by Elena Graf
“No, we don’t want that. There’s some hummus and cut up veggies in the fridge. Eat more cheese and crackers.”
After the sushi was delivered and devoured, Liz felt sated and mellow. She left Jenny downstairs while she went up to put on her pajamas.
“I’ll clean up the kitchen,” she said when she returned.
“Oh, leave it. Maria can deal with it in the morning.” Liz was surprised that Jenny still had the same housekeeper. She’d always been so critical of the people they hired to do things around the house.
“At least, let me put the food away.”
“Go on, do your efficient German thing.” Jenny waved dismissively. Her speech sounded slurred. She had switched to Saki after the martinis, and Liz suspected she’d had at least one too many.
Liz put away the cheese and the few pieces of maki that remained. She returned to her seat and suddenly found Jenny straddling her legs.
“Liz, you know what your problem is? You need boobs.” Jenny began unbuttoning her blouse.
“Stop, Jenny,” Liz protested weakly.
Jenny opened the front catch of her bra and her breasts sprang loose. And what breasts they were, creamy and soft, the pink aureoles each as large as a sand dollar, the nipples big and pert. Liz felt her crotch lurch as Jenny took her hand and brought it to her breast.
“Come on, Liz. You love my breasts. Don’t you just want to caress them and suck on them? You like that. I know you do. You love boobs. You need them.”
“Jenny, you’re better than this.”
“Better than what? It’s not like you’re married to her.”
“Jenny, don’t. Please.”
“You know you want me.”
Liz cringed. Yes, she did want Jenny, not because it was Jenny, but because her body was familiar and beautiful, and it aroused her to think of sucking on those beautiful orbs of perfect, white flesh and entering that warm, wet vagina. She had opened and caressed that welcoming place for years. Jenny loved penetration almost as much as Maggie did.
Liz’s mind started working in staccato:
Maggie.
No.
Yes.
Stop.
Liz withdrew her hand from Jenny’s breast. “I’m sorry, Jenny. I love you. I will always love you, but we can’t have sex tonight.”
Jenny pouted. Liz slid out from under her.
“I need to go to bed.” Liz got up to leave.
“You’re making a big mistake, Liz…getting in so deep with that woman,” Jenny called after her. “Her prognosis isn’t good.”
Liz turned around. “It’s not that bad either.”
“You know the chance of recurrence is high. Very high. Are you sure she’s a good investment?”
“Now, that’s really low, Jenny. Don’t make me question our friendship.” She didn’t wait to see Jenny’s reaction. “I’m going to bed,” she said resolutely.
Chapter 36
Liz was glad that Jenny had ALREADY left before she came down in the morning. Next to the coffee maker, Liz found a note scribbled on a free Save the Children note pad.
Dear Liz,
I’m so sorry about last night. Please don’t hold it against me. I’m just looking out for my best friend. Would things be different if I said I might be ready to move to Maine?
I love you.
Jen
“Are you kidding me?” Liz crumbled the note and flung it into the trash. “You’ll be lucky if I ever speak to you again.”
Liz showered and dressed, relieved to put on jeans after wearing her professional costume for the previous day’s meeting. She loaded her bags into the car and headed to her mother’s. She stopped at the town bakery on the way and picked up some of the cheese Danish her mother liked.
When Liz arrived, Monica was listening to a cable news political show. Monica was wrapped up in it and told Liz that she wanted to watch it until the end. The TV was still blaring while Liz made coffee in the old-fashioned drip coffee maker.
“Mom, you should wear your hearing aid,” Liz said, handing her mother a mug of coffee. “The TV’s so loud.”
“I can hear you just fine when you’re in the room. It’s only when you go into the other room that I can’t hear you.”
“That’s because you read my lips when I’m in the room.”
Liz sliced the Danish into manageable pieces.
“Thanks for bringing this,” Monica said, taking a bite. “It’s my favorite.”
“I know.” Liz helped herself to a small slice of the sweet, sticky treat.
“I don’t know how much longer that bakery will hold on,” said Monica, shaking her head. “The supermarkets are putting the little shops out of business.” She sighed. “Everything changes.”
“It’s the one thing we can always count on.” Liz finished her piece of Danish. She had to admit the pastry was far superior to anything from a supermarket. She wanted to lick her fingers, but settled on washing her hands in the sink, which was filthy again and full of dishes.
“Where’s Maggie?” Monica asked, as if she’d just noticed her absence. “Didn’t she come down with you?” Monica’s voice sounded almost hopeful.
“She’s in New York. She needed to take care of some things.” That certainly wasn’t a lie. Liz made it a policy to tell her mother the truth because lying to her never worked. Somehow, Monica always managed to extract the facts like some back room spy.
“Is she going to move in with you?”
“I don’t know,” Liz replied casually. “We’ll see.”
Monica shook her head. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea, especially now with that cancer.”
“Thanks, Mom. When I want your opinion, I’ll let you know.”
“Well, do you think it’s a good idea?” Monica’s blue eyes peered intently into hers.
“You know, Mom, I’d really like to have a nice visit with you, so let’s drop this discussion. Okay?”
