Chapter Twenty-Nine
It’s the first week of November, and Bella won’t speak to me. I call her. I send David over with food. “Just give her a little time,” he tells me. I don’t express the absurdity of his statement to him. I can’t even think it, much less say it out loud.
Dr. Christine is no more surprised to see me back in her office than I am to be there. She wants to know about my family, and so I tell her about Michael. I remember him less and less these days. What he was like. I try and focus on the details. His laugh, the strange way his forearms hung from his elbows, like there was just too much limb. His brown, curly hair, like baby ringlets, and his wide brown eyes. How he used to call me “pal.” How he’d always invite me to hang out in the tent in our backyard, even if his friends were over. He didn’t seem to have any of the hang-ups older brothers usually have about their little sisters. We fought, sure, but I always knew he loved me, that he wanted me around.
Dr. Christine tells me I am learning to deal with a life I cannot control. What she doesn’t say, what she doesn’t have to, is that I’m failing at it.
I still go to the chemo appointments, I just don’t go upstairs. I sit in the lobby and read through work emails until I know Bella’s finished.
The following Wednesday, Dr. Shaw walks by. I’m sitting on a cement ledge, some fake foliage dangling below me, doing some paperwork.
“Humpty Dumpty,” he says.
I look up, so startled I nearly fall.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Bella,” I say. I gesture with my free arm, the one not holding my array of folders, upward, to the room where Bella lies, chemicals being pumped into her.
“I just came from there.”
Dr. Shaw takes a step closer to me. He peers at my binder disapprovingly. “Do you need some coffee?” he asks.
I found some crappy vending machine stuff earlier, but it’s wearing off quickly.
“It kind of sucks here,” I say.
He holds a pointed finger out to me. “That’s because you do not know the tricks. Follow me.”
We wind through the ground floor of the treatment center to the back and down a hallway. At the end is a little atrium, with a Starbucks cart. I swear, it’s like seeing Jesus. My eyes go wide. Dr. Shaw notices.
“I know, right?” he says. “It’s the best-kept hospital secret. Come on.”
He leads me to the cart where a woman in her mid-twenties with two French braids smiles wide at him. “The usual?” she asks.
He turns to me. “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m a tea drinker. That’s why Irina here has to know my order.”
“The hospital is big on coffee?” I ask.
“More manly,” he says, gesturing for me to step forward.
I order an Americano, and when our drinks are ready, Dr. Shaw takes a seat at a little metal table. I join him.
“I don’t want to keep you,” I say. “I appreciate the coffee referral.”
“It’s good for me,” he says. He takes his lid off, letting the steam rise. “Do you know surgeons are notorious for having the worst bedside manner?”
“Really,” I say. But I know.
“Yes. We’re monstrous. So every Wednesday I try and have coffee with a commoner.”
He smiles. I laugh because I know the moment requires it.
“So how is Bella?” he asks. His pager beeps and he looks at it, setting it on the table.
