All You Could Ask For: A Novel (34 page)

“In fact,” she went on, “one of the things we talked about was whether or not this could truly be called a first date, considering we had what was sort of a date one time before.”

“Yes, darling, but that was how long ago?” I asked.

“Almost fourteen years.”

“The statute of limitations on this sort of thing varies from situation to situation but in
no
case is it thirteen years,” I told her. “That means if you had sex with him last night he is within his rights to assume you are a slut.”

“Brooke, I did
not
have sex with him.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Brooke,” she said, sounding a bit annoyed, “I cannot have this conversation with you if you are going to have this attitude. I have no reason to lie to you about this. I didn’t sleep with him and that’s the end of it.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

We sat in silence for a moment. I listened to the wind whizzing by. It sounded like she was flying down the expressway.

“Are you in a convertible?” I asked her.

“No, but all the windows are down and the sun roof is open.”

“Do you feel as good as you sound?” I asked.

“Brooke, I’ve never felt this good in my entire life.”

“Tell me more,” I said. “What was the single best moment?”

She didn’t have to think about it for even a second. “He remembered the song.”

I knew what she meant, but I asked anyway, mostly because I knew she’d love telling it even more than I’d love hearing it.

“We were talking about that night when we danced, and I told him it was the first time I had ever danced with a boy, and he made a joke about hoping he had been gentle, and it was all very comfortable, and then he started talking about the things from the night that he remembered, and when he got to the part about the music slowing down, I thought to myself there was no chance he would remember the song. But he did. He said: ‘When “How Deep Is Your Love” came on . . .’ and honestly I have no idea what he said after that, I just leaned in close to him and said: ‘I wanted so badly for you to kiss me that night.’ And we stood up and he held me just the same way, and we made out standing there in my father’s living room.”

“Could you hear the song in your head?” I asked.

“I think I could.”

“Samantha,” I told her, “I’ve heard a lot of stories, but
that
is the most romantic first kiss of all time.”

I could only barely hear over the wind whipping past. “I know,” she said.

SAMANTHA

IN THE RIGHT LIGHT, everything is fabulous.

I forget who said that, but I read it somewhere, and it’s true. This morning, the light is just right everywhere, and everything is fabulous. The sunshine reflecting off the Hudson River as I passed the George Washington Bridge, in particular, was gleaming with endless possibilities.

On these sorts of days, even a chemotherapy center seems brighter, cheerier, and it helps when the patient is in good spirits, which Katherine clearly was. I could tell the moment I arrived. There was a twinkle in her eye, almost as bright as the sun on the river. Something had happened, and she was excited to tell me, but first she wanted to know about Andrew.

As I recounted, in intricate detail, every second of my evening and long night, I found myself looking around the room more than I ever have before. I’ve been in this center with Katherine more times than I can count, but I suppose I have usually been so focused on her that I’ve blocked out everything around us. I haven’t paid much attention to the large, open room with the lounging chairs and intravenous drips positioned behind each one. Or the nurses’ station in the center of the room, and the rotation of friendly, supportive nurses, one cheerier than the next. Or the table with food and drink, pastries and finger sandwiches, juices and coffee. The food is for the visitors, but I’ve never eaten anything. Neither has Katherine; usually her treatments leave her nauseated and sleepy, and cold. She always has a large cashmere blanket draped around her shoulders and a quilt over her legs. Today I helped myself to coffee and glanced around at the other patients. Some were dozing, others reading, some were listening to music; not many of them looked sick. They looked alive, and Katherine did, too.

After I finished the story of my date with Andrew, Katherine lowered her reading glasses to the tip of her nose, like a teacher about to ask a tough question.

“Why on earth didn’t you fuck him?” she said, too loudly.

I shushed her and looked around. But no one was staring at us. If any of the patients had heard her, it wasn’t obvious.

“Please, Katherine,” I said, “have a little class.”

“Please, Samantha,” she said, mimicking my tone, “I have more important things to worry about right now than maintaining the proper decorum.”

“To answer your question,” I said, “it wasn’t the right time and it wasn’t the right place.”

“Listen to me,” she said. “After all the history, I think doing it in your father’s house would have been the perfect place, and if he’s as good-looking as you say he is then I’m not sure there could ever be a bad time.”

“Well, aren’t we all riled up this morning?” I said. “What’s gotten into you?”

So she told me about her visit from Phillip, and the money and the herpes and his clumsy, pathetic advances, and when she was finished there was only one conclusion to be reached.

“My goodness, Katherine,” I said, “we need to celebrate, and
you
need a little action.”

“You bet your ass,” she said, and we both laughed.

Then it hit me. “Saturday night!” I said, slapping my forehead. “Marie’s wedding! Black tie, fancy-schmancy, perfect occasion for a little flirting. We have to shop for your outfit tomorrow.”

