CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
OLIVIA
December 14
“NEXT MONDAY?”
Acid boils into my chest. I tighten my grip on the phone.
“Yes,” the nurse replies. “December nineteenth. Dr. Turner wanted us to let you know he has a cancellation, so there’s an opening Monday at nine. We can schedule your surgery for that time.”
“What… what if I don’t take it?”
“Then you’ll have to keep your original appointment for after the holidays.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat. Monday is six days from now. As much as I want answers, this surgery could result in terrifying answers that unleash a firestorm of new questions. Terrifying questions.
Or not. The answers could also be good ones, insofar as anything related to cancer can be good. Or they could be inconclusive, that weird gray area where no one really knows what to do next.
But whatever the results, having the surgery sooner means the Christmas I was planning will be colored with worry. And Dr. Nolan told me I’ll need to have all my paperwork in order, like advanced care and next-of-kin directives. Dean has always ensured our family documents are up to date and rock-solid, but now we might actually have to use them.
And what about other stuff, the details that aren’t part of any legal paperwork? What if something goes wrong or they discover the cancer has spread and it’s worse than they originally thought…
“Mrs. West?” the nurse says. “Dr. Turner strongly recommends you have the surgery on Monday. You’ll need to be at the hospital by seven, and the surgery will take place at nine.”
My heart is beating too fast. I swallow and manage to say, “I… uh, can I call you back?”
“Yes, but please let me know as soon as you can. You’ll have to come in for the pre-surgical appointment on Friday. We have a three o’clock opening, if that works for you.”
“All right. I’ll call you back within the hour.”
I hang up the phone slowly and stare at the calendar. On Mondays, I’m scheduled to volunteer at Writer’s Workshop in Nicholas’s classroom. Bella has swimming lessons after school. Monday nights we usually have homemade pizza for dinner, and I need to make sure we have all the ingredients.
I pick up the phone to call Dean and tell him about the surgery opening, but then I realize he’s in a lecture right now. I check his calendar on my phone. Lecture, then a meeting at the downtown public library, then office hours.
I grab my satchel and car keys and head to the Wonderland Café. After putting on my apron, I start to refill trays of truffles for the cold case.
Surgery next week?
My sense of foreboding deepens. I haven’t been able to shake the feeling that the surgery is going to tell us something we don’t want to know.
“Liv, Archer just pulled up in back.” Allie pushes through the kitchen doors. “Is he here to check out the water damage on the floor?”
“Yes, I’ve talked to him about it already.” I go through the kitchen to meet Archer in the back parking lot, smiling at the sight of the dog Patch sitting in the passenger seat of his truck, his tongue lolling out.
“I guess you found him a new owner,” I remark as Archer comes around from the driver’s side.
He stops and glances at the dog. “Why do you say that?”
“His new owner’s name must be Archer West.”
Archer gives me a sheepish grin. “It’s not my fault he got attached to me.”
“Is he sleeping at the foot of your bed yet?” I ask.
“Kelsey still doesn’t want him in the house, but because it’s so cold out she lets him sleep in the laundry room. Only a few short steps from the kitchen.”
“I’ll bet you could make a deal with her,” I suggest. “Find the dog a new home in exchange for her hand in marriage.”
“I don’t just want her hand in marriage, Liv,” Archer replies. “I want her whole body and soul in marriage.”
I can’t help smiling. “Good one.”
Archer goes upstairs to the Wicked Witch’s Castle Room while I put the rest of the truffles into the cold case and check on a few customers. It’s our lunch rush, so the place is full, the noise of chatter and laughter rising into the air.
Upstairs, Archer is hunched down, examining the warped area of the hardwood floor near the wait station.
“Since the boards are still buckled, I should pull them up,” he tells me. “Dry out the subfloor, then replace the boards. I should be able to match the varnish pretty well, but it won’t be exact.”
“That’s fine, thanks.” I collect a few empty glasses and put them on a tray. “Do you think you can do it soon?”
“Sure, I’ll pick up the supplies on my way home.” He pushes to his feet. “I’m working at the garage tomorrow, but will you be here on Friday?”
“I don’t know. I might have—” an appointment so a surgeon can cut the cancer out of my breast.
My fingers suddenly clench on the tray, and it tilts. Two glasses slide off the edge and crash to the floor in a spray of splintered glass.
“Shit.” The curse breaks from me.
