Good Harbor

“Mrs. Levine,” he said, drawing an inch closer and lowering his voice, “try to rest easy. We will take very good care of you here, and your husband will take excellent care of you at home, I’m certain. For your part, you must eat well, rest, and keep up your spirits.

“I also prescribe long walks by the ocean,” he said, letting go of her hand and holding up both index fingers, like an orchestra conductor. “I am quite serious about this. The exercise alone is beneficial, of course. But the gifts of the sea are precious. Surely you know what I mean.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, transfixed by the attention and his touch. “I love to walk on the beach,” she said, almost stammering.

“Of course you do.”

As Dr. Singh left, Kathleen and Marcy caught one another’s eye. Marcy put a hand over her heart and fluttered her fingers. Kathleen laughed out loud. Buddy looked at them, clueless.

“I’m going to show you the treatment room first,” Marcy said, leading them down a hallway. She opened the door to a room as big as Kathleen’s library at school. The radiation machine loomed in the center, like an oversize prop from a 1950s science-fiction movie.

Marcy introduced Terry and Rachel, who would be her regular radiation techs. Terry showed them how the treatment table moved up to meet the movable “head,” which delivered the ray. Rachel pointed to the mobile hanging from the ceiling: four angels made out of clothespins and glitter. “A patient’s daughter made it,” she said.

When Terry turned the lights down for a moment and a red beam bisected the room, Kathleen gasped. “The laser is used only for alignment,” Terry explained quickly. “I think they should change it to blue or green, don’t you? The red is so, I don’t know — red.”

“Alarming,” said Kathleen.

“Scary, yeah,” said Terry, a pretty blonde with high cheekbones and four gold hoops in each ear.

In the simulator room down another hall, Kathleen put on a hospital johnny. The room was dim and cold, and she was mortified as her nipples hardened and stayed erect during the endless measurements by John Marino, a young man who used to work construction and knew Buddy from the store. John was muscular and quick, running in and out to control-booth monitors and computers. “Sorry this is taking so long, Mrs. Levine,” he said. “But we’ve got to get it perfect.” Kathleen admired the professional way he arranged her arm and measured the contour of her breast without even seeming to touch her.

Then she caught sight of her reflection in a mirrored panel on the door. “Oh, God,” she whispered. Staring at the frightened, haggard, old woman, she thought, how else would he touch me? Her breast looked mutilated, the scar still red and angry-looking.

The disease of old age. Where had she read that? I’m an

old lady with cancer. She squeezed her eyes tight. Marcy walked in just then and said, “Hang on, Kathleen. We’re nearly done.”

But they weren’t. Rachel, a short, round brunette who wore her hair in braids, brought in a tray with a small bottle of india ink and a box of individually wrapped needles. She noticed Kathleen’s eyes widen and pointed to two small blue freckles on her thumb. “This is what it looks like. I did it to myself so I’d know what it felt like, too. It only pinches for a sec. Not even as much as a bee sting.”

Rachel and John took great care in locating the exact spots for the tattoo marks, but Kathleen felt herself getting more and more agitated.

“Here we go,” said Rachel, swabbing the cold antiseptic on Kathleen’s breast. The needle felt hot.

“Only three more,” Rachel said.

“Okay,” said Kathleen, her voice tight and high. Marcy held her left hand. They were right. It didn’t hurt much at all, but the tears came anyway, down her cheeks, into her ears. She held very still.

On the way home, Buddy tried to ask how she was feeling. Kathleen shook her head and closed her eyes.

“Tired, huh?”

She nodded and leaned back into the headrest. An old word floated into her head: Stigmata.

As they approached their driveway, Kathleen told Buddy to drop her off and go back to the store, but he got out of the car, made her a cup of tea, and tucked her in for a nap.

Kathleen got in bed to humor him, but as soon as he left, she dressed and went out into the yard. Pulling a few weeds, she inhaled deeply and savored the smell of warm soil layered on ocean air. Joyce had said something about how Tomaso’s smelled like heaven, but this was pretty darned divine.

She went inside and picked up the phone. “None of us Tabachniks can answer you at the moment,” said the machine. “Please wait for the beep and leave a message.”

“Hi, Joyce. It’s Kathleen. Let’s go for a walk at Good Harbor. Call me.”

JOYCE LISTENED TO Kathleen’s message a few days later as Frank carried the cooler into the kitchen and Nina stood in front of the open refrigerator. “There’s nothing to eat in this house,” she said. “Who’s Kathleen?”

“Shut that door will you?” said Frank. “I’m going shopping in a minute. Mom and I met her at the temple.”

“Where was I?”

“Sleeping over at Sylvie’s house,” he said.