c3

Marty ended up at a small Italian restaurant not far from home. There was a quiet little bar and they weren't too busy on late weekday afternoons. It was just after four o'clock. She decided to have a glass of wine, order some takeout while she sipped it and see if she could cool down.
She sat at the far side of the bar in a dark corner, sipping her wine, staring at a menu, though not reading it.
She'd been prepared for things to change after marriage; she knew he wasn't the neat freak she was. She'd given the relationship two years before marrying him, just to be sure she knew him, knew his habits, his values. She hadn't expected him to go into such a complete decline; she never thought he'd relax all his standards, dump all the household responsibility on her. In the past, he had occasional kick-back days of not shaving, but now it was whenever he wasn't working. He let himself get so disgusting. What kind of a guy refuses to shower and shave when his woman asks him to?
And the thing she really never saw coming—that she'd stop loving him.
It was hard to love an insensitive slob. Of course, not many people saw him that way. He was a real man's man—a scruffy, masculine Italian with some old-world views, like the woman is there to bear the children and take care of the house and kids while the man does the mechanical stuff, the physical stuff, the yard and all that. The men at F.D. thought he was a kick; in a way they sympathized with her, telling her she was a saint for putting up with him. They didn't know the half—he wouldn't dare go to work stinky, with his face unshaved and his thick, black hair greasy and sticking up in spikes everywhere—so all they were really aware of was his inability to pick up dishes, wash and dry. He was a hell of an Italian cook—his spaghetti and sausage and lasagna were legendary in the department—but they joked at F.D. that while they loved his food, he destroyed the kitchen. She would always say, Welcome to my world.
At work, he went the extra mile in other ways—ways the guys could appreciate. He kept the equipment spotless and organized; he was powerfully strong and the first one up the ladder, to the rescue.
The sexy man she'd fallen in love with was gone, replaced by this Neanderthal who couldn't care less about her feelings. He'd been so great when he was trying to get her into bed, then trying to get her to stay in bed, then trying to get her to the altar—because he was an Italian Catholic and needed a wife to take care of his household, to have his kids. When they were engaged, they talked about having two or three kids, but she quit after Jason. She just didn't have the energy to work, keep the house civilized and take care of a bunch of kids, Joe being one of them.
She didn't think she loved him anymore…and she was beginning to wonder how she could stay with him….
"Marty!"
She lifted her head to see Ryan Chambers grinning at her. He picked up his beer and wandered over to her. Oh, God, she thought. This is the last thing I need right now.
"How you doing, baby?"
"Fine, Ryan. How are you?"
"Great. You meeting someone? Having dinner here?"
"No, I'm just going to pick up some takeout. I've had a long day, so I thought I'd have a glass of wine. How about you?"
"I thought about a pizza, but I don't know. I'll just have a beer, then decide."
"How's Jill?"
"Jill?" he laughed. "Marty, Jill and I are over…."
"Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't know."
"Yeah, that's okay—you're not expected to keep up with the love life of an old boyfriend. It happened about a year ago."
"A year, huh? So, who is it now?"
"No one, as a matter of fact," he said, sitting on the stool next to hers. "I thought I could use a breather."
"You're not dating anyone?" she asked, stunned. He usually dated several women at a time.
"Oh, I've been out a couple of times, but it didn't amount to much. I'm getting a little old for all that playing around—kind of tired of the whole bachelor scene. I think I finally worked through it. I'm looking for something different now. Something a little more stable. Reliable."
"Really?" she said, leaning on her hand, not believing him for a second.
He looked into his beer and shook his head with a little silent laughter. "Really. I might finally be growing up." He lifted his eyes. "At thirty-one, I don't think it's premature. Do you?"
"Hardly. Still, it's the last thing I expected to hear out of you."
"I deserved that. Did I ever apologize for that? Because if I didn't, I should…."
"Don't bother," she said. "Long ago and far away."
"How's the family?" he asked.
She immediately looked away before she said, "Great. They're great."
When she looked back at him, he said, "Oh, yeah, sounds great. What's the matter? Having some trouble?"
"Nah," she said, "it's nothing. Definitely nothing I feel like talking about."
"Okay, let's change the subject. Who have you seen lately?" he asked, and she knew he meant from their old gang.
So she told him about who was at the party she and Joe had hosted and lunch that day with the girls, but all the while she was thinking about their past. Ryan was her first love. He was a couple of years older, the big jock at school. Good-looking, flirtatious, funny, smart. He was also unpredictable, had a short attention span and a roving eye. She fell for him at fifteen and they were on and off for about five years with long breaks while he stole other virginities. He'd always come creeping back after four or six or eight months—sorry, repentant, seductive—and she couldn't resist him. They'd have another few months of bliss, then he'd do it again—get sidetracked by another girl. By the time she was about twenty, maybe twenty-one, she had finally had enough and wouldn't let him back. But of course, she never really got over him.
