The Replacement Wife (41 page)

After class, as they were putting their mats away, she asked in what she hoped was a casual voice, “Have you and Curtis worked out any sort of arrangement yet for when the baby comes?”

Holly shrugged in response. “Not really, but we’ll figure it out.”

Camille grew impatient. “Holly.” She eyed her sister sternly. “This isn’t a time-share we’re talking about. You’re going to be parents. You have to have
some
sort of plan. You can’t just wing it.”

“Yeah, I know, but things are kind of up in the air right now.”

“How so?”

“Curtis got offered a promotion—his boss wants him to head the DC branch. It’s a huge opportunity. He could pretty much write his own ticket from there.” They headed for the exit, where they paused to don their coats, Holly’s a fringed-and-beaded leather jacket that’d once belonged to the drummer for Pink Floyd. “I told him he should take it.”

Camille’s heart sank. “Is he going to?”

“He hasn’t decided yet, but he’s considering it,” Holly said as they started down the staircase.

She seemed relaxed about the whole thing—
too
relaxed. Camille wasn’t fooled. She knew her sister well. Holly made light of things that would have had anyone else freaking out; it was her way of coping. Camille recalled the time Holly phoned from Singapore, after her then-boyfriend Ronan Quist had left her stranded, following a drunken orgy that she’d walked in on and that had resulted in a huge blowout. Holly had acted as if she were calling from down the block, in need of money for a cab, not plane fare home. Camille waited until they were outside, on their way to the corner Starbucks, to weigh in with her opinion.

“You and the baby should be part of the equation, at least.”

“It wouldn’t be like before, when he was living on the other side of the Atlantic,” Holly reasoned. “DC is only a few hours away by train. He could visit on weekends.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“Who?”

“The divorced dads who relocate. Only somehow it never works out the way they plan.”

Holly came to an abrupt halt and turned to face her, the fringe on her jacket swaying with the suddenness of the movement. “Will you stop. Geez. We’re not divorced! We’re not even married.”

“I wouldn’t rule it out. You’re not getting any younger.”

“Where is it written you have to be married by a certain age? Or married at all?” Holly demanded. “This may be hard for you to imagine, sis, but not all us single girls go to sleep at night dreaming of white satin and wedding bells. Some of us are perfectly happy being on our own.”

“You won’t be on your own. You’ll have Junior.”

“Yes. Won’t that be nice?” Holly’s expression turned dreamy, and they continued on their way.

“Trust me, there will be days when it won’t seem so nice.” Camille had always been the calm, cool voice of reason. Not that Holly ever listened. She took a last stab at it, nonetheless, when they were standing in line at Starbucks. “Remember when Kyra was a baby, and I couldn’t get her to stop crying?” Her daughter had been colicky as an infant. “I was so sleep-deprived, I was a zombie.” So out of it, she’d once “burped” an economy-size pack of Pampers standing in line at Duane Reade. “There were times, I swear, when I thought about leaving her on some nice lady’s doorstep. Either that or jumping off a bridge.”

Holly grew quiet. It wasn’t until they were seated with their lattes that she ventured cautiously, “You wouldn’t, would you? I mean kill yourself for real.” Her eyes searched Camille’s face.

“I don’t know,” Camille replied honestly. “I can’t say it hasn’t crossed my mind, but I’m not sure I could ever go through with it. I guess it would depend.”

Holly went pale, and she seized hold of Camille’s wrist, saying urgently, “Promise me you won’t. At least, not without talking to me first. I mean it, Cam. You have to swear on your life. No, not that . . .” She bit down on her bottom lip as a helpless giggle erupted. “I would even help you if . . . if ”—her voice wobbled and her eyes pooled with tears—“if you needed me to.”

Camille knew the courage it took for her sister to make such an offer and was deeply touched by it. “Thanks, Dr. Kevorkian,” she said, making light of it to keep from puddling up herself. “I always knew you were jealous of me, but I never thought you’d take it to such extremes.”

Holly gave a choked laugh. “Shut up. I was never jealous.”

“Liar.”

“In your dreams.”

