by Nina Lane
I take a breath. “So last night I was reviewing all the information about c—”
The syllable sticks in my throat, like something choking me. There are a thousand other words I could say that start with that same sound.
kisses
cookie
kites
crafts
cake
kumquats
cold
crack
kill
“About… c-cancer.” The word shatters in my mouth, spilling something rancid over my tongue. “Breast cancer. The pros and cons of the two surgeries, so I have all the information.”
Dean’s jaw tightens. He turns away to put a pan on the stove.
“And what are you thinking?” he asks.
“I have to make a choice,” I say. “Both the surgeon and Dr. Anderson said the survival rate is the same with either surgery.”
“Dr. Anderson also said the lumpectomy would mean you need radiation and possible chemotherapy.”
I look at my tea. I sense that Dean wants to firebomb this sickness with every weapon in the arsenal. His take-no-prisoners attitude doesn’t surprise me. I also know nothing in the world will ever eliminate any chance of reoccurrence.
“Less chance of further treatment with a mastectomy,” Dean says.
“Less chance doesn’t mean no chance,” I reply. “And God, Dean, you heard what they said about the mastectomy. Not just the surgery itself, but the recovery time, the drains, permanent numbness, plus more surgeries for reconstruction. I’ll never look or feel the same again. I mean, not that I will anyway, but…”
Dean doesn’t respond. He takes a carton of milk out of the refrigerator. The surreal quality of this moment washes over me—my husband getting breakfast ready while we discuss the most viable way to cut into my body and rid me of cancer.
“Dean, I want to keep my breast. As much of it as I can, anyway.”
I smother a rush of embarrassment, the sense that I’m being silly and vain.
I have cancer, for God’s sake.
Why am I not firebombing it with the most invasive treatment possible? Why am I worried about keeping my breast, the way I’d look, how I’d feel about myself? Why am I worried about what Dean would think if both my breasts are gone? Why am I worried about how the different treatments will affect our sex life?
Shouldn’t I remove my breasts in the hopes of obliterating the cancer? And it’s not as if a lumpectomy won’t change the way I look either. There will be scarring and misshapenness, not to mention the effects of possible chemo and radiation…
I sense Dean’s gaze on me, and I look up at him. He’s watching me with sorrow and helplessness, which makes my chest ache.
“I want you here, Liv,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I want you with me, with our children, for many more years. I love your breasts. But nothing—nothing—compares to how much I love you. It makes me insane to think of you having to go through a mastectomy. And that doctor who recommended it was a jerk. But if it lessens the chance of reoccurrence, no matter how slight, and the need for chemo and radiation, that’s something to consider.”
“I have considered it,” I say. “Does this mean you wouldn’t be in favor of a lumpectomy?”
“I’m in favor of whatever destroys the damned thing,” he says. “I’m giving you my opinion.”
I bite back the retort that I didn’t ask for his opinion.
“Dr. Turner said a lumpectomy is meant to conserve as much of the breast as possible,” I continue.
“I know.”
“He also said many younger women opt for a lumpectomy, if it’s an option for them.”
A faint tightness pulls at Dean’s mouth. “You’re not many younger women. You’re you.”
“I know who I am.” I cross my arms almost unconsciously, as if I’m trying to protect myself. “And I want to keep my breast.”
Silence falls. It’s not just about sex, though that’s part of it. My breasts have always given both Dean and me immense sexual pleasure. They’re also… mine. Part of me.
How many times did I nurse my children with them? How many hours did I hold my babies to my breasts while they slept? They both still lean against my breasts when we’re cuddling on the sofa or reading picture books. Bella nestles her head on my breasts when she comes to sleep in our bed.
And of course Dean…
No, my breasts don’t define me, and yes, I’d be the same person without them, but severing part of my body…
“Dean, I need…” I swallow hard. “I need you to support me on this.”
Dean’s expression clears. He puts down the carton of milk and crosses the kitchen to fold me into his arms.
“Of course I support you,” he says. “I will always support you. You know that.”
“I mean, I don’t want you to think I’m making the wrong choice. That I shouldn’t be so concerned about keeping my breasts when I have a life-threatening illness.”
Dean’s arms tighten around me. His heart hammers against my cheek.
“Liv. It’s your body. What you should be concerned with is fighting this the way you want to. And if that means a lumpectomy with treatment, then that’s what we’ll do. The only thing I’m going to think is that you’re a goddamned warrior. ”
I close my eyes and breathe. I wish I felt like a warrior.
“I’m scared,” I confess.
“I know.”
“What are you scared of, Mom?” Nicholas’s voice comes from the hallway.
Shit.
Dean squeezes me tightly before letting me go. We both turn to our son. My heart constricts at the sight of him standing there in his Superman pajamas, his dark hair sticking up in different directions.
God in heaven, please let me see my children grow up. Please let me be there for them.
“Good morning, Nick-Nack.” I hold out my arms so Nicholas can come and hug me. I pull him close, inhaling the sleep-and-shampoo smell of him, absorbing the feeling of his strong little body against mine.