A few customers glance in our direction. I shove the tray onto the counter. My hands are shaking. I drop to my knees and start picking up the pieces of glass.
“Hey, it’s okay.” Archer grabs a trash can and crouches beside me, a crease between his eyebrows.
No, it’s not. It’s not okay.
There are light years of distance between me and okay.
My heart starts beating too fast. My lungs constrict. I struggle to pull in a breath and can’t. Panic encroaches, the black, suffocating cloud I thought I’d eradicated years ago. Cold stabs into me, needles of ice poking my bones.
“Liv?” Archer takes hold of my elbow, his face hazy in my blurred vision. “What…?”
“I can’t…” I try to force the words out with what little breath I have left. My throat closes over on a choked gasp.
Archer’s expression darkens with concern. He lets go of me and grabs his cell phone. Past the fear roaring in my ears, I hear his voice saying, “Dean.”
Faint relief curls through me as I remember that Dean has a meeting at the library, so he’s not far from me right now. But the relief doesn’t loosen the tightness gripping my chest. I can’t breathe.
I. Can’t. Breathe.
Black spots swim in front of my eyes. Sweat breaks out on my forehead.
Allie’s voice. A glass of water appears in my line of sight, but I can’t even reach for it. Archer is speaking again, his hands moving under my arms to help me stand. I’m shaking too hard.
I pull away from him and press my hands to the floor, the shards of glass like sand under my palms. I try to press harder with some vague notion that the pain will help.
The world spins. Dizziness fills my head. I can’t breathe.
I’m going to die. I’m going to die right now.
“Liv.”
Dean’s deep voice washes over me. I feel the pressure of his hands as he grasps my shoulders and guides me into a sitting position. His arms come around me from behind, pulling me back against his chest, into the V of his legs.
“Breathe,” he orders. “With me. Count of three. One… two… three.”
Even with him here, I can’t do it. Tears leak out of the corners of my eyes. I choke in a thin, shallow breath, one that will only keep me alive for another few seconds. I’m shaking so violently my teeth rattle.
“Stay with me, Liv,” Dean says, his voice a low, calm stream of reassurance. “You can do this. Try again. One, two…”
His chest moves with deep breaths against my back, in rhythm with his count. I clench my fists together, squeeze my eyes shut, and fight with everything I have left to make my lungs obey the screaming inside my head.
“Liv.” Dean tightens his grip, locking me against his body. “I need you to breathe. Listen to me. I need you to breathe.”
Something in that command penetrates the black fog. Dean’s legs are on either side of me. I manage to unclench my fists and put my hands on his thighs to grip the denim of his jeans. My palms sting. I start to feel the security of the hardwood floor beneath me, the solidity of my husband behind me.
“One,” Dean orders, his chest moving again against my back. “Two. Three. One. Two. Three.”
Impossibly, something loosens ever so slightly in my lungs. When Dean inhales, I choke down a shallow rush of air. He exhales. So do I.
Inhale. A bit deeper, this time. My vision starts to regain focus. Exhale.
“Good girl,” Dean says. “Again. One, two, three.”
We breathe together. It feels like an eternity. Count of five. Count of ten. Dean’s body heat begins to ease the cold. My heart rate slows. My lungs ache, but the constriction lessens until I’m able to breathe without pain.
I don’t know how long we sit there. Dean’s arms stay locked around me, his chest moving against my back in rhythm with every breath I take.
Slowly, I become aware that we’re still sitting on the floor of the café, noise rising from downstairs, but the room around us oddly quiet.
Oh, no.
No.
I open my eyes, blinking to clear my vision. Archer, Allie, and Sheryl are hovering near the door. One of them must have asked the customers to leave the room because the tables are empty. But I don’t know how many people witnessed my descent into panic. No one except Dean has ever seen me through a full-fledged attack.
Tears flood my eyes. Dean loosens his grip on me and gets to his feet, then reaches down to help me stand. I can’t look at him. I can’t look at anyone.
“Liv, are you all right?” Sheryl hurries forward with another glass of water, her eyes dark with worry and her face pale.
Although I nod, I’m still shaking enough that I know I won’t be able to hold the glass. Dean takes it from Sheryl and turns, shielding me with his body as he lifts the glass to my mouth.
I take a couple of sips and force my gaze to his. His expression is a mask of pain and concern.
“Get me out of here,” I whisper.
He nods, turning to put the glass on a table. He’s saying something to the others, but I don’t bother to listen.
