In Five Years

Chapter Twenty-Two

On Tuesday, October 4, I arrive at Mount Sinai on East One Hundredth Street an hour before the scheduled surgery. I still haven’t spoken to Bella, but I come to her pre-op room to find both her father and mother there. I don’t think they’ve been in the same room in over a decade.

The room is loud, even boisterous. Jill, her hair blown out and impeccably dressed in a Saint Laurent suit, chats with the nurses as if she’s preparing to host a luncheon, not for her daughter’s reproductive organs to be removed.

Frederick chats with Dr. Shaw. They both stand at the foot of Bella’s bed, arms crossed, gesturing amicably.

This isn’t happening.

“Hi,” I say. I knock on the side door that is obviously already open.

“Hey,” Bella says. “Look who made it.” She gestures to her father, who turns around and gives me a sideways wave.

“I see that,” I say. I put my bag down on a chair and go to Bella’s bedside. “How are you?”

“Fine,” she says, and I see it right there — the indignant stubbornness that has been avoiding me for the past week. Her hair is already in a cap, and she’s wearing a hospital gown. How long has she been here?

“What did Dr. Shaw say?”

Bella shrugs. “Ask him yourself.”

I take a few steps down. “Dr. Shaw,” I say. “Dannie.”

“Of course,” he says. “Notepad woman.”

“Right. So how is everything looking?”

Dr. Shaw gives me a small smile. “Okay,” he says. “I was just explaining to Bella and her folks here that surgery will take about eight hours.”

“I thought it was six,” I say. I’ve done extensive research. I’ve barely left Google. Filing statistics. Researching these procedures, recovery times, added benefits of taking out both ovaries instead of one.

“It could be,” he says. “It depends on what we find when we get in there. A full hysterectomy is usually six, but because we’re also removing the fallopian tubes we may need more time.”

“Are you performing an omentectomy today?” I ask.

Dr. Shaw looks at me with a mixture of respect and surprise. “We’re going to do a biopsy of the omentum for staging. But we will not be removing it today.”

“I read that a complete removal increases survival odds.”

To his credit, Dr. Shaw does not look away. He does not clear his throat and look to Jill or Bella. Instead, he says, “It’s really a case by case.”

My stomach turns. I look to Jill, who is up by Bella’s head, smoothing her cap-covered hair.

A memory. Bella. Age eleven. Crawling up into my bed from the trundle because she’d had a nightmare. It was snowing and I couldn’t find you.

“Where were you?”

“Alaska, maybe.”

“Why Alaska?”

“I don’t know.”

But I did. Her mother had been there for a month. Some kind of two-and-a-half-week cruise followed by a specialized spa.

“Well, I’m right here,” I said. “You’ll always be able to find me, even in snow.”

How dare Jill show up. How dare she claim ownership and offer comfort now. It’s too late. It has been too late for over twenty years. I know I’d hate Bella’s parents even more if they didn’t show today, but I still want them gone. They don’t get the place by her side, especially not now.

Just then Aaron walks through the door. He’s holding one of those carry trays full of Starbucks cups and starts handing them out.

“None for you,” Dr. Shaw says, pointing to Bella.

She laughs. “That’s the worst part about this. No coffee.”

Dr. Shaw smiles. “I’ll see you in there. You’re in great hands.”

“I know,” she says.

Frederick shakes Dr. Shaw’s hand. “Thank you for everything. Finky speaks very highly of you.”

“He taught me a lot of what I know. Excuse me.” He makes a move toward the door and stops when he reaches me. “Could I speak to you in the hall?”

“Of course.”

The room has descended into caffeinated chaos, and no one notices Dr. Shaw’s request or my exit.

“We’re going to try our best to get all of the tumor. We’ve categorized Bella’s cancer at a stage three, but we really won’t know definitely until we take tissue samples of the surrounding organs. And I know you raised a concern about an omentectomy. We’re just not sure how far it has spread yet.”

“I understand,” I say. I feel a deep, wet cold creep from the hospital floor, up my legs, and settle in my stomach.

“It’s possible we may need to remove a portion of Bella’s colon as well.” Dr. Shaw looks to Bella’s door and back at me. “You are aware that you are listed as Bella’s next of kin?”

“I am?”

“You are,” he says. “I know her parents are here, but I wanted you to be made aware, too.”

“Thank you.”

