The Girlfriend (The Boss 2)

Neil had decided, after much deliberation with his doctor in the preceding two days, that he would opt to try chemotherapy to get his cancer in remission or as close as possible, then proceed with an autologous stem cell transplant. He’d have a catheter placed today, and a second one placed for the stem cell harvest at a later date. I didn’t know why they couldn’t just use the same catheter for everything, but I hadn’t asked. When Dr. Grant had brought out an actual catheter and showed us how it would be inserted in a vein deep below Neil’s skin, I’d almost passed out. I didn’t want Neil to worry about me, when he should be worrying about himself. I was keenly aware of what he’d said to me the night we’d reconciled.

After they took Neil back for the operation, I sat in the waiting room, bouncing my knee, checking the clock. They’d told me it would be a thirty minute procedure, but it had been forty-five.

What if something had gone wrong already? What if his “counts,” numbers I didn’t fully understand, were too low, and he bled to death? Could that happen? What the fuck was going on?

I resisted the urge to bother the nurses, until an hour had passed. I got up, rubbing my palms against my denim-clad thighs, and tried to look casual as I approached the desk.

A harried-looking brunette in a dark blue uniform raised her eyes from her computer screen as I approached. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah, um... I’m really sorry to bother you—” The woman’s expression made it plain that by beating around the bush, I was making it worse. “They said the procedure only takes thirty minutes, and it’s been an hour—”

“If you’re here with someone, a nurse will come for you when the patient is out of surgery.” She wasn’t being unkind, but I got the sense that her efficiency was born from years of dealing with worried family impatience.

“Thanks.” I went back to the chairs and sat, bouncing my knee.

An older woman, probably in her sixties, with what I expected was dyed ginger hair, gazed at me sympathetically. She wore her glasses on a chain, and she peered over them while her busy hands worked a crochet project in her lap. “Nervous, dear?”

I nodded. “Yup. Just waiting for my boyfriend.”

“Don’t worry, this is a very good hospital.” She frowned and undid a stitch, re-situating her yarn around her fingers. “I’m waiting for my sister. She’s doing her second go. First time it was cervical, now it’s ovarian.”

I’d always had this impression that British people were stuffy and proper; here this woman was spilling her sister’s lady cancer details to me. It reminded me a little of home. Not New York, but Calumet, where every conversation with a family member began with a long list of chronic ailments.

It put me right at ease. I gestured to the doors. “Chemo port.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. It’s not serious?” she asked hopefully.

“Um, I mean, it’s cancer, so...” I shrugged. “But we’re hopeful.”

“Are you engaged?” It was a super blunt question, but she asked it with such authority, I thought I should give her an answer.

“No. No, we haven’t talked about marriage.” We’d talked about children. That was scary enough. I could only imagine the prenup I’d have to sign: In the event of a divorce, Mrs. Scaife-Elwood will receive eleventy-bajillion dollars and Mr. Elwood will continue to blame himself for the dissolution of the marriage and the ruining of Mrs. Scaife-Elwood’s life, in perpetuity, even though it’s probably not his fault.

“If I were you, you might want to get on with it,” the woman advised. “If he has cancer, why waste time?”

“I don’t know.” I looked to the doors, and for once in my life, silently willing something made it happen. The door opened and the surgeon came out in his blue scrubs. “Ms. Scaife? Will you come with me please?”

I grabbed my purse and stood, the woman’s intrusive chit-chat prickling in my brain. What did she mean? I should get married to Neil before he died? Was that supposed to be a concern in the forefront of this whole situation? Not ending up a spinster?

Now, the surgeon’s distracted, serious demeanor was making me a little edgy. Why were we going into a private office to talk? One that had a framed inspirational poster of a butterfly on the wall?

“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the chair. I surreptitiously scoped out his name tag as he sat, because in all my nervousness about the surgery, I had forgotten it. “Things didn’t go as well as we had planned, but the port is in. He had more bleeding than we anticipated, and he was a bit uncomfortable during the procedure, so we’ve given him something for the pain. You should expect him to be groggy for a few hours.”