Other People's Houses(84)

“I need coffee,” Frances replied. “I’m having my early afternoon brain cramps.” She propped the tablet on the counter and made coffee.

Julie asked, “Is Lucas still there?”

“Uh, no. He just handed me the thing and ran off.”

Julie sighed. “Can he hear us?”

Frances shook her head.

“Do you have time to chat? I’m bored out of my mind right now.”

“Sure.” Frances took her coffee outside onto the deck and sat down, propping the iPad on her lap.

“So, I hear my husband is punching the neighbors.” Julie didn’t seem shocked, more amused than anything.

“Yup. He’s turned into a total liability since you left. The neighborhood watch association had a meeting recently and it was all about his roustabout behavior.”

“I’ll bet. So, I guess you also heard I got cancer.”

“Yeah, that came up just before the punching. I’m so sorry. That sucks.”

“Yeah. I’m bald all over.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. It’s not as sexy as you would think.” There was a pause. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. It was . . . weird. I found out, then I came here for treatment really fast, and the whole thing just . . . happened. I didn’t want to make a big thing out of it, and have people being super helpful or anything.”

Frances suddenly laughed. “Yeah, that could be really annoying.”

Julie said, “We let you be helpful, though. We couldn’t have done it without you, literally. Bill is only able to keep working, which means keeping our insurance, because you help with Lucas. You have no idea how much we appreciate it.”

“You could have told me, it wouldn’t have made me more helpful, I promise.”

Julie nodded. “I know. I just wanted to tell you in person, and then the moment never happened. I’m sorry.”

“Yes, please apologize to me for getting cancer. That’s entirely reasonable. Are you doing OK?”

“Not really, but I seem to be responding to treatment, so that’s good.” She shrugged. “It’s too soon to tell.”

“Can I ask you about it?”

“Sure, if Lucas isn’t there.”

“Hold, please,” said Frances, getting up to check on the kids. She soon came back. “They’re upstairs playing a version of My Little Pony that somehow involves storming a castle.”

Julie nodded. “OK, ask away.”

“What kind of cancer?”

“Boob.”

“What stage?”

“Stage three. Pretty bad.”

“Did you cut your boob off?”

“Both of them, in an overabundance of caution and a desire to be able to wear thin spaghetti-strap tops for the first time since puberty.” Julie had been pretty busty, one of those women who were slender but curvy, irritating but hardly blameworthy. “I kind of yearned for a smaller, French-style breast, you know, tiny pink or brown nipples, able to go topless on the beach, able to wear sundresses without a bra, you know. I’d had big tits since I was fifteen. It was time for a change.”

“So, cancer was a lucky break?”

“Fashion wise, yeah.”

“OK, so, how did you find out? Did you find a lump?”

Julie nodded. “Yeah, it was pretty classic. I knew as soon as I felt it that it was cancer. It was just . . . wrong. I went to my OB/GYN that day, got scans, a biopsy, and was in front of an oncologist the same week. Thank God for excellent insurance.”

“Wow.” Frances took a sip of coffee. “What did Bill say?”

“He said, ‘Oh shit.’ Then he cried. Then he stopped crying, and said, ‘OK, what’s the plan?’ I wanted to come here for treatment, he wanted me to stay there, so we fought about it solidly for a week. It sucked.”

Frances was confused. “I’m sorry, which part were you fighting about?”

Julie sighed. “Like I said, he wanted me to get treatment in Los Angeles, so I could stay home and he could take care of me. I wanted to come to Minnesota so Lucas didn’t have to see me so sick, and Bill could focus on him. I felt like it was as if I were in the army, do you know what I mean?”

“Not really, continue.”

Julie sighed. “Well, I was going away to fight and either I was going to come back in one piece or I wasn’t. Bill said he’d married me in sickness and in health, and that it was his job to take care of me. It got really quite heated, but then I pulled the ‘I’m the one dying of cancer’ card, and he gave up. He’s still pissed, though.”

“And how is it?”

“A fucking nightmare. The treatment makes everything taste bad, like metal. I can’t eat hardly anything because the mouth sores are just the worst, and what I can eat tastes like WD-40 smells. I miss Bill and Lucas all the time, but I would hate it if they were here because then I’d need to worry about them, too. Do you know what I mean?”

“What does Lucas think is going on?”

Julie shrugged. “He thinks I’m working on a film. He was used to one or the other of us going away for work, so we just told him I was on a work trip, and I’d Skype every day if I could, and it’s been fine.” Julie was a script supervisor.