The Weird Sisters - Eleanor Brown [65]
She couldn’t make this kind of decision. She never had—people always made decisions for her, or the wind took her where it would and she made the best of it. She’d make an appointment with the doctor and she’d think about it then. Not now.
When they got back from the store, where Cordy had plopped herself into a wheelchair with pink bicycle streamers coming off the handlebars and been little to no help at all to Bean in checking items off the list, they walked inside to a quiet house.
“Hellooooooo?” Cordy called, dropping the bags and shower seat Bean had harassed her into carrying in from the car. “Where is everyone?”
“Upstairs,” Rose called. “Come up, please.”
Bean and Cordy went upstairs into our parents’ bedroom. Our mother was lying in the bed, her eyes closed. Our father sat beside her, holding her hand. Rose was leaning against the fireplace, her eyes closed.
“What’s wrong?” Bean asked. She and Cordy sat on the hope chest where we stored extra blankets.
“The results from the lymph node biopsy came back,” Rose said. “They were positive.”
“Meaning what?” Cordy asked.
“Nothing good,” Bean said. She’d found a book on breast cancer at the library, and had read it, but the medical terms had jumbled in her mind and she found herself unable to follow the complicated flow charts of combinations and treatment options.
“It means the cancer has spread to the lymph nodes under her arm. They’ll have to do radiation and maybe more chemo.”
“Shit,” Bean said.
“No doubt,” Cordy agreed.
No one seemed to have anything else to add to that pithy pair of statements. We’d convinced ourselves that after the surgery it would all be okay, problem solved, and we could move on.
“It could be worse,” our father said. “It’s stage IIIC. Treatable, provided everything goes well. And what remains will hardly stop the mouth of present dues: the future comes apace; what shall defend the interim?”
“Daddy,” Cordy groaned. “Speak English.”
“We’ll just have to deal with it,” our mother said softly, opening her eyes, which looked bright against the white of her skin. “We knew there was the possibility that things could be worse. And your father’s right—it’s treatable. The doctor said since the tumor responded so well to the chemotherapy, it’s likely it will respond equally well to radiation and maybe another round of chemotherapy.”
Another round. As if she were buying drinks. Bean pictured our mother sitting at a bar, offering chemo cocktails on the house.
“Well, we got all the things the nurse suggested,” Bean said, clearing the image from her mind.
“Bring them up,” Rose ordered. “We’ll get things set up in here.” The nurse had suggested that we move our mother downstairs during her convalescence, but our mother was horrified by the thought of turning the dining room into her bedroom for the duration, and flat-out refused, despite the nurse’s perfectly reasonable arguments. So we had resigned ourselves to schlepping ourselves, our mother’s things, and, if need be, our mother, up and down the stairs for the next few months.
Bean and Cordy trudged downstairs and brought everything up, and we settled ourselves into a rhythm of work and fussing, bumping into each other until our mother complained about the noise and we scattered like seeds into our own rooms to bury ourselves in all the things we didn’t want to talk about at all.
Bean’s hands were cold as her heels clicked up the sidewalk to the Mannings’ front door. The evening wrapped, warm and humid, around her, the silk of her camisole pressing against her heated skin, but her fingers were chilled and shaking.
“Bianca,” Dr. Manning said as he opened the door to her knock. He was wearing a dress shirt, the sleeves rolled neatly up, the fabric’s deep blue echoing in his eyes. “You look beautiful, as always.”
“Edward,” she said, and proffered her cheek for a kiss. His lips were warm and dry and almost familiar, and he lingered a moment longer