The Perfect Stranger (Social Media #2)
Wendy Corsi Staub
Prologue
When the doctor’s receptionist called this morning to say that they had the results, it never dawned on her that it might be bad news.
“Hi, hon,” Janine said—she called all the patients “hon”—and casually requested that she come by in person this afternoon. She even used just that phrasing, and it was a question, as opposed to a command: “Can you come by the office in person this afternoon?”
Come by.
So breezy. So inconsequential. So . . . so everything this situation is not.
What if she’d told Janine, over the phone, that she was busy this afternoon? Would the receptionist then have at least hinted that her presence at the office was urgent; that it was, in fact, more than a mere request?
But she wasn’t busy and so here she is, blindsided, numbly staring at the doctor pointing the tip of a ballpoint pen at the left breast on the anatomical diagram.
The doctor keeps talking, talking, talking; tapping, tapping, tapping the paper with the pen point to indicate exactly where the cancerous tissue is growing, leaving ominous black ink pockmarks.
She nods as though she’s listening intently, not betraying that every word after malignancy has been drowned out by the warning bells clanging in her brain.
I’m going to die, she thinks with the absolute certainty of someone trapped on a railroad track, staring helplessly into the glaring roar of an oncoming train. I’m going to be one of those ravaged bald women lying dwarfed in a hospital bed, terrified and exhausted and dying an awful, solitary death . . .
She’s seen that person before, too many times—in the movies, and in real life . . . but she never thought she’d ever actually become that person. Or did she?
Well, yes—you worry, whenever a horrific fate befalls someone else, that it could happen to you. But then you reassure yourself that it won’t, and you push the thought from your head, and you move on.
This time there is no reassurance, no pushing, no moving. The image won’t budge.
Me . . . sick . . . bald . . . dying.
Dead.
Me. Dead.
The tinny taste of fear fills her mouth, joined by bile as her stomach pitches and rolls, attempting to eject the tuna sandwich she devoured in the carefree life she was still living at lunchtime.
Carefree? Really?
No. Just last night she lost sleep over the usual conflicts involving money and work and household mishaps. When she woke this morning, her first thought was that there would be too few hours in the day ahead to resolve everything that needed to be dealt with. She actually welcomed the call from Janine the receptionist, thinking a detour to the doctor’s office would be a distraction from her other problems.
How could I have thought those problems were problems?
Stomach churning, she manages to excuse herself, lurches to her feet and rushes for the door, out into the hall, toward the small restroom.
Kneeling and retching, she finds herself wondering if this is what it will be like when she goes through chemotherapy. You hear that the harsh drugs make patients sick to their stomachs.
Me . . . sick . . .
Dead.
How can she possibly wrap her head around that idea? If only she could magically escape to her bed right now, where she’d be alone to cry or scream or sleep . . .
But she can’t. She has to pull herself together somehow, make herself presentable and coherent enough to walk back down the hall to the doctor’s office . . . and then, dear God, the nurses and Janine and a waiting room full of patients still lie between her and solitude.
I can’t do this. I can’t.
I need to be alone . . .
Five minutes later, shaken, she emerges from the bathroom, returns to the still-ajar door marked with the physician’s name.
As she crosses the threshold again, the doctor looks up, wearing a nonplused expression that makes it clear this isn’t the first time that a patient on the receiving end of a malignant diagnosis has behaved in such a manner. “Feeling better now? Come on in.”
“I—I’m sorry,” she stammers, making her way back to the seat opposite the desk, where the anatomical diagram still sits like a signed, sealed, and delivered execution notice awaiting final action.
“It’s all right. Here . . . drink some water.”
She takes the paper cup the doctor offers. Sips.
As the lukewarm water slides along her throat, left raw from retching, she nearly gags again.
“I’m sorry,” she repeats, and sets aside the cup.
“No need. Would you like to call someone?”
Call someone . . .
Would you like to call someone . . .
Unable to process the question, she stares at the doctor.
“A friend, or a family member . . . someone who can come over here and—”
“Oh. No. No, thank you.” I just want to be alone. Can’t you see that?
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’m . . . I’ll be fine. I just needed a few minutes to . . .”
To throw up my lunch and splash water on my face and look into the mirror and try to absorb the news that I have cancer and what if I die?
Me . . .
Dead?
It’s unfathomable that her worst fear might actually come to fruition after all these years, but then . . .