Funny, Ryan and Joe didn't have any of the same flaws. Joe was incredibly married; he didn't even flirt. In the looks department, they were pretty equal, though completely different. Ryan had a dimpled smile and twinkling eyes that could just make a girl wet herself. Joe was a damn fine-looking man when he was cleaned up, but Ryan took impeccable and fashionable to the next level; he could be a model. Joe had an incredible, strong, toned body—pecs, biceps, a narrow waist and six-pack such that when he wore that F.D. T-shirt pulled tight across his chest and shoulders, women went weak in the knees. Ryan was so adorable and good-natured; of course, he could look you in the eye, smile that heart-splitting smile and lie through his beautiful, straight, white teeth. Joe had darker good looks, almost black eyes, a shorter fuse, but he was the most honest man she knew.
They talked for about forty-five minutes before Marty ordered a couple of medium pizzas to go and Ryan ordered a second beer. Then he opened his wallet and pulled out one of his business cards. He was with the local cable company, having started at the bottom right after college. He was already a director—good income, a shirt-and-tie position. He slid his card across the bar. "That's my office and cell number," he said. "It's okay to call me if you want to talk. I get the feeling you have things on your mind. Worries."
"Listen," she said, "running into you is one thing, calling you is another. I'm married."
"I know that," he said. "And I'm a good friend. Kidding aside, Marty. We might have had our romantic troubles, but one thing about us—we were always good friends. We could count on each other when things weren't going great."
"Yeah, but…" Her words trailed off because there was no way to politely put it—she had always been tempted by him, even when it was insane. If there was anything she had wished for even more than being able to reach Joe, straighten him out so they could be in love again, it was that Ryan hadn't been such a damn playboy. And right now, feeling so unloved and vulnerable, this was not a good idea.
He put his hand over hers. "Marty, you mean a lot to me. You always have, you know that. You'll never know how often I wished I'd met you when I was a little more mature and not such a kid, a jerk. We wouldn't have kept getting back together if we hadn't had something pretty special. Maybe I can make it up to you now by being a friend. If you ever want to talk…"
"I don't think that would be smart," she said, but she slid the card off the bar and into her purse. "But thanks for the gesture. And good luck in finding whatever it is you've been looking for."
Her pizzas came soon after that exchange. She paid her bill, and when she was slipping off her stool, he pulled on her hand, brought her close and kissed her cheek. A jolt of desire passed through her. Oh, God, she wanted to feel loved again.
"If I don't talk to you again for a while, it was really great seeing you," he said. "You look fantastic, by the way. I don't know how you do it. The rest of us get older and you get younger."
Liar, she wanted to say. He was a knockout in high school and he was at least four knockouts now. "Thanks," she said. "Take care."
She left him there and drove home. It wasn't yet six o'clock when she pulled into the garage. She'd been gone more than an hour and a half, but her cell phone had never tweeted in her purse. The house was caught in the late-afternoon summer shadows. She soon realized the reason there were no lights on inside was because Joe and Jason were sprawled on the couch, asleep. Joe was on his back—not showered, shaved or dressed in human clothes—and Jason was lying on his chest.
She flipped on the kitchen light. Not one single thing had been moved. She put the pizzas on the breakfast bar, dropped her purse on the dining room chair with her purchases and began cleaning up. The dishwasher she'd run before leaving for lunch was full of clean dishes that Joe hadn't bothered to put away. She put everything away and began reloading, wiping counters, tossing garbage, frustrated tears falling on her hands.
 
Beth wasn't on call. She had an appointment in San Francisco with Dr. Jerod Paterson, a very well-known and highly respected oncologist. She hadn't been on call two weeks ago, either, when her girlfriends had gone to the party at Marty and Joe's. She'd been recovering from a breast lumpectomy. And it was malignant.
It wasn't the first malignancy—that had come at the age of twenty-five in her right breast, and a lumpectomy wouldn't do the trick because there were three masses that seemed to appear overnight, along with some lymph node involvement. So first she had three substantial lumpectomies and finally a radical mastectomy. That was when Mark left her. Well, he was nice enough to wait for her to get through her radiation and chemo and get on her feet before he left. She would never be entirely sure if it was the cancer, the sickness, the fear or maybe the mangled body that listed to the left. It's not as though she had big breasts to start with—they were just little things.
Now she was starting on the remaining breast.
