The Instant When Everything is Perfect (19 page)

What will Scotland feel like?
she wonders. In her dreams, the Scottish air is soft and almost green. That doesn’t make sense, but even more than she does with Ireland, Sally thinks of Scotland as green, despite her knowledge of its big cities and overcast skies. Green hills. Green golf courses. Sea green, olive, moss, loden, celadon, cypress, jade.

“Mother!” Katherine says. “Are you asleep?”

“Not yet, dear. But listen, I will certainly call you after I’ve seen Dr. Gupta. Nydia Nuñez is going to take me to my appointment on Tuesday, and I’ll call you right after I get back.”

“Why isn’t Mia taking you?” Katherine says with a snort. “She’s on sabbatical for god’s sake.”

Sally opens her mouth, about to tell Katherine how when Sally found out about the appointment, she did indeed call Mia, but something in Mia’s voice was strange, different. Sally knew Mia had a lunch date or a shopping trip with Kenzie or something else she had to push aside and rearrange for yet another Inland visit with Sally. In the instant of Mia’s hesitation, Sally pulled the conversation to a stop and then turned it around, maneuvering Nydia into it. Sally could hear Mia’s relief and thanks.

And now Sally wants to tell Katherine how many hours Mia has stayed with her, feeding her, cleaning her, helping her through the days when Sally wanted a gun more than she wanted water. But she still hasn’t told anyone about how she wanted to die, and she certainly can’t bear to hear anything else Katherine has to say right now. So she simply replies, “She had something to do with Harper.”

“Oh,” Katherine says, instantly defused with the insertion of parental duties, something she cannot malign because she knows she has no right. “Well, call me right away. Or what about a speaker phone? Does Dr. Gupta have a speaker phone? I could be there at the appointment with you.”

“I don’t know. Katherine,” Sally says. “I’ll let you know.”

“You promise?”

Sally yawns. “Of course. I’ll talk with you later, dear.” And before Katherine can say anything more than goodbye, Sally hangs up, puts the phone down on the floor, and rests her head on the arm of the couch, falling into a quick, deep sleep.



“It is my feeling, Mrs. Tillier,” Dr. Gupta says, “that because the pathology report indicated that there may have been a slight chance of cancerous cells in the right nodes, you would do well with a course of both Cytoxin and then Adriamycian and then to begin Tamoxifen thereafter.”

Sally sits on the other side of Dr. Gupta’s desk, glad to finally be talking to a doctor with all of her own clothes on. Earlier in the attached exam room, she shucked off her top once again, and like Dr. Groszmann and Dr. Jacobs, Dr. Gupta examined her, put his fingers into her arm pits, skimmed the lines of her incisions softly with his fingertips. He even made her lie down on the table and undo her pants, palpating her abdomen. She was too scared to ask what he was looking for, suddenly afraid that breast cancer could move into the belly, a rare, little-known side effect of surgery. Then he lifted her arms and inspected the drain incisions, clucking at her bruises.

But now, Sally almost feels civilized. She crosses her legs and leans forward.

“My daughter, who is a doctor,” she begins, feeling guilty about how she cut off Katherine before she could really get going on this subject, “seems to think that Tamoxifin alone would be, well, enough.”

Dr. Gupta nods and then pushes his glasses back against the bridge of his nose. “Yes, this is often the case with a Stage One or Stage Two diagnosis. But you see, Mrs. Tillier, when Dr. Jacobs shot the dye into your system to find suspect nodes, rather a lot of blue nodes turned up. This does not mean they area cancerous, of course, but sometimes—well, to hedge our bets, a course of chemo can reduce the chance of anything sneaking through. Preventative, more or less. And because your cancer is receptive to hormones, the tamoxifin will repress any further stimulation.”

“So you say it won’t come back if I do all of this?”

