Someone Else's Shoes(93)

The two women drive in near silence, and it is not just because Sam has to concentrate harder on navigating the larger, unwieldy camper-van through the narrow streets, nerves fluttering when she tries to ease it into a parking space. Sam doesn’t want to be the person who insists that everything is going to be fine, that of course Andrea will be better. You’re a fighter! You can beat this! She learned pretty early on that this is not the way to talk to someone with a serious illness. More than ever, she knows there are no guarantees.

Andrea is paler than usual, her fingers trembling slightly as she struggles with the seatbelt, and Sam hopes this isn’t some terrible harbinger. For months she had found herself scanning Andrea’s face whenever she saw her, checking for potential weight loss, a greater frailty to her movements, any sign that the thing might be winning.

She sips black coffee in the hospital waiting room, staring unseeing at the pages of a magazine when Andrea’s name is called, and when Andrea motions to her to come too, part of her is afraid, and part of her is relieved that this means she doesn’t have to be out here alone with her thoughts.

They sit down in the little room without even attempting to smile and Andrea runs through the introductions, reaching for Sam’s hand when she’s finished. Sam grips it tightly, trying to convey all the love she feels, trying not to think what will happen in the next couple of minutes, how their lives are about to be decided. The consultant, Mr. Singh, is the surgeon who treated Andrea. He has been there since Andrea’s diagnosis, and his authoritative manner and avuncular, slightly distant charm are that of a man who has defined a thousand futures, and has had to explain the probable outcome of them all. He has an extravagant mustache, a shirt that is impeccably starched and a large ruby ring on his little finger that cuts into the flesh. Sam stares at his face, trying to deduce what he is about to say from the way he is leaning forward in his chair, carefully studying the scans in front of him.

“And how have you been feeling in yourself?” he says, closing the file and leaning back in his chair.

“Not bad, bit tired,” Andrea says. Sam sneaks a look at her. Andrea would say, “Not bad, bit tired,” if she had had both legs bitten off by a shark.

“Any new pain?”

Andrea shakes her head.

“That’s good. That’s good.”

Just get on with it, Sam wills him silently. She cannot stop staring at his face. She thinks she may throw up from the tension.

He lowers his chins slightly. “Well, the scan appears to be clear. The surgery went well, as you know. And there appears to be no spread to the lymph nodes, which is what we were obviously concerned about.”

“What are you saying?” says Sam.

“I do not want to be premature. But these are very good indicators. I think, with the combination of surgery and appropriate chemotherapy, we seem to have had an encouraging result.”

“Encouraging?” says Sam.

He gives her a kindly look. “This is not an absolute science. We do not like to speak of absolute outcomes. But the cancer appears to have been successfully removed, and there do not appear to be any further signs of it. We will continue to monitor you to make sure, but this is as good a result as we could hope for at this point in time.”

Andrea’s voice is tentative. “So . . . it’s really gone?”

Mr. Singh clasps his hands together. The ruby ring glints in the sun that streams suddenly through the slatted blinds. “I very much hope so.”

“Do I . . . do I have to do anything?”

“For now, no. Your treatment has ended. We will monitor you, as I said. And you may want to think about the reconstructive surgery. But for now I would focus on building up your strength and returning to as normal a life as you can.”

Nobody speaks. Then Andrea turns to Sam and suddenly her face is stripped raw, shock and relief etched in deep furrows upon it. Tears are running down her cheeks. The two women stand, almost without knowing what they’re doing, and then Sam is holding Andrea to her, gripping her tightly, as if it is only now she has allowed herself to grasp the full horror of what she thought she might face. Oh, my God, they are saying over each other, oh, my God, oh, thank God thank God thank God.

“I was so afraid of losing you,” she sobs into Andrea’s bony shoulder. “I didn’t know how I’d get through everything without you. I don’t even know who I’d be without you. And I know that’s stupid and selfish for me to be thinking like that because it’s you who’s been in the shit.”

“You’d be up Shit Creek, no paddle, without me.” Andrea is laughing and crying, clasping Sam to her. Sam can feel Andrea’s hot tears on her skin. “Absolutely useless.”

“I would. I want you to know you’re a cow for doing this to me,” she says. “An absolute cow.”

Andrea is laughing. Her eyes are shining and she wipes at them with a pale hand. “So selfish. I put you through so much.”

“Honestly. I don’t know why we’re even friends.”

They hug each other again, laughing and crying, then pull back and look at Mr. Singh, who is sitting a few feet away. He’s still smiling but with the slightly wary, tremulous expression of someone who is not entirely sure what’s going on.

“I love you, Mr. Singh!” Andrea exclaims, and then they’re both hugging him, thanking him, laughing at his muffled protestations when they refuse to let him go.