She already knew a lot about Dr. Paterson, having researched him thoroughly and chosen him carefully. He was in his late forties, married, with two teenagers, and seemed to have a pleasant smile in his bio photo and a reputation in oncology that put him in such high demand it was hard to get an appointment. But not for a physician like Beth—all she had to do was call, explain who she was and she got in immediately.
When she entered his office for the very first time, she was reminded how little pictures could convey. He stood from behind his desk to a full six feet, had thick dark blond hair and, when he smiled, one dimple under his left eye. He stretched out a hand. "Dr. Halsley, it's a pleasure to meet you. Please, have a seat." And then he waited for her to be seated before he sat back down.
"Dr. Paterson," she said with a nod.
He folded his hands on top of what surely must be her opened chart. "I guess we come from the same undergrad program—premed at USC. That gives us a lot in common. Sacramento is your home?"
"It's where I grew up," she said.
"If you don't object, I'd like to know a little more about you before we get into the reason for your visit."
The reason is cancer, and it just won't stop, she thought. "Like?" she replied.
"Siblings? Partner? Living parents?"
"Only child, and yes, my parents are still living and appear to be perfectly healthy. I have one grandparent left on each side, and only one early death—at fifty-five from heart failure. My maternal grandmother is a survivor of breast cancer—over twenty years. She's eighty-eight."
They chatted for a little while, maybe fifteen minutes, during which time he asked if she had a husband or partner and she said, "He left with the last breast."
He wanted to know about her hobbies, what she did for fun, that sort of thing. She laughed at him. "I've been certified in OB-Gyn for one year. You think I have hobbies?"
"Your first malignant onset was very early," he said, not looking at the chart. "But, despite the fact you're still quite young, this is another primary manifestation. The cancer doesn't appear to be spreading. Still, because of your age and history, I'd recommend aggressive treatment. Unfortunately the MRI results show some suspicious sites in the breast. Tell me how you feel about this: we can start with a round of radiotherapy, some chemo, and then reappraise and determine if more surgery is the best course."
She shrugged and shook her head. "It really doesn't matter. I'm not desperate to hang on to the breast. It's not that much of a breast…."
"You haven't considered any reconstruction after your last surgery?"
"No. It seems pointless."
He lifted one brow. "Do you have a good support system, Dr. Halsley?"
"You can call me Beth if you like," she said. "Yes, sure. I work in a women's health clinic—they're very sensitive. I have friends and family. But I'm trying to look at this medically, not emotionally."
"I understand, but try to remember—it's an emotional disease."
"That's why I'm trying to look at it medically."
He smiled. "Doctors. Pragmatists, almost to the last bone. Are you going to be a terrible patient?"
"Probably," she said. "I'm pretty pissed off about this."
"You should be. I would be. If you're comfortable with it, I'd like to have a look. Feel like putting on a gown for me?"
"Sure," she said, standing. "Where would you like me?"
"Exam room two will be fine. I'll see you in ten minutes."
A few minutes later she was sitting on the exam table, her left arm over her head while the doctor palpated the breast. She looked away while he studied her. "Do you have hobbies?" she heard herself ask.
"I have a sailboat," he said.
"That would explain the tan…."
He straightened and waited for her to turn her head and make eye contact. "I originally bought it for the family."
"A wife and two kids… I read your bio."
"Ah, old bio. No wife. We divorced three years ago. I still have two kids, however. Two girls—fifteen and seventeen. Honestly, I can't believe I still have hair."
She smiled, but briefly. "Am I going to have hair after this?"
He frowned. "I don't think so, Beth."
"It's going to be hard to keep this a little secret, isn't it?"
"Is that your plan?"
She sighed deeply. "Dr. Paterson, if you had any idea what it was like going through a radical and chemo at twenty-five—so young, the high drama, the fear all around me, eventually the pity and terrified abandonment—you'd understand. I've barely made the five-year mark…" Mark. Maybe he was right to leave; maybe she wouldn't survive this. "Not only do I feel like I can't do it again, I'm not sure my parents can take it. They're not young—they were almost forty when I was born, though both are still healthy and working. My friends will be more devastated than I am. It's not just stubbornness, I assure you. It was almost harder dealing with my friends and family than the disease."
He pulled the gown over her shoulder to cover her and took her hand, holding it briefly. "I can imagine. And please—I'm Jerod."
"Well, Jerod, this is a disaster. And if I don't somehow hold it together, I'm going to go berserk."
"Beth, I want you to remember a couple of things. The most important thing is that there doesn't seem to be any cancer anywhere but in the breast. Lightning has struck twice, but only twice—and in the same general place. I'm very optimistic. I think I can get you through this. Give me a chance. And don't go it alone."
"I'm not going it alone, Jerod. I'm going with you. I'm sure you'll be very supportive."