“Did they give you some data?” David asks, grasping. “The new doctor? What did he say?” He releases me and puts a hand gently on my knee.
I shake my head. “She’ll never be able to have kids. They’re taking out her entire uterus, both ovaries...”
David winces. “Damn,” he says. “Damn, Dannie, I’m so sorry.”
I close my eyes against the rising tide of pain from my feet. The knives that are now burying themselves into my heels.
“Take them off,” I tell him. I’m practically panting.
“Okay,” he says. “Hang on.”
He goes to the bathroom and comes back with baby powder. He shakes the bottle, and a cloud of white dust descends on my foot. He wiggles the heel of my shoe. I feel nauseous with pain.
Then it’s off. I look down at my foot—it’s raw and bleeding but looks better than I thought it would. He dumps some more powder on it.
“Let me see the other one,” he says.
I give him my other foot. He shakes the bottle, wiggles the heel, performs the same ritual.
“You need to soak them,” David says. “Come on.”
He puts an arm around me and leads me, wincing and groaning, into the bathroom. We have a tub, although it’s not a claw-foot. It’s always been a dream of mine to have one, but our bathroom was already built. It’s so stupid, impossible even, that my brain still relays this information to me now, still notes it—the missing feet of a porcelain tub. As if it matters.
David begins to run the water for me. “I’m going to put some Epsom salts in it,” he says. “You’ll feel better.”
I grab his arm as he turns to go. I cling to it—hold it against my chest like a child with their stuffed animal.
“It’s going to be okay,” he tells me. But, of course, the words mean nothing. No one knows that. Not him. Not Dr. Shaw. Not even me.
Chapter Twenty-One
Bella will not return my calls or texts, so finally, on Saturday night, I dial Aaron.
He picks up on the second ring. “Dannie,” he says. He’s whispering. “Hey.”
“Yeah. Hi.”
I’m in the bedroom of our apartment, my bandaged feet kneading the soft carpet. “Is Bella there?”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line.
“Come on, Aaron. She won’t return my phone calls.”
“She’s actually sleeping,” he says.
“Oh.” It’s barely 8 p.m.
“What are you doing?”
I look down at my sweatpants. “Nothing,” I say. “I should probably get back to work. Will you tell her I called?”
“Yeah, of course,” he says.
All at once I feel irrationally angry. Aaron, this stranger. This man, who she has known for less than four months, is the one in her apartment. He’s the one she’s turning to. He doesn’t even know her. And me, her best friend, her family—
“She needs to call me,” I say. My tone has changed. It bears the fire of my thumping thoughts.
“I know,” Aaron says. His voice is low. “It’s just been—”
