Die Again Tomorrow (5 page)

CHAPTER 4

 

T
he envelope arrived a week after her visit to Richard Barnett. She had kept her promise and gone to the nearest lab right away for expedited genetic testing. One blood draw and several anxious days later, the results landed in her mailbox. The return address was stamped
MYRIAD GENETICS, SALT LAKE CITY, UTAH
. It was strange to believe that her fate was contained in something so thin and plain, so indifferent to the magnitude of what lay inside it.

Her mother was home from the hospital by then and knew nothing of her quest to raise money for the radically better treatment; Isabel didn't want to get her hopes up only to crush them if the plan failed. In the meantime, her mom had accepted the standard chemotherapy regimen and was already suffering its hazardous effects.

Of course, Isabel acted as if she would be in the lucky 15 percent who made it. The number acquired an outsize significance. She bloated it any chance she could, especially for the sake of her frantic little brother. A 15 percent chance of rain? Better find the umbrella. A 15 percent tip? Plenty high. Fifteen percent battery on the cell? It'll last.

Andy became obsessed with statistics, to the point that he was compulsively guessing the odds of mundane events: baseball games, his grade on a history test, his chance of catching a cold.

“Odds, schmodds,” their mom was telling him as Isabel walked in with the fateful envelope. Andy was hugging his knobby knees to his chest near the sofa, where she was curled up under a knitted wool blanket. Her long black tresses were already falling out in clumps, but she pretended not to notice. “What were the odds you would survive the crossing on that broken raft, alone? Zero? But you're here, aren't you?”

That was Mom—the standard-bearer of reassurance.

Isabel stashed the envelope into her purse before either of them could notice. Her palms were clammy with dread. Most confusing was that she didn't know what she wanted—a positive or a negative result.

She promised herself she would open it later. There was work to do first.

In the last eleven days, she'd gotten more up close and personal with survival than she ever had been on television. There was no question which role was the more grueling, now that she was a home nurse, bookstore manager, cook, maid, and substitute mother. The setting wasn't glamorous—a wood-slatted bungalow instead of a Brazilian rainforest—but staying alive here actually counted. Not as a bauble for bored viewers, but as a matter of life and death. No safety net. No edits. No do-overs.

After making sure her mom had enough water and dry toast, a wastebasket, and the remote, Isabel kissed her cheek, gave Andy a playful slug, and headed out for a shift at the store. The letter remained at the bottom of her purse, unopened.

As she walked down the porch steps, Andy's voice caught up with her. “Izz!”

She turned around to see him closing the front door so their mother couldn't hear. When he looked up at her, his dark brown eyes seemed laden with the weight of the world. His red Miami Heat jersey hung off his scrawny frame.

“What's up, dude?”

He crossed his arms. “I have to ask you a question.”

“Yeah?”

“But you have to tell the truth, okay? I'm not a little kid anymore.”

She inhaled the scent of the coconut palm trees that shaded their porch. The air was hot and sweet, but the hair on her arms prickled.

“What is it?”

“Is Mom gonna die?”

She leaned back against the porch railing, ignoring a splinter that dug into her palm. “Of course not.” The words sounded shrill even to her.

His face scrunched up. “You promised not to lie!”

She crouched down to his eye level, swallowing hard. “I'm doing everything I can to help her. I promise you that much.”

“You swear?”

She extended her pinky and he interlocked his own. They squeezed on it.

After he trudged back inside, she knew she couldn't wait any longer.

She sunk to the steps and pulled the envelope out of her bag. Her name taunted her in bold black ink.

Holding her breath, she ripped the seam. Her hands fumbled as she pulled out the thin piece of paper. It was on formal letterhead and began with a preamble she was sure no one had ever paused to read:

She skimmed as fast as she could, looking for only one word.

At the bottom of the page, it assaulted her:
Positive.

CHAPTER 5

 

J
oan heard the front door close behind Greg with a thud. It was time. She had only ten minutes while he ran out to buy wine for the Saturday-night feast she had cooked. Then their son, his wife, and toddler would arrive, and there would be no time left to accomplish the task that she had once scolded herself for even contemplating, but today, at last, had decided to do.