“You don’t need a sick woman to take care of. I think you should reconsider.”
“Mom, I don’t care what you think,” said Liz impatiently. “Now, leave it alone!” Liz instantly regretted shouting at a frail, elderly woman, but Monica could push her buttons like no one else. “I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to raise my voice. I just don’t want to talk about it. Okay?”
Monica glowered at her like a dog threatened with having its bone taken away.
“Mom, please try to understand,” said Liz in a more modulated tone.
“I understand just fine.”
“No, I don’t think you do. I care about Maggie. I love her.”
Monica frowned. “That’s what I’m worried about. I don’t want you to get hurt again.”
Liz sighed. “Mom, I’m fifty-eight years old. I can look after myself.”
“I wish I believed that. You’re too good. You always lead with your heart. I’m your mother. It hurts me to see you hurting.” Tears came to her eyes.
Liz sighed. “I know, Mom. You want to protect me. I appreciate it, but I need to do what I need to do.”
“She has cancer.”
“I know. I found the cancer.”
“She needs someone to take care of her.”
“Yes, she does. And who better than me? People do that for those they love. She takes care of me too. Very good care, as a matter of fact.”
Monica shook her head. “Elizabeth, I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I do, Mom. I promise.”
***
When Liz left her mother’s house, she didn’t get far. She pulled off the road at the end of her mother’s street and tried to figure out where to go. She really wanted to drive to New York and pound on Maggie’s door, but she knew she couldn’t. That would only bring back memories of her youthful persistence and make Maggie an
xious. She’d asked for time to think, and if there was hope for their relationship, Liz needed to give it to her.
Liz knew she should head back to Maine, but she hoped Maggie would change her mind and want to come home. Just in case, she didn’t want to leave the area. She considered returning to Guilford. Sober, Jenny would be full of apologies, but then there was the note. Liz had no intention of addressing the possibilities that raised.
The frustration and fear was overwhelming. The hollow ache in her chest kept getting bigger. It felt too much like that summer when Maggie left and never come back. Paralyzed by indecision, Liz watched the traffic drive by until she realized she had lost track of time. She glanced at the dashboard. Ten minutes had somehow disappeared. But she had discovered one thing. She needed to talk to someone—someone who would listen without judgment. Liz summoned Siri and asked her to call Bev Birnbaum.
Bev’s voice was cheerful when she answered the call. “Liz? Hi. Did you have more questions?”
“No, but I need to talk.”
“Talk,” replied Bev bluntly.
“I mean, in person.”
On the other end, Bev laughed softly. “I’m off today. Come to the house.”
“I’m just leaving my mother’s. It will be an hour, at least.”
“Don’t rush. I’ll be here.”
Bev’s unquestioning kindness brought tears to Liz’s eyes. She swallowed the lump in her throat and cut an errant tear from her cheek with her fist. She started the engine and turned back on the road, already thinking of what she would say to Bev. She could navigate without thinking. She had driven back and forth from her mother’s to Connecticut for years, not only when she’d lived in Guilford, but all the way back to when she was a surgical resident with Bev decades ago.
Finally, she turned into the Birnbaum’s driveway, only a few doors from the house she owned with Jenny. The Birnbaum’s house was more modest than the other houses on the street. The quaint Tudor-style reproduction didn’t really fit in with the colonial theme of the neighborhood either. The dark wood contrasted dramatically with the stucco. Liz rang the bell. The plank door with iron straps opened.
Bev wore a heather wool cardigan that brightened her pale face. The cinnamon hair color had become too much of a contrast to her skin. Liz wondered when Bev would finally give up dyeing her hair. In her field, she never had to worry about snotty residents, or maybe she did. The young were always snapping at their heels in an endless cycle of replacement.
Bev stepped out on the porch. She couldn’t look over Liz’s shoulder so she looked around her. “Where’s Maggie?” She glanced at the car. “Did you leave her at Jenny’s?”
Liz shook her head. “She’s back in New York.”
When Bev’s eyes searched hers, Liz could see that she understood. “Come in.” Bev reached for her hand and gave it a little tug.
Liz followed her into the house, which felt oppressively warm. The thermostat in the Maine house was always set low to conserve fuel, so what most people considered a comfortable room temperature seemed hot to Liz.
They passed through the dining room. There was a Menorah on the side board. Liz remembered that Hanukkah was approaching and Christmas. Without Maggie, the holidays would be dismal. Liz didn’t want to think that far ahead.
Bev tugged at her elbow. “Sid’s in the sun room. Go say hello.”
Liz went out to the solarium and stood in the doorway. Bev’s husband of thirty years was completely bald. He’d recently retired from Yale, where he’d taught twentieth century European History. He always said he’d come by his knowledge honestly. His father was a Holocaust survivor.
“Sid,” said Liz to get his attention.
Sid looked up, his pale blue eyes smiling. “Liz,” he said with warm affection. “So good to see you again.”
“Coffee’s ready!” called Bev. “Come in and sit down.”
