, Mr. Jenkins.
“Hey, Liv, what do you call a fake noodle?” Mr. Jenkins asks.
“What?” I reply dutifully.
“An impasta!” He chortles and claps his hands.
I smile in response. “Are you packing enough jokes for your trip to Florida?”
“Oh, he has a suitcase full,” Florence says with a sigh, though she gives Mr. Jenkins a look of pure devotion. “By the way, Olivia, thank you for checking in on the house watering the plants while we’re gone. I’m a little worried about my peace lily.”
“Happy to do it.”
“I need either a stiff drink or a cookie,” announces a female voice. “Maybe both.”
We all glance up as Kelsey comes through the front door, her red heels clicking on the floor as she strides to the counter. Archer slides out from under the cold case and gets to his feet, his gaze going to her like an arrow.
“Oh no.” Kelsey holds up her hand. “Don’t give me that look, Archer West.”
Instead of seeming affronted by her sharp tone, a slow grin spreads over Archer’s face. “Are you a premier member yet?”
“I am,” Florence says.
“Florence, I’m surprised you’re not the president,” Kelsey remarks, sitting on a stool beside the other woman.
“What’s going on?” Allie asks.
Kelsey reaches into her bag for her cell phone as Archer approaches the counter. For some reason, he looks rather pleased with himself.
“Insufferable,” Kelsey mutters, scrolling on her phone. “That’s what he is. Insufferable.”
She holds out her phone to show us the ending of the clip of Archer’s dog rescue. The screen flashes with the words:
Join the Archer West Fan Club
All Archer, all the time!
www.archerwestfanclub.com
“Really?” Allie says with delight, grabbing the phone from Kelsey. “Archer has his own fan club?”
“A very well-deserved one,” Florence says warmly, reaching across the counter to squeeze Archer’s biceps.
I peer over Allie’s shoulder as she pulls up the fan club website, which is filled with Storm Hunters screenshots of Archer, as well as candid shots that someone in town must have taken. There are clips of his appearances on Storm Hunters and message boards to discuss “All Things Archer West.”
“Seven hundred members already,” Allie says. “Look at these topics. Your Favorite Archer Episode. Archer Encounters. All About
Archer. Oh my God.”
She stops and looks at Kelsey. “Did you see this?”
“See what?”
“This.”
Allie holds out the phone to show us the forum topic Archer and Kelsey.
“Uh oh,” I mutter, knowing Kelsey and Archer have always been careful about revealing too much about their personal relationship on Storm Hunters. Viewers know they’re together, but they make a point of being professional on-screen to maintain as much privacy as possible.
So much for that, apparently.
Allie scrolls through the forum messages, which reveal two factions—the “’shippers” who are all for a relationship between Archer and Kelsey (“Archey for life!”) and those who would rather see Archer with anyone but Kelsey (“Omigod, she is so wrong for him! He’s such a hottie!”).
I get a chocolate-chip cookie out of a jar and put it on a plate for Kelsey. “How long has this been live?”
“Two days.” Kelsey bites into the cookie. “The hottie over there told me he set up an account for me so I could participate in the fangirling.”
“Well, you’re all over me every day anyway.” Archer shrugs. “Might as well make it official.”
Kelsey throws me a how do I live with him? look.
“Whoa.” Allie’s eyes widen as she scrolls through the website. “Did you see this one? They’re calling you Cruella de Vil.”
“What?” Kelsey grabs the phone back.
I move to look over her shoulder. Sure enough, a whole faction of Archer fans is deriding Kelsey for calling the dog a “mangy creature” and refusing to let it into the back of the armored car.
She is SUCH a Cruella de Vil! How can Archer even like her? She totally would have made a coat out of that dog if HE hadn’t rescued it! Does PETA know about C de V?
“I didn’t want the dog in the car because we had all the computer equipment in the backseat,” Kelsey says in exasperation. “The dog would have gotten it all wet and muddy and ruined it completely. And for the record, it was a mangy creature.”
“Well, the battle lines are clearly drawn,” Allie says.
Archer and Kelsey lock gazes. A sizzle of heat flickers between them.
“Good thing we’re on the same side,” he remarks.
“Choose your weapons, tough guy,” Kelsey murmurs.
“Prepare to surrender, storm girl.”
“Oh my God, get a room, you two,” Allie says.
A rustle of laughter rises. I turn away, suddenly uneasy at the talk of battles and weapons.
My phone buzzes inside my apron pocket. I glance at it to see a call from Dean lighting up the screen. I turn off the phone without responding and head into the kitchen.
CHAPTER FIVE
OLIVIA
ROUTINE APPOINTMENT. THAT’S ALL. NOTHING IS wrong.
I adjust the flimsy gown over my thighs as I sit in Dr. Nolan’s office waiting for her to arrive. I don’t even feel any irritation in my breast anymore, so maybe the lump just went away. I press my fingers tentatively to the side of my breast, startling slightly at the sound of a knock on the door.
Dr. Nolan, gray-haired and no-nonsense, enters and greets me with her usual brisk attitude before she sits in front of the computer to open my file.
“So you found a lump in your breast, Liv?” she asks.
Dean did. I suddenly wonder if I’d even have noticed it myself, if he hadn’t found it.
“Yes.” I gesture to my left breast. “On the side. It’s about the size of a small marble, and it feels hard.”
“Hmm.” She studies my chart for a minute. “Any family history of breast cancer?”
