Good Harbor

“Let’s have T-shirts made,” Joyce said.

“Okay,” said Kathleen. “But first, let’s go for a drink.”

BUDDY WAS WAITING at the door when Kathleen got home. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Joyce and I had a margarita out on Rocky Neck after the beach.”

He followed her to the kitchen, where she began to describe the walk to Salt Island. “It was so beautiful, Bud. We found that little pond the boys used to love. I think Joyce was a little nervous climbing down, but I was calm as a clam. Pretty good for an old lady, huh?”

He stared at her for just a moment. “Good?” he said, straining to keep his voice level. “What if you fell? What if she fell? The lifeguards were gone. It’s been dark for over an hour. I almost called Jack at work. I was close to calling the cops. Didn’t you even think what I might be going through here?”

He was nearly shouting, and Kathleen went cold with shame. Buddy sat down heavily and put his head in his hands.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I should have left a note. I wasn’t thinking. It was just . . . I forgot myself.”

He didn’t move. The clock ticked above their heads.

Kathleen heated a can of soup and they ate without speaking. Soon after, she went to bed with a copy of Library Digest. Buddy stayed in the den, the TV on.

Sorry as she was for worrying Buddy, Kathleen tried not to feel too guilty about her day with Joyce. She was too tired to read and turned off the lights. Running her hands over the muscles in her thighs and calves, she thought about taking some aspirin; she’d probably be sore in the morning.

She woke up, hours before dawn, uneasy. In the bathroom mirror she pulled up her nightgown and stared at her breast. The skin was red and raw, the nipple was sore, and there was a dull ache inside her chest. Kathleen stared at her haggard, frightened face. What had she done?

Later that morning, Dr. Singh reassured her that the symptoms had nothing to do with exercise. “Please, Mrs. Levine,” he said gently. “Put that out of your mind. Skin problems are a normal side effect. This happens to many patients, and the symptoms resolve once the treatment is over.”

He looked at her breast from every angle and laid a finger gently against the scar. “I think it is not so bad that we can’t continue.”

Marcy clucked her tongue. “You’re not using any new lotions or soaps are you?” Kathleen glared. “Of course you’re not,” Marcy said quickly, handing her samples of two thick, unappealing creams.

The techs were sympathetic. “It’s pretty bad,” Terry agreed. For the first time, she looked at Kathleen’s breast as if it were entirely separate from her.

“Sometimes it comes on fast like this,” Rachel said. “But it can clear up fast, too. Try keeping a few damp washcloths in the refrigerator. That feels good.”

The clinic-wide chorus of reassurance didn’t help. Kathleen took it personally. These symptoms were just nasty reminders so she wouldn’t forget — not even for a few hours — that she had cancer. As if she could forget.

Lying on the treatment table, her arm above her head, her breast exposed, Kathleen chewed on it. Cancer, cancer, cancer, cancer. It never became a meaningless noise the way almost any other word did when you repeated it endlessly. There was something about the way the letters hung together that was oddly malignant.

There’s another terrible word, she thought, malignant. The machine moved into place and Terry’s voice sounded over the speaker. “You all set, Mrs. Levine?”

“Malignant,” she whispered.

“Are you okay?” Terry asked.

“Yes,” she said. No, she thought.

When Joyce called later that morning, Kathleen told her what had happened. “No fuckin’ fair,” Joyce said, and showed up two hours later with a carton of lemonade and a bag full of cotton sports bras with the tags still on.

“I can’t believe you went to this much trouble,” Kathleen said.

“Hey, this is exactly the least I can do.”

It was the first time Joyce had been to Kathleen’s house. She admired the built-in bookcases in the living room and stopped to study the chronology of family pictures: from Hal and Jack as smiling infants

to Hal and Jack as smiling adults.

When they reached the deck, Joyce marveled at the garden, where Kathleen’s daylilies were in full bloom. “What’s that one called?” Joyce pointed to a lush stand of deep red flowers.

“I think that one’s College Try.”

“You’re kidding.”