Tears of embarrassment and anger crawl up my chest and clog my throat. I manage to stave them off until we get into the car, then I press my face to my knees and surrender to the sobs that leave my throat raw and my body aching.
Dean puts his hand on the back of my neck and doesn’t move until the crushing storm has passed. I take a deep breath and straighten, pulling myself together.
“Let me see.” He takes my hands, turning my palms upward.
A few pinpricks of red mar my palms from the cut glass. Dean lifts my hands closer, picking a few tiny pieces of glass out. He brushes his fingers over my palms, his touch soft as cotton.
“What was it?” he asks gently.
“I… the surgeon’s nurse called me earlier.” My voice sounds very far away, faint and thin. “She said Dr. Turner had a cancellation, and they can fit me in for the surgery on Monday.”
His grip on my wrist tightens. “That’s good news, Liv.”
But nothing good ever triggers a panic attack. Only suffocating fear, the sense of being trapped, unable to get out…
“I knew you would say that.”
“It makes sense to get it done as soon as possible,” Dean says. “Once the surgery is over and we get the pathology report, we can make a plan for further treatment.”
We.
Since the day we met, it’s always been we and us. Everything we’ve been through has pulled us closer together. But this time, I’m the only one who has the sick, dreadful sense that the surgery will tell me something I don’t want to know.
A weight presses down on me. I have a strange flashback to the only Christmas I remember with my father, preserved in a single photograph of him and me. I was seven, and he’s sitting beside me, both of us smiling as I hold a big, stuffed bear with a red ribbon around its neck.
“What did you tell the nurse?” Dean asks.
“That I would call her back.”
“So call her back and tell her you’ll take the appointment. Or do you want me to do it?”
“No, I don’t want you to do it,” I reply, my voice unexpectedly sharp. “I’m perfectly capable of calling my own doctors and nurses, okay?”
After a brief silence, he says, “All right. I’m sorry. I just want the damned thing done.”
That’s Dean. Get things done. Finish the job. Win the battle.
I press the bridge of my nose between my fingers. “I need to go in for the pre-op appointment.”
“When is that?”
“Friday afternoon.” I take out my phone and scroll my calendar. “But I have to pick Bella up from preschool at two and take her to gymnastics.”
Dean is silent for a moment before he settles his hand on my knee.
“Liv, sweetie, listen.”
I force my gaze to him, hating the anguish in his eyes, the despair that has invaded his defenses. Exhaustion crushes down on me from all sides.
“I understand that you’re scared,” Dean says. “I know you want to have a good Christmas. And we will. But you need to get the surgery done as soon as possible. Waiting will not make anything go away.”
I feel his tension like a tangible force field between us. He doesn’t move to start the car.
“Liv, I want that thing out of you,” he says, his voice controlled but simmering with emotion. “Now. Please don’t wait. We need to know what we’re facing.”
We need to see the enemy.
He doesn’t have to say it. I know my husband. He’s the knight who confronts his enemies directly, who looks them in the eye and proves beyond the shadow of a doubt that he’s the far more powerful one. Then he obliterates them.
But what can he do against an enemy who is so evasive, unpredictable, unknowable? So virulent?
How can he ever protect me? And what can I do to protect him, when it’s my body that is the traitor?
The questions swarm like wasps through my mind, along with all the others I still don’t have answers to.
I pick up my phone again and scroll my contacts. My vision blurs as I see the names of four doctors, the hospital, and the specialty clinic—in between the names of my mom friends, Allie, Kelsey, Florence…
I press the contact number for Dr. Turner’s office. The receptionist picks up, and I tell her to book me for the surgery slot next Monday.
“Okay, Mrs. West, you’re on the schedule,” she says. “Diane will get back to you about the details of the pre-op appointment.”
“Thank you.”
I end the call and toss the phone back into my bag. Dean tightens his fingers on my knee before he turns the key in the ignition. I stare out the window, hating the foreboding that now darkens our lives.
During the surgery, Dr. Turner will remove not only the tumor, but my sentinel lymph node to determine if it contains cancer cells. If it tests positive, he’ll remove more lymph nodes and have them immediately tested to see if the cancer has spread.
The pathology results for both the lymph nodes and the tumor will not only tell us more about my prognosis, but if I need to undergo chemotherapy in addition to radiation.
In other words, the game could change, but there are no rules.
None.