“The tumors are still growing,” I said softly.
“You don’t know that for sure,” said Lilly.
“For sure,” I answered, with little emotion. Was I just out of emotion? “My scans. They always compare them to the previous ones.” I didn’t identify the proverbial “they.” It didn’t much matter: Christiana Care, Johns Hopkins, Sloan Kettering.
Aurora cut her eyes at me. She thought I should tell them about the drug trial. But that wasn’t her call. It was mine. She could give me the stink eye all she wanted.
“There’s not anything anyone can do?” Janine’s voice seemed to come from far away.
We were all staring at the dark water beyond the dunes and the stretch of white sand. I shook my head slowly and stole a glance in Janine’s direction. “No.”
Janine was looking tough, but I saw tears glisten in her eyes. “Surgery?” she asked. “You can’t find anyone to cut the little bastards out?”
“They’re not those kinds of tumors. The kind that can be surgically removed.” I paused. Guilt washed over me to the same rhythm as the rising tide. How could I be doing this to them? To Mia and Maura? To Lilly and Janine and Aurora? “There are . . . too many of them,” I said.
Lilly was crying quietly into a tissue. I noticed earlier that she carried them around with her; this wasn’t the first time today she’d plucked one from the plastic pouch. Apparently, she cried a lot these days, with the hormone thing happening. More in my presence.
“You’ve done research? On the Internet?” Janine again. “Talked to people? I mean, just because doctors in the US don’t—”
“There’s nothing that can be done,” I interrupted. I didn’t want to talk about the options again . . . with anyone. Not even Janine.
I’d heard plenty about nonconventional treatments from everyone and their brother: acupuncture, salves, qigong. A nice enough girl from work wanted me to take some kind of vitamin concoction that had proved to cure cancer in South America. (Containing white-headed marmoset pee probably.) A gal in my hot yoga class wanted me to meet her spiritual advisor, who’d had good luck with healing mantras. ( Ommm, kick this cancer’s butt, ommm. ) Apparently, he’d cured someone of brain cancer. Or so the gal with the big, fuchsia tiger tattoo on her shoulder had told me.
Lilly was sobbing now. I reached over and took her hand. “Oh, Lilly, don’t.”
“I just . . . can’t . . . believe . . .” She was taking big, noisy gulps of air. “Believe this . . . is . . . happening to us.”
I wanted to get up and put my arms around her, but honestly, I was too tired. Instead, I rested her hand on the arm of my chair and laid my cheek against it. She crumpled over and rested her face on my shoulder, her hair falling over my face. I liked the feel of it, and for a moment, I pretended it was my own hair. The fantasy didn’t last long. Her hair was smooth and silky and smelled of expensive shampoo. My hair was longer, coarser . . . and I used Head & Shoulders. Or leftovers from the assorted bottles my daughters discarded on the floor of their shower.
Now Janine was crying. Crying without making a sound.
It was Aurora who broke the silence. She lit up a cigarette and sighed loudly with obvious pleasure.
Lilly popped up her head. “Really?” She sniffed, taking her hand from mine, and fumbled for the pack of tissues.
I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes. I wasn’t going to be able to stay up much longer. I needed to climb into my pajamas, into my bed. I needed a nebulizer treatment. I needed sleep.
“You’re going to smoke? ” Lilly demanded. “She’s got lung cancer, and you’re going to smoke five feet from her?” Her last words come out angry. Bitter.
I sometimes think that while Lilly loves Aurora, a part of her resents her. Resents what she did that night. The way it changed us all. The way it solidified our relationship, but broke us into little pieces, deep
“You don’t know that for sure,” said Lilly.
“For sure,” I answered, with little emotion. Was I just out of emotion? “My scans. They always compare them to the previous ones.” I didn’t identify the proverbial “they.” It didn’t much matter: Christiana Care, Johns Hopkins, Sloan Kettering.
Aurora cut her eyes at me. She thought I should tell them about the drug trial. But that wasn’t her call. It was mine. She could give me the stink eye all she wanted.
“There’s not anything anyone can do?” Janine’s voice seemed to come from far away.
We were all staring at the dark water beyond the dunes and the stretch of white sand. I shook my head slowly and stole a glance in Janine’s direction. “No.”
Janine was looking tough, but I saw tears glisten in her eyes. “Surgery?” she asked. “You can’t find anyone to cut the little bastards out?”
“They’re not those kinds of tumors. The kind that can be surgically removed.” I paused. Guilt washed over me to the same rhythm as the rising tide. How could I be doing this to them? To Mia and Maura? To Lilly and Janine and Aurora? “There are . . . too many of them,” I said.
Lilly was crying quietly into a tissue. I noticed earlier that she carried them around with her; this wasn’t the first time today she’d plucked one from the plastic pouch. Apparently, she cried a lot these days, with the hormone thing happening. More in my presence.
“You’ve done research? On the Internet?” Janine again. “Talked to people? I mean, just because doctors in the US don’t—”
“There’s nothing that can be done,” I interrupted. I didn’t want to talk about the options again . . . with anyone. Not even Janine.
I’d heard plenty about nonconventional treatments from everyone and their brother: acupuncture, salves, qigong. A nice enough girl from work wanted me to take some kind of vitamin concoction that had proved to cure cancer in South America. (Containing white-headed marmoset pee probably.) A gal in my hot yoga class wanted me to meet her spiritual advisor, who’d had good luck with healing mantras. ( Ommm, kick this cancer’s butt, ommm. ) Apparently, he’d cured someone of brain cancer. Or so the gal with the big, fuchsia tiger tattoo on her shoulder had told me.
Lilly was sobbing now. I reached over and took her hand. “Oh, Lilly, don’t.”
“I just . . . can’t . . . believe . . .” She was taking big, noisy gulps of air. “Believe this . . . is . . . happening to us.”
I wanted to get up and put my arms around her, but honestly, I was too tired. Instead, I rested her hand on the arm of my chair and laid my cheek against it. She crumpled over and rested her face on my shoulder, her hair falling over my face. I liked the feel of it, and for a moment, I pretended it was my own hair. The fantasy didn’t last long. Her hair was smooth and silky and smelled of expensive shampoo. My hair was longer, coarser . . . and I used Head & Shoulders. Or leftovers from the assorted bottles my daughters discarded on the floor of their shower.
Now Janine was crying. Crying without making a sound.
It was Aurora who broke the silence. She lit up a cigarette and sighed loudly with obvious pleasure.
Lilly popped up her head. “Really?” She sniffed, taking her hand from mine, and fumbled for the pack of tissues.
I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes. I wasn’t going to be able to stay up much longer. I needed to climb into my pajamas, into my bed. I needed a nebulizer treatment. I needed sleep.
“You’re going to smoke? ” Lilly demanded. “She’s got lung cancer, and you’re going to smoke five feet from her?” Her last words come out angry. Bitter.
I sometimes think that while Lilly loves Aurora, a part of her resents her. Resents what she did that night. The way it changed us all. The way it solidified our relationship, but broke us into little pieces, deep
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