In Five Years(45)

I set the sunflowers—her favorite—I brought on the nightstand.

“Where is Aaron?”

“I sent him home,” she says. “The poor guy hasn’t slept in a week. He looks way worse than I do.”

Aaron has kept vigil at her bedside. I went to work, slogged through the days, and came in the morning and night, but he refused to leave. Watching over the nurses, her monitors—-making sure no misstep was made.

“Your dad?”

“He’s back in Paris,” she says. “Everyone needs to understand that I’m fine. Obviously. Look at me.”

She holds her hands above her head in proof.

Chemo doesn’t start for another three weeks. Long enough for her to recover, but not long enough for any cells to spread in a significant way—we hope. We don’t know. We’re all grasping. We’re all pretending now. Pretending this was the hard part. Pretending it’s over and behind us. Now, sitting in her sunny bedroom, the smells of coffee surrounding us, it’s easy to forget it’s a pretty, dressed-up lie.

“Did you bring it?” she asks.

“Of course.”

From my bag, I produce the entire season of Grosse Pointe, a WB show from the early two thousands that performed so poorly it apparently doesn’t warrant streaming on any service. But when we were kids, we loved it. It’s a sitcom about the behind-the-scenes of a fictional WB show. We were so meta.

I ordered the DVDs and brought my old computer—the one with the DVD player from ten years ago—with me.

I take it out now and reveal it to her.

“You think of everything.”

“Just about,” I say.

I kick off my shoes and crawl into bed with her. My jeans feel too tight. I abhor people who walk around in workout clothes. It’s the entity of the reason I could never live in Los Angeles: too much Lycra. But even I have to admit, as I tuck my legs in underneath me, this would feel more comfortable with some stretch. Bella wears silk pajamas, embossed with her initials. She makes a move to get up.

“What are you doing?” I say, springing into action. I toss my body across hers like train tracks. I lunge.

“I need some water. I’m fine.”

“I’ll get it.”

She rolls her eyes but tucks herself back into bed. I leave the bedroom and go into the kitchen where Svedka, the nurse, is furiously washing dishes. She looks up at me, her face practically murderous.

“What do you need?” she barks.

“Water.”

She pulls a glass down from the cabinet—a green goblet from a set Bella bought in Venice. While the water is being poured, I look out over her living room, the cheerful color, the bright spots of blue and purple and deep forest green. Her window drapes hang in soft folds of violet silk, and her art, collected over the years from everywhere she’s gone—high and low—lines the walls. Bella is always trying to get me to buy pieces. “They’re investments in your future happiness,” she tells me. “Only buy what you love.” But I don’t have the eye. Any art I own, Bella has picked out for me—usually gifted.

Svedka hands me the water glass. “Now move,” she says, cocking her head in the direction of the bedroom.

I find myself bowing to her.

“She scares me,” I say, handing Bella her water and getting back into bed.

“Leave it to Jill to find a way to imbue this situation with even more anxiety.” She laughs—a tinkling sound, like twinkle lights.

“How did you even get these?” Bella asks me. She takes the computer and opens it. The screen is dark, and she hits the power button.

“Amazon,” I say. “I hope it works. This thing is centuries old.”

It sputters to life, groaning at its own old age. The blue light flashes and then stills, then the screen appears in a flourish, as if presenting—still got it.

I tear the last of the plastic and pop in a DVD. The screen buzzes and we’re met with old friends. The feeling of nostalgia—pleasant nostalgia—the kind imbued with warmth and not melancholy, fills the room. Bella settles herself down and nuzzles her neck into my shoulder.

“Remember Stone?” she says. “Oh my god, I loved this show.”

I let the early two thousands wash over us for the next two and a half hours. At one point, Bella falls asleep. I pause the computer and slip out of bed. I check my emails in the living room. There’s one from Aldridge: Can we meet Monday morning? 9 am, my office.

Aldridge never emails me, certainly not on a weekend. He’s going to fire me. I’ve barely been in the office. I’ve been behind on due diligence and late to respond to emails. Fuck.

“Dannie?” I hear Bella call from the other room. I get up and run back to her. She stretches lazily, and then winces. “Forgot about the stitches.”

“What do you need?”

“Nothing,” she says. She sits up slowly, squinting her eyes to the pain. “It’ll pass.”

“I think you should eat something.”

As if we’re being bugged, Svedka appears at the door. “You want to eat?”

Bella nods. “Maybe a sandwich? Do we have cheese?”

Svedka nods and exits.

“Does she have you on a baby monitor?”

“Oh most likely,” Bella says.