The sisters lapsed into companionable silence. Camille sipped her latte as she gazed out the window at the pedestrians passing by on the sidewalk. A little kid wearing a helmet coasted along on his Razor bike, his mom trotting after him. Next came an elderly woman walking a gray-muzzled black Lab, and then a young couple holding hands who could barely take their eyes off each other long enough to watch where they were going. Camille, remembering when she and Edward had been that intensely focused on each other, was pierced with sorrow.

“Edward’s having an affair.” The words slipped out before she was even aware she’d spoken.

“What? Did you just say—
Shit!
” Holly swore. Camille turned to find her sister mopping up a puddle of spilled coffee with her napkin. Holly abandoned her efforts and sat back, staring at her. “No, not possible,” she said, shaking her head. “Edward would never cheat on you. Whatever it looks like, I’m sure there’s an explanation.”

Camille sighed. “He didn’t deny it when I confronted him.”

Holly’s eyes widened and her hand flew up to cover her mouth. “Oh, my God.” Then her expression hardened. “Figures. It’s always the quiet, churchgoing ones you have to watch out for.”

“I’m not talking about Elise.”

“Then who—?”

“Her name is Angie. Angie D’Amato. She caters my events—or she used to.” Camille had sent her a terse e-mail earlier in the day letting her know her services would no longer be required.

“Is it serious?” Holly’s eyes seemed to fill her whole face.

“He’s not just in it for the sex.” An image rose once more of Edward and Angie in bed together, and she felt her stomach cramp. The smell of the spilled coffee was revolting all of a sudden.

“Oh, Cam.” Holly took hold of her hand, squeezing it.

“It’s my fault as much as his,” Camille went on. “I was the one who pushed Elise on him.” Though she’d never imagined, in doing so, she’d be opening a door through which anyone could enter. To be fair, neither had Edward, she suspected. However furious she was at him right now, she knew he hadn’t sought this out.
She was there
. Weren’t those his exact words? He might have added,
And you weren’t.
She’d abandoned him, the way he saw it.

“You were only doing what you thought was best for your family,” Holly replied staunchly.

“Maybe I should’ve thought more about what was best for my marriage.” Camille lapsed into thought, gazing sightlessly ahead. When she finally roused and glanced at her watch, she saw that it was three p.m. She rose to her feet. “I better run, or I’ll be late for my doctor’s appointment.”

“Is Edward meeting you there?” Holly asked, eyeing her anxiously.

“No. He wanted to, but I told him not to come.” She didn’t need to be reminded of the shaky ground her marriage was on while being confronted with the even shakier state of her health.

“I’ll come with you, then.” Holly rose heavily to her feet.

“No, you stay. I’ll be fine. It’s just routine,” she lied.

In fact, today’s appointment was anything but routine: She would be learning the results of the latest round of tests. As Camille bade her sister farewell and hurried off to the subway, she steeled herself for the news that would only confirm what she already knew in her heart.

SHE WAS SURPRISED,
when she walked into her doctor’s office, to find someone seated in the leather wing chair opposite the desk, talking to Regina. A middle-aged man, bald on top, wearing a herringbone blazer and Liberty of London tie. At first, she mistook him for a patient. But no, the receptionist, Bettina, wouldn’t have shown her in if Regina had been with another patient. And now here was Regina rising to her feet, smiling and beckoning to her. The man turned to smile at her, too.

“Camille, this is Dr. Rose,” Regina said.

Dr. Rose was head of the team at MD Anderson, in Houston, that was developing the experimental drug she was taking. Her mind raced. What was he doing here? Had he just happened to be in town or had he made a special trip? Either way, it was bad news; she was sure of it. She began to tremble at the thought.

“Ira, please,” he said warmly as they shook hands. He had a deep voice and spoke with an upper-class British accent. Other than that, there was nothing remarkable about him; he was short and pudgy, with an unassuming manner. What had impressed her was what she’d learned when she’d Googled him: He’d been educated at Oxford and had gotten his medical degree from Harvard. Since then, he’d subsequently won numerous awards and been nominated for the Nobel Prize for his cutting-edge work in the field of cancer research.

“Regina’s told me so much about you, I feel as if I know you.” Once again, she was surprised by how normal she sounded. But this time, it wasn’t the state of her marriage that was on her mind; it was the state of her health. Was this nice man going to give her a death sentence? “I understand you two interned together?”