Seeing him cry from afar was the tipping point. She could no longer abide the tacit rules of computer privacy that existed between a husband and wife.

She raced into their living room, her bare feet sliding over the polished wood. There, on the marble coffee table, was his silver laptop. It was already propped open. With her fingers inches away from the keys, she froze. Her red manicured fingers hovered in the purgatory between truth and betrayal.

Outside, through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the egg yolk sun was sinking down to meet the green foliage of Riverside Park. The sunset usually calmed her, but now her heart kicked in her chest. She glanced around at her home's treasured objects—the ornate rug from Thailand, the six-piece black leather sofa set, the Renoir and Degas prints collected from trips to Paris—but even their familiarity failed to comfort her.

The clock above the mantelpiece was ticking. In five minutes, Greg would return.

Her hands descended on his keyboard. The screen lit up. Under his full name, Gregory David Hughes, was a box waiting for his password. That was easy. He'd had the same password for years. She typed it in: “JemAdam41685.” The initials of her maiden name, Joan Eve Miller, their son's name, and their wedding anniversary.

The box wiggled, rejecting the password.

She frowned and typed it in again. Rejection. Her fingers trembled. She tried multiple permutations of capital letters, to no avail.

The one and only time he'd hidden a secret from her was eight years ago, when he'd coped with a frustrating string of career disappointments by escaping into the numbing haze of Vicodin. He grew increasingly withdrawn, and one day Joan caught him writing himself prescriptions to feed his addiction. Together they found help in a twelve-step program; he got clean, founded a charity to help other doctors with addiction, and life returned to normal.

Or had it? After all these years, had he gotten sucked back into that dark place? Or was it something else? Perhaps his flirtation with his assistant wasn't as harmless as she wanted to believe . . .

So far there was no evidence in his drawers, cabinets, or closets. If only she could get on his computer and poke around. But him changing his password wasn't tantamount to hiding something. Was it?

His key jangled in the lock. She yanked back her hands as if from a hot stove. As the door opened, she jumped to her feet and tugged on her beige silk dress. Several voices echoed in the foyer—Greg's, and also Adam's, his wife, Emily's, and the high-pitched giggles of Sophia.

The little girl led the charge into the living room, squealing when she saw Joan. A toothy grin spread across her face. “Grammy!” She leaped into Joan's arms, blond ringlets bouncing, and wrapped her chubby legs around her waist. Joan laughed, stumbling back a step, and hugged her tightly. All worry was momentarily dissolved by the scent of baby shampoo and the soft cheek on her shoulder.

“Gentle, kitty cat,” Adam called after her, following behind with Emily. “Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, guys.” Joan set down Sophia and kissed her son and daughter-in-law on the cheek. Adam was a young doppel-gänger of Greg, tall and slender, with a full head of wavy brown hair and her own lively blue eyes. Emily was petite, blond, curvy, and just as sweet as her dimpled smile implied. Seeing them, Joan felt reassured. How lucky she was! Many of her friends' kids had moved far away to raise children, relegating their relationships to weekly Skype chats. But you couldn't have tickle wars through a screen, or teach a toddler to walk, or feel the weight of a small body sleeping in your arms. No matter what was happening with Greg, these three were always there; they lived in a darling one-bedroom apartment just ten blocks away.

“Where did your father go?” she asked Adam.

Just then, Greg walked out of the kitchen carrying a tray of wineglasses and an uncorked bottle of Merlot. He briefly acknowledged her with a peck on the cheek before turning to the others.

“Sit, sit,” he said. “The night is young. I thought we could start with an aperitif.”

The breeziness in his voice sounded forced, but if anyone besides Joan noticed, they didn't show it.

“Sounds good,” Adam said. They all settled into the comfortable L-shaped leather sofa. As Greg set down the tray on the coffee table, Joan moved his laptop to the nearby desk. She noticed with relief that there was no evidence on the screen of her attempted log-ins. Then she opened a drawer in the coffee table and handed Sophia a coloring book and crayons, while he poured wine for the adults.

“Hey, so can you guys believe what the Dow did this week?” Adam shifted in his seat. “I feel like maybe we should pull out of our stocks. Things are getting kind of crazy.”

“Nah, it could still turn around,” Greg said, pouring himself an ample amount of wine. “Just give it more time. I think all the talk of a crash is premature.”

