In Five Years(39)

“Dannie,” she says. “To what do I owe this displeasure?”

I was in her office yesterday.

“We’re still missing financials,” I say.

She does not stand up, or gesture for me to sit. “I’ll have my team review,” she says.

Her team consists of one other lawyer, Davis Brewster, with whom I went to Columbia. He is smart. I have no idea how he ended up as a midsize company’s legal counsel.

“This afternoon,” I tell her.

She shakes her head. “You must really love your job,” she says.

“No more or less than any of us,” I say.

She laughs. She looks back at her computer. “Not quite.”



At 5 p.m., more documents come through from CIT. I’m going to be here until at least nine parsing through them. Sanji paces the conference room like she’s figuring out an attack strategy. I text Bella: Check in with me. No response.

It’s 10 p.m. before I leave. Still nothing from Bella. Everything in my body feels crunched, like I’ve been ground down to an inch over the course of today. As I walk, I feel myself stretching back up. I don’t have sneakers with me, and after about five blocks my pump-clad feet begin to hurt, but I keep walking. As the blocks go on—down Fifth, rolling through the forties like the subway, I begin to pick up the pace. By the time I get to East Thirty-Eighth Street, I’m running.

I arrive at our Gramercy apartment gasping and sweating. My top is nearly soaked through and my feet throb with numb disconnection. I’m afraid to look down at them. I think if I do, I’ll see pools of blood seeping out from the soles.

I open the door. David is at the table, a glass of wine next to him, his computer open. He jumps up when he sees me.

“Hey,” he says. He takes me in, his eyes narrow as he scans my face. “What happened to you?”

I bend down to take off my shoes. But the first won’t come off. It seems stitched to my foot. I scream out in pain.

“Hey,” David days. “Woah. Okay. Sit down.” I collapse onto the little bench we have in the hallway and he crouches down. “Jesus, Dannie, what did you do? Run home?”

He looks up at me and, in that moment, I feel myself falling. I’m not sure if I’m going to faint or combust. The fire in my feet rises, threatening to engulf me whole.

“She’s really sick,” I say. “She needs surgery next week. Stage three. Four rounds of chemo.”

David hugs me. I want to feel the comfort of his arms. I want to fold into him. But I can’t. It’s too big. Nothing will help, nothing will obscure it.

“Did they give you some data?” David asks, grasping. “The new doctor? What did he say?” He releases me and puts a hand gently on my knee.

I shake my head. “She’ll never be able to have kids. They’re taking out her entire uterus, both ovaries . . .”

David winces. “Damn,” he says. “Damn, Dannie, I’m so sorry.”

I close my eyes against the rising tide of pain from my feet. The knives that are now burying themselves into my heels.

“Take them off,” I tell him. I’m practically panting.

“Okay,” he says. “Hang on.”

He goes to the bathroom and comes back with baby powder. He shakes the bottle, and a cloud of white dust descends on my foot. He wiggles the heel of my shoe. I feel nauseous with pain.

Then it’s off. I look down at my foot—it’s raw and bleeding but looks better than I thought it would. He dumps some more powder on it.

“Let me see the other one,” he says.

I give him my other foot. He shakes the bottle, wiggles the heel, performs the same ritual.

“You need to soak them,” David says. “Come on.”

He puts an arm around me and leads me, wincing and groaning, into the bathroom. We have a tub, although it’s not a claw-foot. It’s always been a dream of mine to have one, but our bathroom was already built. It’s so stupid, impossible even, that my brain still relays this information to me now, still notes it—the missing feet of a porcelain tub. As if it matters.

David begins to run the water for me. “I’m going to put some Epsom salts in it,” he says. “You’ll feel better.”

I grab his arm as he turns to go. I cling to it—hold it against my chest like a child with their stuffed animal.

“It’s going to be okay,” he tells me. But, of course, the words mean nothing. No one knows that. Not him. Not Dr. Shaw. Not even me.





Chapter Twenty-One


Bella will not return my calls or texts, so finally, on Saturday night, I dial Aaron.

He picks up on the second ring. “Dannie,” he says. He’s whispering. “Hey.”

“Yeah. Hi.”

I’m in the bedroom of our apartment, my bandaged feet kneading the soft carpet. “Is Bella there?”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line.

“Come on, Aaron. She won’t return my phone calls.”

“She’s actually sleeping,” he says.

“Oh.” It’s barely 8 p.m.

“What are you doing?”

I look down at my sweatpants. “Nothing,” I say. “I should probably get back to work. Will you tell her I called?”