Dr. Gupta rubs the smooth brown skin under his nose with a long finger. “With no treatment, the percentage of reoccurrence in ten years is 19%. With Tamoxifin alone, it’s 15%. With Tamoxifin and chemotherapy treatment, your odds are 13%. You are not an old woman, Mrs. Tillier. That two percent can mean seeing more of those grandchildren you have told me about.”

Sally watches him, sees how even if he is wrong, he means well. He believes what he says. She knows he would never put anyone through chemo unless he thought it was the right choice. Dr. Gupta, she knows, would prescribe it for his mother. His wife. His sister. His own daughter if he had to.

“But, of course, it is your choice. And you are free to talk with any of my colleagues about this type of treatment.”

Sally sits back. This is not what she wanted. Now she will go bald and throw up and lose weight. Her rear will be as flat as her chest. She’ll travel to Scotland like a bag of bones. A bagpipe of bones.

“How long will this chemo go on? When will it be over?”

Dr. Gupta looks at the calendar on his desk, flipping though the months into summer. “Let us see . . . We won’t start for a week or more. And then you will have six treatments, three weeks apart. So let’s say by the end of July, give or take a week or two.”

“Fine,” Sally says and then blurts, “and then I’m going to Scotland.”

“Scotland,” he says.

“I’m going no matter what, I am going.”

“Aye, lassie,” Dr. Gupta says, smiling. “I dinna said you couldn’t.”



Nydia Nuñez drives like a teenager, swerving in and out of traffic. Thankfully, they are now stopped at the intersection of South Main and Mt. Diablo Boulevard, which is a very long light. Sally clutches what Katherine always calls “the Jesus handle” over the window.

“I think that’s what Barb down the street did. You know, the chemo and the tamoxi stuff. And look at her? Seven years later!”

Sally nods, watching the corner full of pedestrians. If she were with Mia, she would ask her daughter to stop off at Nordstrom so Sally could look for loose blouses with pockets over the breasts. Or where the breasts were. Camp shirts, her mother used to call them. But she wants something nice for her walks with Dick. And Sally knows she will need hats. And scarves. But no wig. There’s something about a wig that is always wrong, the color too even, the style a little too big or too straight or too perfect. She’s always thought men (most not as lucky as Dick with a full head of hair) look better bald than with a comb over or a toupee, both looking ridiculous and somehow tragic. So she will not pretend. She will only cover.

“And her kids have had six kids since then. So she’s been a grandmother all those times over. Look what the drugs gave her!” Nydia beats a little rhythm on the steering wheel with her palm. “It’s really very good news.”

“Yes,” Sally says, and then she starts, leans toward the window, blinking. There’s Mia, walking down from the parking garage. For a second, Sally wonders if she’s conjuring up her daughter as a cure to Nydia’s constant ramble, but no. Sally would know her daughter anywhere, the roll of her large hips, her confident gait, the way her arms swing away from her body as she walks.

Sally almost says something but then presses her lips together. If she says one word, Nydia will honk, blast through the intersection at the first sign of green. Then she will pull over and ask Mia a hundred questions while traffic backs up behind them.

So Mia rounds the block, heading down toward a row of restaurants. Sally rubs her forehead.

“Tired?” Nydia asks.

“Very,” Sally lies.

“Well, just close your eyes for a bit. Take a little snooze. I’ll have you home in no time.”

The light changes, and Nydia accelerates. Sally turns her head slightly to look for any sign of Mia, but her daughter is gone, having disappeared into one building or another. Nydia turns on the radio and begins to hum along to a song so loud and annoying that Sally thinks that probably Harper and Lucien know it.

“I love this song,” Nydia says as she picks up more speed. “It’s my new favorite.”

Nine

Robert

It takes hours before Robert realizes what is wrong with him. All morning as he saw patients, he felt pressure under his throat. For a minute, he imagined his carotids were suddenly clogged, stroke imminent. Then his mind began to float up and out of the exam room, hovering somewhere in downtown Walnut Creek. As he nodded and listened to Mrs. Morales and Ms. Hoffman and Ms. Liu, he realized he was looking for a parking place near Kenitos; he was walking down the sidewalk toward the restaurant; he was sitting across from Mia, smiling; he was saying brilliant, funny things; he was holding her hand; he was in the parking garage, kissing her.