He turned his twinkly gaze on Regina. “Yes, indeed. We all had to scramble to keep up with Reggie.”

Reggie? Camille smiled in spite of her nervousness. She had a hard time picturing her poised, dignified hematologist-oncologist as a striving, and possibly gawky, intern called Reggie.

“And I’ve been doing my best to keep up with
you
ever since,” Regina replied with a chuckle.

“And here we are, united once more in a common cause.” Dr. Rose brought his beneficent gaze back to Camille. “I’ve been following your case with great interest, my dear.” He had a warmth and old-world courtliness that soothed her jangled nerves like a glass of dry sherry sipped slow. “Actually, that’s why I’m here. I thought we might go over your test results together.”

Camille nodded woodenly, her heart pounding. “Yes, of course.”

“Should we wait for your husband?” he asked.

“No, he, um, couldn’t make it.” She mumbled something about an emergency with one of his patients. However angry she was at Edward, she didn’t want Regina or Dr. Rose to think ill of him.

“A pity. I was rather hoping to meet him. I read his paper in
JAMA
on the latest diagnostic advancements in his field. Fascinating stuff. Ah, well, another time perhaps.” Dr. Rose shook his head with regret before getting down to business. “Well then, shall we have a look?”

Camille went over to the sofa and sat down next to Regina, while Dr. Rose took a seat at the end. On the glass table in front of them was the manila envelope from the radiology lab that contained the results of her latest PET scan. Camille felt dread congeal in her stomach, thick and cold. The last two batches of images had shown no change in her condition. This would be more of the same, or it might show that her cancer was progressing. Either way she was doomed—it was either a slow death or a quicker one.

“Your blood work was the first indication of what we were looking at,” Dr. Rose began. Camille might have taken comfort in his calm tone as she listened to him go on about her white cells and red cells, her CBCs and ANCs, except she’d spent enough time around doctors—she was married to one, for God’s sake—to know they all talked this way even when the prognosis was bleak.

“What does it mean?” she finally blurted.

“Why don’t you have a look and see for yourself?” Dr. Rose gestured toward the radiographic images Regina had withdrawn from the manila envelope. Camille bent to peer at them, and immediately noticed something was different. It took her a moment, though, to realize what it was: She was looking for something that wasn’t there. The “hot zones”—areas where the tracer with which she’d been injected showed up in light-colored patches anywhere cancer cells were present—were either noticeably reduced or scarcely visible. She studied the images in mute disbelief, her mind struggling to grasp what was plainly visible to the eye. It was too much to take in all at once.

It was Regina who said, “What it means, Camille, is that your cancer appears to be going into remission.”

“It’s quite remarkable, actually,” Dr. Rose interjected, growing more animated. “Your previous results were, shall we say, less than encouraging. Also, given that your cancer was in an advanced stage, we knew it was a long shot to begin with. We certainly never expected anything like this.” He gestured excitedly toward the printouts. “If I were a man of the cloth, I would call it a miracle. But as a scientist, I can only say it has far exceeded our expectations.”

Camille was too dumbfounded to respond. She half-listened as Dr. Rose went on, something about having her fly to Houston for more tests. He also seemed eager to introduce her to the other members of his team. “You’re our new poster girl,” he said. She was opening her mouth to protest,
No, I’m the one who isn’t going to make it, remember?
when full awareness finally kicked in.

“Are . . . are you saying I’m not going to die?” she stammered.

Regina beamed at her. “Hopefully, not for some time.”

Her numb disbelief gave way to a rapidly expanding euphoria that swelled until it nearly lifted her out of her seat. She felt giddy, drunk almost. Her first thought was,
I have to call Edward.

Edward . . . oh, God.
Edward.

She stood up, swaying on her feet as the room slowly revolved around her. Black specks gathered at the periphery of her vision, the figures of Regina and Dr. Rose dissolving like pixilated images on a screen. There was a rushing noise like static in her ears. Then she lost consciousness.

CHAPTER TWENTY

“O
kay, guys, listen up!” Angie raised her voice to be heard above the din of eight teenagers all trying to outshout and outdo one another. The Bedford-Stuyvesant Youth Center cafeteria sounded like a prison yard. “Trust me, you’re gonna want to hear what’s on the menu for tonight.”