I look at Dean over the top of Nicholas’s head. He nods, indicating he’ll back whatever I choose to say right now. Relief flows through me. Dean and I have been so tense and snappish lately that I can’t even take it for granted we’ll present a united front to our children.
I ease back to look at our son. His thick-lashed eyes. His perfect, smooth cheeks. I remember seeing him for the first time, when the doctor held him up and my eyes met his, and I could almost hear him thinking, “Oh, hi, Mom.”
Love washes over me like a breaking wave.
“Nicholas, do you remember…” I swallow and force my voice to sound calm and reassuring. “Do you remember when you had to go to the doctor for a shot, and you were scared of what it would be like?”
Nicholas nods.
“That’s kind of what I’m scared of now,” I explain. “I have to go to the doctor too, but not for a shot. I have a sickness called cancer inside my body, and the doctor is going to help me get better.”
Nicholas frowns. “Why are you sick?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But the doctor has to do a surgery and give me some medicine. And like you were with the shot, I’m a little bit scared.”
Nicholas processes this.
“But after you got the shot, you told me it wasn’t that bad after all,” I remind him. “Do you remember that?”
He nods again.
“So it’ll probably be the same for me,” I continue. “I’ll find out I really didn’t need to be scared after all.”
Nicholas doesn’t respond, but I can see the confusion and questions brewing in his sharp mind. I steel myself, prepared to answer honestly, but instead of asking any questions, he says, “I could go with you.”
“Go with me?”
“Yeah.” He scrat
ches his head. “When the doctor gave me the shot, you told me to squeeze your hand and think about that instead of the needle. I could go with you, and you could squeeze my hand when the doctor gives you the surgery.”
I can’t speak. A thousand tears fill my throat, an ache ready to break me in half.
Dean steps forward and puts his hand on Nicholas’s shoulder.
“That’s a great idea, man,” he says. “You’ll probably be at school when Mom has the surgery, but I promise I’ll be there to hold her hand. Hey, you want to help me make French toast for breakfast?”
“Sure.” Nicholas pulls away from me and wanders into the kitchen.
Dean looks at me, his eyes filled with unbearable love. He presses his lips swiftly against my forehead before going back to the stove.
I watch as he pauses to lift Nicholas into a hug so hard and tight that Nicholas makes an “oof” noise. Dean grins and tickles him. Nicholas laughs, squirming to escape.
I stumble out of the kitchen and make it to the bedroom before the sobs bring me to my knees.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
OLIVIA
December 8
“HI, LIV.” ALLIE PULLS OPEN THE door of her and Brent’s little cottage at the base of the mountains. “Come on in.”
My nerves tense as I follow her into the living room. I’d called her this morning asking if I could come over to talk. As my business partner and close friend, she’s the first person outside of the children whom I need to tell.
Last night, Dean and I sat down with Bella and told her in simpler terms exactly what I told Nicholas. Both children understand the phrase “Mommy is sick,” but Bella especially doesn’t seem to connect sickness with the fact that I look and act the same as before.
Since they know, however, it’s time to tell everyone else.
I sit on the purple sofa, thinking that the house is a reflection of Allie—bright, cheerful colors, fun paintings, whimsical artwork, shelves stuffed with books.
“The town council set up the time and date for the spring Art Fair,” Allie calls from the kitchen. “They’ll give us our usual spot for the Traveling Wonderland Café. We should put out a few extra tables this year.”
“Good idea.”
“Do you want coffee?” Allie asks. “Or something else?”
“Just water, thanks.” I smooth my skirt over my thighs, plucking at a loose thread on my tights.
Allie comes in with a glass of water and a plate of blueberry muffins, which she puts on the coffee-table.
“So what’s going on?” she asks, sitting beside me on the sofa. “You said you needed to talk to me about something important. Please don’t tell me you’re moving to Bulgaria.”
I shake my head. I wish it were something like that.
“No. I…” My throat constricts. I take a drink of water and force the words out, trying to remain dispassionate so I won’t start crying. “Allie, just before Thanksgiving, I found a lump in my breast.”
Allie blinks. “A lump?”
“Yes.” I gesture vaguely to my left breast. “On the side. I had it checked out, and they did some tests and… well, it turned out to be cancerous.”
All the color drains from Allie’s face. “Wait… what?”
“It’s cancer.” I take a deep breath. “Allie, I have breast cancer.”
She shakes her head, as if that makes no sense.
“It’s early stage,” I say quickly. “I’m going to have a lumpectomy. They won’t know all the details until after the surgery, but hopefully I’ll only need surgery and radiation.”
Only.
Allie sets her cup on the coffee table. Her hand is shaking.
“You’re serious?” she asks.
Well, I wouldn’t joke about something like this.
“Yes. Dean and I have met with several doctors, but we didn’t want to tell anyone until we knew what the plan would be.”
