The book almost drops out of my hand. I rush to reshelve it safely. “You’re Alfred Feeney’s wife?”
Louise smiles at me, a new warmth in her face at the mention of him. “Have you read his books?”
“Of course, I mean I read him in high school and college. He’s easily one of my favorite authors.”
“He’d love to hear that. He always wanted his writing to be ageless.”
“Is he here? Can I meet him?” I ask. Louise’s expression shutters, and I suddenly realize how desperate that sounded. “I’m sorry, that was so weird—forget I said anything.”
“No, it’s not weird. You can’t meet him because he passed away six months ago.”
“Oh.” I sink down into a chinoiserie chair that faces Louise. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Louise’s mouth twitches. “It’s life, isn’t it? We’re born and we die, and the time in between is what it is.”
I tilt my head. “I guess?”
Louise sighs and looks at a Cartier watch. “How late will Penelope be? I told her I had a Pink Ribbon Ladies happy hour at five o’clocksharp.”
Pink Ribbon Ladies? I would bet my (paltry) savings account that she’s talking about a breast cancer group. “Are you…” I cough, the words coming out stilted and awkward. “A survivor?”
Louise blinks. “Five years,” she says without even a whisper of emotion.
There’s a fork in the road: on one side, I can congratulate her, and we can resume our silence; or, I can tell her. For once, there’s not much to lose.
“I’m a year cancer free.”
She shifts in her seat, appraising me. “Breast?”
I nod.
“You’re too young for this shit.”
I shrug. Unfortunately, informing my cancer that I was simply too young to deal with it was not a viable treatment method, according to my oncologist.
“Was it at least caught early?”
“Stage II.”
Louise goes back to staring off into space. “I was Stage IIIc. Triple negative.”
“Well, that’s great that they caught it, right?”
She makes a vague noise of assent. The silence is thick, suffocating.
“I was triple positive,” I say. “My tumor was an overachiever, just like me.”
Louise laughs, a large guffaw that sounds like it belongs to an Amazonian bird. “And how are you doing now?”
“I’m good!” My flagrant exaggeration rings false in the rich, lavender-scented air. “I’m okay.” Louise gives me a quiet, disapproving look (I think she can smell lies). “I am here,” I try.
Louise’s chin dips, a stern acceptance of this final statement. “I’m here too,” she says.
That’s it. The know-it-when-you-hear-it thing. My shoulders relax. I glance at the entrance to the parlor, neither seeing nor hearing a whiff of Penelope. I figure that I’ve been dragged to this wedding planning meeting, and I may as well get a vent session out of it with someone who may actually understand my sense of humor. I’m obviously not going to see this woman again. Well, except for the wedding.
“I’ve been on three dates this year, and no second dates yet. The furthest I’ve gotten is second base because the minute they touch my breasts, they do it wrong. Not that there is arightway to feel up silicone. But there’s just something missing. And I don’t have the time or patience to educate them on how to” —I wave my hands around— “I don’t know,existaround a twenty-nine-year-old cancer survivor. No one knows what to say. No one knows when I’m making a joke. Or genuinely looking for someone to commiserate.”
I pause but Louise’s eyes are sparkling their encouragement for me to continue my diatribe.
