A Mother's Goodbye

It’s a warm, sultry night in early June, the conc

rete city far below us. Isaac, Will, and Will’s little brother Jamie are playing on a giant checkerboard, with plastic pieces the size of hubcaps. Stella and I are reclining on a wicker sofa; Stella’s made up a pitcher of sangria, and while I’ve avoided alcohol since starting chemo, I decide to splurge tonight and have one glass. I don’t feel too nauseous, and Dr. Stein will have the results of my test on Monday, to see if the tumor has shrunk. I’m almost feeling hopeful.

‘So do you have exciting summer plans?’ Stella asks. ‘I know you go to the Cape…’ They are off to the south of France for three months on Saturday, their usual exodus to their rented villa, as well as to visit Eric’s family in Europe.

‘Yes, for a week in August. I love it.’ And I really hope I will feel well enough to manage.

‘Oh, I love the Cape. You are so lucky.’

I smile, because I know Stella means it, despite her own far more luxurious plans.

‘You know,’ she says, lowering her voice a little, ‘sometimes I feel like it’s all overkill. Three months in France? All the lessons? Does a seven-year-old really need to know Mandarin Chinese?’

I laugh, shaking my head. ‘You tell me.’

‘I admire you, Grace,’ Stella says seriously. ‘I feel like you have the right balance. Work, motherhood, privilege, reality. It works.’

I glance around the terrace, at the boys having a fun time wheeling the checkers along. ‘This feels pretty good to me, actually.’

‘It does, right now.’ She leans back against the sofa. ‘I suppose I just feel guilty sometimes. I know I’m lucky, but do I really know? And are my kids going to grow up spoiled because they have so frigging much?’ She grimaces. ‘Do you know I grew up in Indiana? I shared a bedroom with two sisters. Seriously, it was a downgrade on The Brady Bunch.’

‘Your kids will never be spoiled, Stella.’ I mean that sincerely. ‘You’re too down-to-earth for that.’ Despite the huge apartment, the endless activities, the summers in France, Stella feels grounded to me, which is one of the many reasons I like her so much.

‘I hope so,’ Stella says, and for a second I think about telling her about my illness. It seems ridiculous, absurd, that I haven’t told basically my best friend that I have cancer. She should have been the first person I called. She would have helped me, I know she would. And yet I didn’t, and I’m not going to now, because I really don’t want our relationship to change, to become defined by my disease, because everything else is.

In any case, right then, relaxing on top of the world, a glass of sangria in my hand, my son playing near me, I can almost pretend I don’t have cancer. Or at least that I won’t for long.

On Monday I wait in Dr. Stein’s office, everything in me tensing, as she comes in with my results. Her manner is brisk, her smile quick. What does that mean?

‘Good news, Grace,’ she says, cutting to the chase. ‘While I would have liked to see the tumor shrink a little more, it’s reduced in size enough for me to consider surgery.’ Her gaze scans my face. ‘That is, if you’re still feeling like you want to go ahead with the double mastectomy?’

I gulp. Nod. ‘Yes,’ I say, feeling jubilant and terrified all at once. ‘Yes, I would.’

Twenty-Two

HEATHER

When I get back home from Grace’s, it’s nearly nine at night, thanks to the traffic. The house is a mess, the girls are quarreling, and Kev is in a bad mood. And I have to deal with it all.

‘Where have you been?’ Lucy demands theatrically, hands on her hips, her face tear-stained.

‘I had an emergency.’

‘An emergency?’ Lucy’s mouth drop opens. ‘What kind of emergency?’

‘Nothing, it’s dealt with now.’ I don’t want to get into where I’ve been with Lucy or anyone yet. I start taking the dirty dishes that are scattered around the living room into the kitchen. My mind is still spinning from what Grace told me.

Cancer, and it sounds serious. What does that even mean for her, for Isaac, for me? Am I awful to think that way already, to wonder what if…?

‘Has everyone eaten?’ I ask as Emma drifts into the kitchen, looking morose.

‘I made spaghetti.’

I shoot her quick smile. ‘Thanks, Emma.’

‘Where were you?’

‘Out.’ I shrug, feeling strangely guilty. ‘Helping a friend.’