“Yes,” I say. I swallow. “I love it.”
“I thought you would.”
“Aaron,” I say. I can feel him standing there. It seems crazy, impossible, that he doesn’t know. “Whatever happened to that Dumbo apartment?”
Bella laughs. “Why do you call him Aaron?” she asks.
“It’s fine,” he says abruptly. “I don’t mind.”
“I know you don’tmind,” Bella says. “But why?”
“It’s his first name,” I say. “Isn’t it?” I turn my attention to the gift. I run my hand over the glass.
“I bought it, the apartment,” she tells me. The Aaron argument dissolves as quickly as it presented. “The rest is for me to know and you to find out.”
I push the print to the side. I take her hands in mine. “Bella, listen to me. You cannot renovate that apartment. It will be a good investment as raw space. You bought it, fine, just sell it. Promise me you’re not going to move in there. Promise.”
Bella squeezes my hand. “You’re crazy,” she says. “But fine. I promise you. I’m not going to move in there.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The chemo goes from good to bad to gruesome quickly, too quickly. Next week she’s sick, the following one she’s weak, and after that she is sunken, her body practically concave. The one saving grace is that her hair doesn’t fall out. Session after session, week after week, not even a strand.
“It happens sometimes,” Dr. Shaw tells me. He comes to her chemo sessions to check up on her and run through any recent bloodwork. Today, Jill is there. Which might explain why Dr. Shaw and I are in the hallway, a whole room away from where Bella’s mother pretends to be dutiful. “A patient who doesn’t lose their hair. It’s rare, though. She’s one of the lucky ones.”
“Lucky.” I taste the word in my mouth. Rotted.
“Poor choice of words,” he says. “We doctors aren’t always the most sensitive. I apologize.”
“No,” I say. “She has great hair.”
Dr. Shaw smiles at me. Colorful Nikes peak out from the bottom of his jeans. They point to some kind of life beyond these walls. Does he go home to children? How does he shake the everyday of these patients, shrinking inside?
“She’s lucky that she has such a good support system,” he tells me. It isn’t the first time he’s said it. “Some patients have to do this alone.”
“She has two more weeks of this,” I say. “And then she’ll do another test?”
“Yes.” We’ll check to see if the cancer has been localized. But you know, Dannie, because it’s in the lymph, it’s really about containment. The likelihood of remission in ovarian cancers...”
“No,” I say. “She’s different. She has her hair! She’s different.”
Dr. Shaw puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes gently. But he doesn’t say anything.
I want to ask him more. Like whether he’s seen a case like this before. Like what we should prepare for. I want to ask him to tell me. Tell me what is going to happen. Give me the answers. But he can’t. He doesn’t know. And whatever he has to say, I’m not interested in hearing.
I go back in the room. Bella’s leaning her head against the side of her armchair, her eyes closed. She opens them when I’m in front of her.
“Guess what?” she tells me, her voice sleepy. “Mom is going to take me to dinner and to see the Barbra Streisand musical. Do you want to come?”
Jill, dressed in black crepe slacks and a floral print silk blouse with a pussy bow, leans over. “It’ll be fun. We’ll go to Sardi’s before and have some martinis.”
“Bella...” I can feel the anger start to simmer in me. She can barely sit up. She’s going to go to dinner? To a theater?
Bella rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on. I can do it.”
“You’re not really supposed to be out right now. Dr. Shaw did say that, and he definitely mentioned that alcohol could interfere with your medi—”
“Stop! What are you, my parole officer?” Bella fires at me. It feels like a shot to the stomach.