He’s not sure any of this will even happen. It’s possible this first lunch will be the last, but he can’t stop imagining, his heart beating wild as he does.

But it wasn’t until he noticed his real, non-imaginary hands that he knew he was so nervous. Beyond nervous. Intensely scared. Almost frozen with fear.

But now it’s too late. He’s sitting in Kenitos, facing the front window. He’s arrived fifteen minutes early, and now it’s one minute to one. He’s already finished his water and a piece of bread. He wants to throw up; he wants to leave. He wants to cancel all his appointments, quit his job, and leave the country. He wants to call Jack and arrange to meet him at the Golden Lion for an ill-advised afternoon drink and perhaps syringe of morphine.

Yet as he thinks to push his chair back, he sees Mia enter the space framed by the window, her arms swinging as she walks, her short hair ruffling in the wind. She squints into the glare of the window but doesn’t slow. And then, she pulls open the thick wooden door, walks into the restaurant, stands in front of the maitre d’, who turns to Robert. Mia sees Robert, moves forward. There is nothing Robert can do now to stop anything.

They smile at each other as the maitre d’ takes over the conversation, seating Mia, handing her a menu, telling her that their waiter will be with them shortly. Mia takes some time scooting her chair in, arranging her sweater, and setting her purse on the floor. Robert wants to grab her arms and pull her to him, but instead he sips at his water, which is now simply a few melting ice cubes. When she is settled, he puts down the glass.

“You’re here,” he says, feeling instantly stupid. “I mean, you made it.”

Mia sits back and then leans forward. She folds her arms and rests her elbows on the table. “I made it.”

Robert wants to laugh, feeling ridiculous. What he really wants to say is that he needs to hold her and sleep with her and then get to know her and sleep with her some more. He wants to ask her questions about her life and he wants to tell her things that he doesn’t even understand how to say yet.

“Do you eat here often?” Mia asks, her face pale.

“Never. I always liked the name, though.” Robert looks at the menu. “The maitre d’ said the roasted chicken special is wonderful.”

“This is weird, isn’t it?” Mia says. She puts the menu on one of the empty chairs. “I mean, we don’t really want to talk about chicken, do we?”

Robert relaxes, his shoulders loosening, his hands unclenching. “No. But I was thinking there’s not really a set dialogue for this kind of lunch, is there?”

“Not really. I’ve never seen a book on it. You know,
Rules for Dating Those You Shouldn’t.
Maybe it could be my next one. I’ll end up on Dr. Phil or Oprah, my career finally made.”

The waiter comes over and tells them about the chicken, which they both order. Along with glasses of wine. They hand him the menus, and then look at each other. Robert clears his throat.

“Okay, let’s just say what we need to say. Get it over with. Forget all the small stuff about the weather and work and whatnot.”

Mia laughs. “How long is your lunch? We might be here for days.”

Robert doesn’t say anything, wanting her to begin. To start it. To start everything.

She cocks her head, bites her lower lip. “Okay. Here’s this. I’ve always thought that people who cheat are weak. I think, go ahead and be unhappy, but leave first. Be brave. Talk about it with your spouse. Be honest. Be real. Do the hard work. And then find someone else.”

Robert sits back, stares at Mia, wondering what to say. She’s right, he knows that. He agrees with her, but he wants to argue, to change her mind and his own.

“But,” he starts, but then the waiter is at their table with the wine and a couple of comments. The bus boy fills their water glasses. Mia looks down at her hands.

“But,” Robert begins once they are alone, “what if you meet that person while you are in the relationship? What if you haven’t had the presence of mind to figure out what’s wrong and then you find something that’s, well, right?”

Mia nods. “True, but—But in my enlightened and unforgiving scenario, I should have talked to my husband before I even emailed you. Before going out to lunch. Before anything.”