The Gum Thief - Douglas Coupland [36]
During Paulette’s breast cancer, I was a wreck, but so was Kenny. It was almost like a sitcom, the way the two of us tried to “out-care” each other on Paulette’s behalf, while at the same time avoiding each other. We were both seeking out the usual stuff: vitamin therapies, inspirational paperbacks, online breaking news on experimental treatments, wacky get-well cards and lymph masseuses—all of this while Bethany did the meat and mashed potatoes stuff like picking things up and delivering Paulette to the chemo sessions. Yet again, I was drunk with self-centredness and Bethany paid the price.
In the end, we did the usual nothing-ventured-nothing-gained stuff: Mexico, herbalists in Manitoba, a child in South Carolina who would breathe a miracle onto your loved one’s photo for a twenty-dollar donation. But the cancer was one of those forest-fire varieties.
Roger, I am not a monster, but I am tired and I am now officially drunk.
If Bethany helps you in writing your novel, then that’s a wonderful thing. But if you hurt her in any way, I will kill you.
DeeDee
(DD)
Glove Pond: Gloria
Brittany followed Steve into the kitchen, leaving Kyle Falconcrest to sit on the sofa beside Gloria, who seized this opportunity to bombard the young author with question after question after question about his writing habits, his characters, his personal life and his opinions about her opinions. He was obviously riveted, and he chose to sit mostly silent, letting Gloria do the driving. All too soon, Brittany came back into the room, putting an end to their glorious engagement.
“How’s dinner coming?” Gloria asked.
“It was hard to tell,” Brittany said. “I’m not much of a cook. I work, so Kyle and I mostly eat deli food. Or order in—when we’re not out at parties and galas and dinners.” She sighed.
Young Brittany looked unhappy. “Brittany, you appear troubled—”
“It’s nothing.”
“No,” said Gloria. “Nothing is always something.” She felt like Noël Coward for having uttered such a witticism—or Edward Albee, or the Bard. She stared up at her book collection. She had no sense of I love calling Shakespeare “the Bard.” It makes me feel like I have a personal relationship with him, one that’s far superior to other peoples’ personal relationships with him. She looked at The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, a 259-volume set bound in unborn pigskin. I remember the day I bought those—Steve and I on our honeymoon in the swan-filled, ambiance-rich town of Stratford-upon-Avon in England. Everywhere I looked—culture! Culture! Culture! And one of these days, pending a break in my busy acting schedule, I’m going to read one of those books.
Oh, right. She’d been asking if Brittany was feeling troubled about something.
“I think it’s stress,” the young woman confessed.
“I thought you seemed blue,” said Gloria, noticing that Kyle took this chance to pour himself a Scotch and excuse himself to look more closely at the bookcases.
“Come on, Brittany, tell me everything.”
“It’s just that . . . I’ve been performing so many surgeries lately, and with Kyle’s schedule, too, it’s just so hard to keep on top of things.”
“Surgery? A woman performing surgery?”
“Yes, I’m a surgeon.”
“Really! I’d never have guessed—a surgeon—we gals sure are coming a long way these days. Are you a specialist?”
“I mostly do brain surgery—elective brain surgery. But I’m starting to move into oncological surgery—the removal of cancerous growths.”
“I think I have a remedy for your stress.”
“A remedy? Really?”
“Yes. Come with me.”
Gloria motioned for Brittany to come with her up the stairs. Kyle looked up, but Gloria waved him off.
“No, no, young man, gals only. You stay down here and have noble ideas and enjoy our large and diverse book collection.”
“Right. Will do.” Kyle gulped a finger-and-a-half of Scotch while Gloria led Brittany up the stairs and into her boudoir.