“It would be perfect, you’re right,” she said. I saw the arrival of the wistful look that occasionally came over her and heard it in her tone. It was the “but” in everything. That’s what living with cancer means, more than anything. There’s always a “but.”

“Well,” I said, moving it along, “I hope you’re ready to shop tomorrow, because you are going to be the hottest thing at that party.”

It looked to me like Katherine was holding back tears. “Thanks, Samantha,” she said.

That’s another way I knew she was sad. Katherine is one of those people who doesn’t use your name much when she talks to you. When she does, it usually means she’s sad.

So I changed the subject. “Kat,” I said cheerily, “I would like to ask you the single most inappropriate question in the world.”

That seemed to snap her out of it. She raised her eyebrows and waited.

“All the money that Phil made sure you got . . .”

She leaned forward. “Yes?”

“How much is it?”

Katherine tilted her head a little to the side, the way a dog might if it hears a sound it cannot identify. Then she leaned back in her chair and laughed out loud.

“You’re right,” she said, “highly inappropriate.”

“I know,” I said. “But I’m asking anyway.”

She smiled. “You’ll find out when you need to.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’ll understand pretty soon,” she said.

“Katherine, don’t get that way on me.”

“That’s not what I mean,” she said reassuringly. “You’ll find out what I mean, and how much money Phil gave me, very soon. Long before anything happens to me.”

I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”

“No, you don’t,” she said cryptically. “But you will.”

KATHERINE

I DIDN’T WANT TO tell Samantha about my plans yet. There would be time for that soon. If there is one thing I have learned in two decades in the corporate world it is that the best time to announce plans is when they are complete. Anything earlier than that leaves too much room for error. So it wasn’t time to announce it yet, or even to tell Samantha. But that wasn’t far off.

First, I had to get ready for this wedding party. It was honestly sweet of Marie to make me her maid of honor, and to make such a fuss over my presence, including planning the event for the very weekend when I would be finished with my first round of treatment. Today is my last chemo for the time being—certainly not forever. I don’t know that I will ever see a day when I have no more treatments ahead, perhaps until the time when there are no more options and hopefully that won’t be any time soon. But for now I have a break, and Dr. Z told me to expect to feel great three or four days after my last round. He told Marie the same thing, and she planned her own wedding around that, and I can’t think of a kinder gesture.

But it puts a lot of pressure on me. I am assuming practically everyone I know will be at this event, all the people I worked with all these years, and almost none of them has seen me since I became ill. In that way, there is no getting around the fact that this party will be as much about me as it will about Marie. I told her as much, and I told her no bride should ever sacrifice her night that way, but Marie just smiled. And, while she won’t admit it, I think she wants it that way. She wants this night for me, and she knows if she or anyone else tried to throw this party for me I would never allow it, so in my heart I believe she has staged this, for the most part, to force me to attend. And while that is the most beautiful thing, it is also a great deal of stress for me.

I confronted her with it only one time. “Marie, I feel like you’re inviting me to my own funeral,” I said.

She was very calm. “Boss, this is my wedding night. I’m not thinking of it any other way. So you can see it however you want, but I’m asking you to do this for me.”

There was no way to say no to that, so I never tried again.

So now Samantha and I would spend a day at Bergdorf Goodman, putting together the most sensational outfit anyone would see all year. Hell, if this is the last time a lot of these people are going to see me, you’d better believe they are going to remember me looking fabulous.

Before we could shop, however, we had today to get through, one last afternoon of chemo, and I had been preparing for it.

“Let’s change the subject,” I said. “I came up with a few new Absolute Deal-breakers.”

“Perfect,” Samantha said, sliding her chair closer to mine. “We can apply them to some of the men you are going to meet at the party Saturday night.”

“Okay,” I said. “Is it an Absolute Deal-breaker if he named his dog after Jeffrey Dahmer?”

She burst out laughing. “Yes,” she said. “Out, out, out!”

“I agree,” I said. “Next, is it an Absolute Deal-breaker if you are seated next to an attractive stranger on an airplane and he makes very pleasant small talk, then pulls out an iPad and watches porn?”

Samantha smiled. She looked awfully pretty today. “How much effort does he make to conceal the porn from you?”

“What difference does that make?”

“I feel like if he wants you to see it then he is a pervert and trying to gauge if you’re interested in something quick in the bathroom. But if he’s hiding it . . .” She thought about it for a moment. “No, you’re right, he’s out, porn on an airplane is an Absolute Deal-breaker.”

“Does it make any difference what kind of porn it is?” I asked her.

“I don’t think so.”

“So, soft-core stuff is just as bad as bestiality?”