She asks the question casually, but it stabs into me like a thin, sharp blade. I haven’t even thought that word, let alone said it aloud.
“Not that I know of,” I say. “But I don’t know much about the women in my family. Only my father’s sister and my mother. My maternal grandmother passed away a few years ago, but…”
My voice trails off. I don’t know what she died from. For all I know, it was breast cancer.
Or not. At all.
“I don’t know,” I add.
Dr. Nolan nods. “Okay, let’s take a look.”
Dr. Nolan has been our family doctor ever since Dean and I moved to Mirror Lake. She’s seen me through three pregnancies, a miscarriage and, because of her obstetrics specialization, she delivered both Nicholas and Bella. She’s seen our children for every well-child visit, every earache or nasty cold, and she met us at the hospital the time Nicholas ended up in the ICU after spiking a high fever. She’s always been calm, practical, honest, and reassuring. And I’ve always been comfortable with her… except for now.
When she instructs me to lie back and unfastens the ties of my gown, my stomach knots with anxiety. I look at the ceiling, trying not to feel the prodding of her hands and fingers on my breasts, like she’s kneading dough.
I have a strange hope she won’t find anything unusual. Maybe it was a mistake, and Dean didn’t feel it after all, maybe he was just—
Except that I felt it too. We can’t both have been mistaken.
“Yes,” Dr. Nolan says, poking at my left breast. “There it is.”
My teeth clench involuntarily. I count the ceiling tiles above me. Dr. Nolan feels the lump for what seems like an inordinately long time. She presses her fingers against it and moves it around as if she’s assessing every detail.
“So what do you think?” I ask when I can’t stand it any longer.
She doesn’t respond.
That’s not good.
“You’ve never had any problems with cysts or lumps before your period, have you?” she asks.
“No.”
“Any recent injuries or accidents? Or any pain?”
“No injuries. I noticed a little bit of discomfort a couple of times, but no real pain.”
“Any discharge from your nipples?”
“No.”
Dr. Nolan spends even more time feeling every inch of both breasts, until I begin to think I’m going to be bruised by the time this is over. I watch her face, hoping against hope that her grave expression will ease into relief and she’ll tell me it feels exactly like a cyst or some other ordinary, unscary thing.
Finally she moves away and folds my gown back into place. I sit up, my heart thumping against my chest.
“So what’s the diagnosis?” I ask, making an effort to keep my voice light.
Dr. Nolan peels off her gloves and turns to face me again. She’s always been a sympathetic but stoic doctor, not given to expressing her own emotions. So when she looks at me with faint worry, I have to smother a surge of apprehension.
“Liv, I’m going to refer you to a doctor who specializes in breast health and surgery,” Dr. Nolan says, placing her hand on my shoulder. “I’m also going to see if we can get you in for more testing today.”
My cell phone buzzes with phone calls and texts from Dean. I send him a quick still at appt text, but I don’t answer the calls. I can’t deal with his concern, not when Dr. Nolan’s nurse calls the radiology department at the Forest Grove Hospital and asks if they can fit me in for a mammogram.
I don’t like the fact that this lump seems to have given everyone a sense of urgency. There’s no way Dr. Nolan would have seen me today, or radiology would fit me in, if I’d called telling them I had a stomachache.
But “I found a lump in my breast,” and everyone is rushing to assist me.
I drive a few blocks to the hospital and go downstairs to the radiology department.
“Olivia?” A technician comes to lead me back to the exam room.
“Have you had a mammogram before?” she asks, handing me another gown to change into.
I’m thirty-six. Should I have had a mammogram before?
“No, I
haven’t.”
“Okay, no worries. I’ll explain everything to you as we go along.” She heads to the door with her clipboard. “Go ahead and change, and use those wipes to remove your deodorant. I’ll be right back.”
This room is colder than Dr. Nolan’s exam room, and I start to shiver after I’m in the flimsy gown. The machine is huge, with wide plates that I assume are going to flatten my breasts.
The technician returns, almost too cheerful as she explains the procedure.
“Our radiologist is here today, too,” she says. “So if you want to wait, he should be able to talk to you about the results before you leave.”
I’m not sure I want the results at all, but I agree. I stand and let the technician position me near the machine, then I pull my left arm and breast out of the gown. With an apology for being “pushy,” she tugs and pulls my breast onto the plate before lowering the top plate and squeezing my breast between them. It’s uncomfortable, but not painful.
The technician performs the same procedure with my right breast, then tells me to dress while the radiologist looks over the images. I leaf through a magazine, attempting to suppress the nerves tightening in my belly.
I should text Dean again, but I don’t. Can’t.
“Olivia?” A balding, older man enters the room with my file, extending his hand. “I’m Dr. Martin, the radiologist.”
“Nice to meet you. Thanks for doing this so quickly.”
“Not a problem,” he replies, sitting at the desk and switching on the computer. “So I was looking at your images and you have what are called ‘dense breasts,’ which means your breasts are composed more of connective tissue than fat.”
“Oh.”
“It’s not uncommon,” he continues, gesturing to the computer.
I look at the X-rays of my breasts, which appear like oddly shaped jellyfish on the screen. Dr. Martin waves his hand over the images, explaining that the white areas are breast tissue that can obscure masses, which also appear white.
“So,” Dr. Martin continues, “that means your X-rays are more difficult to read in terms of detecting tumors.”