Liz sat at the old farm table. She’d helped the Birnbaums find it at an auction, when an old farm that had been in the same family since colonial times was being sold for development. The legs of the table were as big around as Liz’s thigh. It was solid and fit perfectly into the deliberately old-fashioned kitchen.
Liz listened to the comforting sound of the coffee pouring from a glass carafe. Bev pushed the cup across the table. She still used real coffee cups and saucers instead of mugs. She poured herself a cup of coffee, added some milk, and slid the pitcher across to Liz.
Bev sat studying Liz for a long time. Finally, she said, “Go on. Talk.”
Liz thought for a long moment, trying to decide where to begin. If she were a patient, she’d be imposing by unnecessarily taking up a doctor’s time, but Bev had learned early in her career to listen to patients. Cancer patients often had a lot to say. Bev remained unhurried and relaxed, sipping her coffee while she waited for Liz to find words. Liz could hear her swallow in the silence of the kitchen. The only sounds were the old clock counting away the minutes and the low hum of the refrigerator.
Finally, Liz said, “Maggie asked if I could fall in love with a woman with reconstructed breasts.”
Bev sat up. That had definitely gotten her attention. Her eyes widened. “What did you say?”
“I said I didn’t know.”
Bev took another swallow of coffee. Her dark eyes gazed at Liz without judgment.
“Could you?”
“I already love Maggie. It’s a moot point.”
Bev shook her head. “No, it isn’t. She was asking if you’ll find her attractive even if she loses her breasts. She needs to hear you say it out loud…that you’ll love her no matter what.”
“I know that now.”
Bev leaned on her hand. “How will you feel if Maggie elects a double mastectomy?”
Liz drank her coffee in silence as she thought about Bev’s question. “I would find it difficult. I would miss her breasts. Because I’ve performed mastectomies, I would always be aware of the difference between a natural and a reconstructed breast. I would mentally see its structure when I touch it. I would know the sensation in the conserved nipples is minimal, so it would be difficult to go through the charade of stimulating something that I know can’t feel much.”
Bev flinched almost imperceptibly, but her brown eyes were kind as she studied Liz’s face.
“That would be terrible for you and for Maggie.”
Liz nodded and looked away. She felt so guilty now that she’d admitted the truth. “It sounds so selfish.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s how you feel.”
“Jenny said I should leave Maggie because of her prognosis.”
Bev gave Liz a sharp look. “That’s a really shitty thing to say. Jenny should be ashamed of herself.”
“She’s jealous. But yes, it was shitty. I was shocked.”
“Keep her away from Maggie. She doesn’t need to hear that kind of negative talk.”
“Oh, I agree. And I don’t need it either. It’s hard enough to keep up a good front.”
“But Jenny has a point. Maybe you should end it now. It might be easier for Maggie to deal with her cancer alone than have to worry about you and your issues.”
“Issues,” Liz repeated in a disparaging tone. “We already had enough baggage—the past, her mother, my mother, her traumatized kids, her snotty oncologist daughter demanding her mother have chemo. I’m not sure I’m ready for this.”
Bev sighed. “You don’t really have much choice now.”
“I can’t run out on her…not while she’s going through this.”
“So, what are you going to do? Run out later? When she’s not looking?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then you’ll have to decide. She’s giving you an out if you want to take it.”
“What kind of friend would I be if I abandoned her now?”
“Liz, thi
s isn’t about you and your sense of honor. This is about Maggie. She’ll need a lot of support from you. You’ll have to keep telling her how much you love her, how beautiful she is, how sexy. If she elects a double mastectomy, you’ll have to forget all you know about reconstruction and make love to her like you would any other woman.”
“I don’t know if I can do that.”
Bev sat back in her chair. “That’s an honest answer. It’s a step in the right direction.”
“I always thought the husbands and boyfriends who ran out on my cancer patients were shallow and selfish. Now, look at me.”
“Liz...don’t be so hard on yourself.”
“Well? Look at me!”
“I am. And I see a woman who’s struggling to find her way.”
Liz twirled her teaspoon and stared at her distorted image in the bowl. “How do you do it? I cut out the cancer, but you help them decide what to do next. When to go on…or when to stop.”
Bev sighed. “I knew early on that my life in medicine would be about helping people face death, but it’s also about helping them face living with cancer. Not only the patient, but the families too.”
“How do you help them live with the fear?”
“I tell them they have to learn to live with it, or it will eat them up worse than the cancer.”
“I’m afraid.”
“I know you are.”
“I can’t show my fear to Maggie. She’s already terrified.”
“But you have to deal with your fear. That doesn’t necessarily mean burdening her with it. You can talk to other people.”
Liz nodded. “I know. That’s why I am talking to you.”
Bev got up to refill their cups. That was the downside of regular coffee cups. They needed to be refilled too often.
“Maggie says I sound like a doctor when I talk about her cancer.”
“You are a doctor. How else should you sound?”
Liz chuckled. “That’s exactly what I said!”
“But I understand what she means. When threatened with a loved one’s medical crisis, you retreat into your professional role, where you feel comfortable and in control. It’s easier to cite facts and statistics and talk about treatment protocols than talk about the fact that someone you love may be dying. I did the same thing when Sid had prostate cancer.”