CHAPTER NINE
OLIVIA
November 28
I DON’T SAY THE WORD ALOUD, not even to Dean. It festers in my brain like an infection, something slimy, stinking, rotten. It’s puke-green and an ugly, yellowish brown like a fetid swamp.
I try to block it, not to let it slither into all the other thoughts running through my mind—Should I make a peanut butter or turkey sandwich for Nicholas’s lunch? Should I put green or blue hair ties on Bella’s braids? I need to stop by the grocery store before work. Nicholas has soccer this afternoon.
The mundane thoughts are soothing, welcome, but it still lingers in the background, watching me with cold, unblinking eyes. Waiting.
I try to focus on practicality, the things that need to be done, both in our everyday lives and in this new, freakishly horrifying world in which we’ve found ourselves.
I get through the next few days by reminding myself to breathe and telling myself everything I’m doing. Now I need to pick out Bella’s clothes. Now I’m helping Nicholas brush his teeth. Now I’m taking orders for a Mad Hatter tea party. Now I’m boxing up a dozen chocolate cupcakes.
Only once during my shift at the café do I have to lock myself in the office when an onslaught of tears hits me too fast to stop. At home, I’m able to keep my fear and pain suppressed until nighttime, when I fall against Dean and let myself cry until my throat is raw and I’m exhausted enough to sleep.
I suspect mornings will continue to be especially awful, as I pull myself out of sleep with the vague sense that I’ve just had a dreadful nightmare… and then I remember the nightmare is real.
The nightmare is inside my body.
It’s such an insane thought. I don’t look sick. I certainly don’t feel sick. Just the opposite, in fact. Half the time, I think the diagnosis is some horrible mistake. The pathologist read the samples wrong. Any minute Dr. Nolan will call and tell me it’s really just a benign tumor, nothing to worry about, nothing at all.
Except that she doesn’t.
Instead she calls to tell me what my next “step” will be—surgery—and encourages me to meet with several doctors before choosing a surgeon and an oncologist. We’re forced to wait over the Thanksgiving holiday before scheduling appointments.
Dean and I don’t talk much in the immediate aftermath of the diagnosis. Outwardly, he also focuses on getting things done, but anguish burns in his eyes, and he hovers around me as if he’s a hawk wanting to swoop in and save me.
Just like he always has before.
After spending a quiet Thanksgiving at home, our first meeting is with Dr. Holt, a highly regarded, experienced surgeon who extends his hand to Dean first.
“Pleasure to meet you both,” the doctor says as we sit in front of his desk. “I’ve had a look at your wife’s file and will give you several options as to course of treatment.”
He starts telling us what we already know—the location of the tumor, the need for further testing, the results of the biopsy. Then he explains that while I might be a good candidate for a lumpectomy, which would remove only the tumor and surrounding tissue, he would recommend a mastectomy. The removal of my breast.
I nod, feeling oddly detached from myself. Ever since Dr. Nolan mentioned it as a potential option, my instinctive response has been that yes, I want a mastectomy.
It’s a grueling, painful procedure, an aggressive approach, but I don’t care. The only thing I care about is getting this horrible thing out of my body and resuming my life as it was before.
Except that my life will never be as it was before.
Dr. Holt rambles on about the surgery, glancing at Dean as he talks about how reconstructed breasts will look and feel.
“Breasts are important to men too, you know,” the doctor tells me.
I feel Dean tense with irritation.
“What’s important,” he says coldly, “is getting rid of the cancer.”
I put my hand on his arm. His muscles are clenched tight.
“What about the lumpectomy?” I ask the doctor. “Dr. Nolan said that might be an option too.”
“A mastectomy will give you more peace of mind,” Dr. Holt says. “You don’t want to put yourself through the fear of screenings since you’re the kind of woman who will worry. You sure don’t want to put your husband through that.”
Before I can respond past the tightness in my throat, Dean addresses the doctor sharply.
“What do you know about the kind of woman my wife is?”
“Most women worry about screenings,” Dr. Holt replies. “And the survival rate with either surgery is about the same. Of course, if the cancer has spread, the game changes.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Dean’s voice slices so fast through the air that Dr. Holt and I both startle.
“I beg your pardon?” the doctor asks.
“I said…” Dean stands, his full height dominating the room and his face dark with anger, “are you fucking kidding me by calling this a game? You’re talking about my wife’s life, not a goddamned game. And you don’t know jack about her or us. So don’t you fucking tell her what she should or shouldn’t do, much less what kind of woman she is.”
He grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet, turning to stalk out the door.
“Dean, slow down.” I hurry after him, my stomach knotting. “Please.”
A curse snaps out of him. We reach the parking lot, and he lets go of my hand, striding away from me. He rests one hand against the side of the building and lowers his head. Even from a distance, I can see him shaking.
Pain squeezes my heart in a fist. I stop, unsure whether or not to approach him. I walk forward slowly and rest my hand on his back. The vibrations from his trembling are so deep they travel up my arm and into my bones.
“Dean.”
He doesn’t respond, doesn’t turn toward me. An unexpected surge of guilt hits me, filling my chest.
I did this to him. I’m the one causing him this torture, this pain. Me and my suddenly traitorous body.
I can’t bring myself to move closer, to wrap my arms around him and whisper words of comfort. I don’t know what to say. I can’t tell him everything will be okay when I don’t know if it will.
Dean pushes away from the wall and heads to the parking lot. The anger doesn’t leave him. It edges every one of his movements, from the way he jerks the car into gear to the way he unlocks the front door.
Over the next few days, the only time I see him suppress his anger is when he’s with the children, though I’m certain they can sense it as acutely as I can.
I don’t know what to do with Dean’s anger. My own anger is buried beneath so many other emotions that I don’t even know what or who I’m angry with. The universe? My body? Myself?
Mostly I’m just terrified.
God knows Dean and I have been locked away from each other before—because of our own insecurities, anger, lies, pain—but we knew we were the ones at fault and the ones who had to repair the damage. Never has something so insidious, so horrific, slithered into the space between us.
And since the day we met, not once has Dean flinched from any of the monsters threatening either me or our relationship. On the contrary—he’s drawn his sword and battled them all into retreat.
Now more than ever, I know my husband is gathering his weapons and devising a plan of attack, that he’ll be the first person charging into the war zone. It’s what he’s done all his life, what he does best.
But this, we both know, is different. This is the one monster my white knight can’t battle. The one he can’t even face.