Dr. Shaw nods. He turns to leave.

“How bad is it?” I ask him. “I know you can’t tell me that. But if you could — how bad is it?”

He looks at me. He looks like he really would like to answer. “We’re going to do everything we can,” he says. And then he’s striding toward the operating room doors.

They wheel Bella into surgery with little fanfare. She is stoic. She kisses Jill and Frederick and Aaron, who Jill has clearly taken to. A little too much. She keeps finding excuses to grab his forearm. Once, Bella looks at me and rolls her eyes. It feels like a candle in the darkness.

“You’re going to be great,” I tell her. I bend over her. I kiss her forehead. She reaches up and grabs my hand. And then let’s go just as abruptly.

When she’s gone, we’re moved into the big waiting room, the one filled with people. They have sandwiches and board games. Some chat on cell phones. A few have blankets. There is laughing. Yet, every time the double doors open, the entire room stops and looks up in anticipation.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get you a coffee,” Aaron says. We choose seats by the window. Jill and Frederick pace a few feet over on their phones.

“It’s fine,” I say. “I’ll go down to the cafeteria or something.”

“Yeah. It’s going to be awhile.”

“Had you met her parents before?” I ask Aaron. Bella never mentioned it, but now I’m not so sure.

“Just this morning,” he says. “Jill came and picked us up. They’re kind of a trip.”

I snort.

“That bad, huh?” he asks me.

“You have no idea.”

Jill saunters over. I realize she’s wearing heels.

“I’m putting in an order to Scarpetta,” she says. “I think we could all use some comfort food. What can I get you two?”

It’s barely 9 a.m.

“I’ll probably just go down to the cafeteria,” I say. “But thank you.”

“Nonsense,” she says. “I’ll order some pasta and salad. Greg, do you like pasta?”

He looks to me for the answer. “Yes?”

My cell phone rings then. David.

“Excuse me,” I tell the group, which now includes Frederick, who is looking over Jill’s shoulder at her phone.

“Hey,” I say. “God, David, this is a nightmare.”

“I imagine. How was she this morning?”

“Her parents are here.”

“Jill and Maurice?”

“Frederick, yes.”

“Wow,” he says. “Good for them, I guess. Better they be there than not, right?”

I don’t respond, and David tries again. “Do you want me to come sit with you?”

“No,” I say. “I told you. One of us has to keep our job.”

“The firm understands,” David says, even though we both know that’s not true. I didn’t tell anyone about Bella’s illness, but even if I did, they would be supportive as long as it didn’t get in the way of my work. Wachtell isn’t a charity.

“I brought a ton of work with me. I just told them I’m working remotely today.”

“I’ll come by at lunch.”

“Call me,” I say, and we hang up.

I sit back down in my chair. “There’s a free latte,” Aaron says, handing me a Starbucks. “I forgot to make Jill’s nonfat.”

“How could you,” I say in mock horror, and Aaron chuckles. It feels wrong here, that sound of joy.

“I guess I was a little focused on my girlfriend’s cancer.” He gives me an exaggerated headshake. “How dare I.”

Now I’m the one to laugh.

“Do you think this counts as blowing it with her parents?”

“There’s always the chemo,” I say. And now we’re both in hysterics. A woman knitting a few chairs over from us looks up, annoyed. I can’t help it, though. It feels nearly impossible to get any air, that’s how hard we’re laughing.

“Radiation,” he says, gasping.

“Third time’s a charm.”

It’s Frederick’s stern look that sends us up and out of our seats, sprinting toward the door.

When we’re in the hallway, I take big, gulping breathes. It feels like I haven’t had air in a week.

“We’re going outside,” he says. “You have your cell phone?”

I nod.

“Good. Yours is the update phone. I made sure on the chart.”

We head down the elevators and the double doors spit us out onto the street. There’s a park across the way. Small children dangle from swings, surrounded by planted trees. Nannies and parents bark into their cell phones.

We’re on the sidewalk, the length of Fifth Avenue splayed out before us. Cars push one another forward, egging the others on. The city inhales and inhales and inhales.

“Where are we going?” I ask him. My bones feel tired. I lift my leg up, testing.

“It’s a surprise,” he says.

“I don’t like those.”

Aaron laughs. “You’re gonna be fine,” he says.

He grabs my hand, and we’re turning down Fifth Avenue.