Joan felt a tightening in her stomach. According to Greg's recovery program, he was supposed to stay away from all narcotics, but enough years had passed that he occasionally indulged in a few ounces of alcohol. She cast a disapproving glance his way, but he avoided her gaze and took a sip.

“For now,” Adam allowed. “But if banks start going under, then we're really in trouble.”

“Oh, forget all that,” Joan said, waving off the topic like an annoying fly. “It's the weekend. Stock market's closed. Can't we all just relax?” She tried to trade a look with Emily—
men and their money worries—
but her daughter-in-law just smiled feebly and smoothed a wrinkle on her blue cotton dress.

Adam cleared his throat and took Emily's hand. Her face was a shade too white, Joan noticed, but a small smile was tickling her lips.

“The thing is,” he said, “we actually can't afford to ignore it.” He took a breath.

“We're moving,” Emily blurted.

Joan's gaze darted to Sophia, who was scribbling happily on the floor, then back to Adam and Emily. “You can't be serious.”

He pursed his lips in apology. “I'm afraid so.”

No more mornings with Sophia visiting the park jungle gym. Joan lived for those mornings. Now she would have to take a train to some far-flung place. The Hudson River Valley, or maybe Jersey City. That was where the young people flocked these days.

“Why?” Greg asked. “Where?”

Adam hesitated, biting his lip. “Kansas.”

“Like the Wizard of Oz!” Sophia piped up with glee.

Joan stared at her son. Greg set down his glass. He looked as shaken as she felt.

“It's so much cheaper there,” Adam went on, “and Emily's parents will be nearby, so we'll still have some family at least . . .” he trailed off, seeing his mother's crestfallen face.

“I don't understand,” she said. “Why do you have to go that far?”

“You get so much more for your money,” Emily said. “With the way the economy is going, it makes sense to get out of the city . . .”

“But we have plenty of money,” Joan said, not caring if she sounded tactless. She turned to her husband. “We can help them out, right, honey?”

Greg ignored her. “Adam, you have a degree from Harvard Law. Why don't you take a job you were trained to do, not mess around all day in a music studio? I'm sorry, but it needs to be said. You have to make sacrifices for your family.”

Adam refused to be rattled. “I'm following my dream, Dad. It would be nice to be near you guys, but right now, this is the best solution for us.”

“And I fully support him,” Emily added. “Trust me, I don't want some dead-eyed corporate lawyer coming home at eleven every night.”

Joan shook her head. The idealism of youth was galling; that was one thing she and Greg could agree on. Here was their son, highly educated, with every opportunity to make a big success of his life, and he was going to throw it away for some penny-pinching middle-class existence. It reminded her of her own naïveté when she was in her late twenties, with that same dreamy-eyed determination to conquer the journalism world, practicalities be damned. But Greg had come along and saved her the struggle, and now she would try to do the same for him.

“But would you stay if you could?” she pressed. “If you could have it all?”

“Well, of course,” Adam said. “New York will always be home.”

She let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. So there was hope. She would just have to get Greg to agree to an early release of Adam's inheritance. It was absurd to think that money could wrench her family apart, when they had so much. There was something else, too—a desperation she couldn't share with her son, but that she tried to impart with her eyes.
Don't leave me,
she thought.
Not right now, don't take Sophia away.
If Greg left her in spirit, and they in body, what of her life would remain?

“There's no rush,” she said, too calmly. “Let's just slow down and think this through.”

“There's no time to think.” Adam exchanged a meaningful look with Emily, right as Joan noticed that she hadn't touched her glass of wine. “We're actually flying out tomorrow to look at houses, because—”

“Sophia's going to be a big sister,” Emily announced, breaking into a grin. Adam patted her belly. “Three months along. With all the time it will take to find a place and move and get settled, we can't start looking soon enough.”

Joan's hand flew to her lips. Elation and despair mounted in equal measure. She reached instinctively for Greg's hand, but he was raising his glass in a toast. The edge in his voice was not lost on her.

“To a healthy baby!” he declared.

Joan raised her own glass, miming celebration. Hers clinked against his. A crystal note rang out, sharp and shrill. It was the sound of her heart breaking.