“Wow.” Allie gets to her feet, reaching over to straighten a stack of magazines. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I’m not going to let it affect my work,” I add. “I mean, I’ll try not to, as much as I can, at least. And I’d like to tell the staff all at the same time so I have a chance to answer everyone’s questions. Maybe we could call a special staff meeting?”
“Yeah, sure. Whatever.” Allie turns to fluff up one of the sofa pillows. “I mean, whatever you want to do. Just let me know.”
A strained silence falls between us. I take another sip of water.
“So, do you have any questions?” I finally ask.
“No. No, I don’t.” Allie stops fussing with the pillows and glances at the clock. “I’m sorry, Liv, but I have to be somewhere at four, so I should go get ready.”
“Oh. Okay, sure.”
I set the glass down and stand, taking a step toward her for a hug because hugging is what Allie and I do.
She backs away. What the…?
Hurt flares through my chest. I take a few steps toward the door.
“So I guess I’ll see you at work tomorrow,” I say.
“Okay.”
I leave her house, blinking back tears as I try to compose myself. That was not the reaction from Allie I’d been expecting. But one thing I’ve learned in life is that you can’t control how other people react to what you say or do. So maybe Allie just needs time to process this news. Heaven knows I still am.
Since I know the news of my diagnosis will spread, and since I don’t want to drag out the telling, I make calls and set up times to talk to different people. I’m surprisingly calm as I sit down with my friends and tell them the truth. Every time I say the words, “I have breast cancer,” something solidifies inside me, like I’m adding a brick to my wall of strength.
I will not give it power over me. I will not fear saying its name.
People’s reactions range from shock to painful understanding and sympathy. One of Bella’s teachers tells me about her mother’s successful battle with breast cancer, and a sobering number of friends have their own personal stories of different kinds of cancer.
“Oh, Liv.” Despite the static-filled phone line, the heaviness in North’s voice sinks right into my heart. “Not you.”
“I’ll be okay.” I manage to maintain my positive tone.
“I’m on my way back.” His voice breaks up, ragged and hoarse. “I’m in Pondicherry, en route to Mumbai. I can catch a flight back from there.”
“No.”
As much as I want to see North, the thought of him cutting short his years-long walkabout because of me feels wrong. It will not change North’s direction.
“I need to know you’re out in the world,” I tell him, picturing him with his long gray hair; warm, crinkled brown eyes, and the little red ribbon nestled into his bushy beard. “I need your postcards about temples and sunrises. I want to hear about the friends you’re making, and the foods you’ve never tried before. Don’t come home. Not yet.”
He’s quiet for a long time. “Only if you promise to do something.”
“Of course.”
“Draw.”
I’d been expecting something like, “Don’t be a turtle, be an eagle,” from my philosopher friend, so for a second I’m not sure I heard him right.
“Draw?” I repeat.
“You always had a talent for drawing. In Paris you told me you hadn’t done it for years. So get a notebook, some good pencils, and start drawing.”
“What should I draw?”
“Whatever’s in your heart. Whatever makes you happy.”
I smile. “I promise.”
We talk for another hour, and when I hang up the phone I’m strengthened anew by my enduring friendship with North. Once upon a time, he encouraged me to leave Twelve Oaks, to take flight, to find my way in the world. Without him, I don’t know that
I would have found this life, the one that will always be a blessing.
The same evening I talk to North, Dean asks Archer to come over for dinner, followed by ice-cream sundaes and board games with the kids. Kelsey is away for the week, so we’ve decided to tell Archer before he hears the news from someone else.
Leaving Dean to talk to his brother alone, I get Nicholas and Bella into bed before returning to the living room.
Archer is standing by the fireplace, his hands at his sides and his face ashen. He turns his gaze to me, and the shock and grief in his eyes fills me with unexpected gratitude.
“It’ll be okay.” I cross the room to embrace him, suddenly feeling as if he’s the one who needs comfort.
“Jesus, Liv, I’m so sorry.” Archer folds me into his arms. “I don’t get it… I mean, you’re too young, right? How could this happen?”
Ah, the question to which there will never be an answer.
“Archer, it’ll be okay,” I repeat. “We won’t have the full pathology report until after the surgery, but it seems to be entirely treatable. It’s not a fight anyone would choose, but it’s fallen on us, and we have to deal with it.”
My matter-of-fact tone seems to alleviate some of his distress, which in turn makes me feel better.
“What do you need me to do?” he asks, looking from me to Dean and back again. “Name it. Anything.”
“You’re already doing it,” Dean assures him. “Just by offering.”
I ease away from Archer and squeeze his hands. “Thank you.”
“You need me to take care of the kids, do work around the house, give you a ride somewhere, whatever, you call me, okay?” he says, tightening his hands on mine. “Who else knows?”
“I’ve been telling my closest friends,” I say. “Allie and Brent, of course.”
Archer shakes his head, still in disbelief. “Kelsey.”
My stomach knots at the thought of having to tell Kelsey. “When does she get back?”