In Five Years(38)

“It’s not,” he says. “You’re right. But your attitude matters a lot. I’m going to fight for you, but I need you in here with me.”

She looks up at him, her face streaked with tears. “Will you be there?” she asks him. “For the surgery.”

“You bet,” he says. “I’ll be the one performing it.”

Bella looks to me. “What do you think?” she asks me.

I think about the beach in Amagansett. How was it only three weeks ago that she was blushing over a pregnancy test—glowing with expectation?

“I think we need to do the surgery now,” I say.

Bella nods. “Okay,” she says.

“It’s the right decision,” Dr. Shaw says. He slides over to his computer. “And if you have any questions, here is my direct cell number.” He hands us both a business card. I copy the number down in my notebook.

“Let’s talk through what to expect now,” he says.

There is more talk then. About lymph nodes and cancer cells and abdominal incisions. I take precise notes, but it is hard—it is impossible—for even me to follow everything. It sounds as if Dr. Shaw is speaking in a different language—something harsh. Russian, maybe Czech. I have the feeling that I do not want to understand; I just want him to cease speaking. If he stops speaking, none of it is true.

We leave the office and stand on the corner of Sixty-Third and Park. Inexplicably, impossibly, it is a perfect day. September is glorious in New York, bellied even further by the knowledge that the fall will not hold—and today is banner. The wind is gentle, the sun is fierce. Everywhere I look people are smiling and talking and greeting one another.

I look to Bella. I do not have a clue what to say.

It is unbelievable that right now there is something deadly growing inside of her. It seems impossible. Look at her. Look. She is the picture of health. She is rosy-cheeked and full and radiant. She is an impressionist painting. She is life incarnate.

What would happen if we just pretended we’d never heard? Would the cancer catch up? Or would it take the hint and screw off. Is it receptive? Is it listening? Do we have the power to change it?

“I have to call Greg,” she says.

“Okay.”

Not for the first time this morning, I feel my cell phone vibrate fiercely in my bag. It’s past ten, and I was due in the office two hours ago. I’m sure I have a hundred emails.

“Do you want me to get you a car?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “No, I want to walk.”

“Okay,” I say. “We’ll walk.”

She takes out her phone. She doesn’t lift her eyes. “I’d rather be alone.”

When we were in high school, Bella used to sleep at my house more than she slept at her own. She hated being alone, and her parents traveled all the time. They were away at least 60 percent of each month. So she lived with us. I had a pullout trundle bed beneath mine, and we’d lie awake at night, rolling from my bed to hers and then climbing back up again, counting the stick-on stars on my ceiling. It was impossible, of course, because who could tell them apart? We’d fall asleep amidst a jumble of numbers.

“Bells—”

“Please,” she says. “I promise I will call you later.”

I feel her words bite through me. It’s bad enough as it is, but now why would we face it alone? We need to stop down. We need to get coffee. We need to talk about this.

She starts walking and, instinctively, I follow her, but she knows I’m behind her and she turns around, her hand -signaling—be gone.

My phone buzzes again. This time I pull it out and answer.

“It’s Dannie,” I say.

“Where the hell are you?” I hear my case partner Sanji’s voice through the phone. She’s twenty-nine and graduated from MIT at sixteen. She’s been working professionally for ten years. I’ve never heard her use a word that wasn’t absolutely necessary. The fact that she added “hell,” speaks volumes.

“I’m sorry, I got caught up. I’m on my way.”

“Don’t hang up,” she says. “We have a problem with CIT and corporate. There are gaps in their financials.”

We were supposed to complete our due diligence on CIT, a company our client, Epson, a giant tech corporation, is acquiring. If we don’t have a complete financial report, the partner is going to lose it.

“I’m going down to their offices,” I say. “Hang tight.”

Sanji hangs up without saying goodbye, and I book it down to the Financial District where CIT has their headquarters. It’s a company specializing in website coding. I’ve been there a little too often for my liking lately.

We’ve been in constant contact with their in-house counsel for over six months, and I know how they work extremely well now. Hopefully, this is an oversight. There are tax reports and statements for a full eight months that are missing.

When I arrive, I’m let up immediately, and Darlene, the receptionist, shows me to the associate general counsel’s office.

Beth is at her desk and looks up, blinking once at me. She’s a woman in her mid-to-late fifties and has been at the company since its inception twelve years ago. Her office resembles her in its stoicism, not a single photo on her desk, and she doesn’t wear a ring. We’re cordial, even friendly, but we never speak about anything personal, and it’s impossible to tell what greets her at home when she leaves these office walls.