In Five Years: A Novel - Rebecca Serle Page 0,44

medical terms in the car, on the subway, in the bathroom at work. She’ll no longer produce eggs. Or have a place where they could, one day, develop.

At this revelation, Bella starts to cry.

“Can I freeze my eggs first?” she asks.

“There are fertility options,” Dr. Shaw tells her, gently. “But I wouldn’t recommend them, or waiting. The hormones can sometimes exacerbate the cancer. I think it’s critical we get you into surgery as soon as possible.”

“How is this happening?” Bella asks. She drops her face into her hands. I feel nauseous. Bile rises to my throat and threatens to spill out onto the floor of this Park Avenue office.

Dr. Shaw rolls forward. He puts a hand on her knee. “I know it’s hard,” he says. “But you’re in the best hands. And we’re going to do everything we can for you.”

“It’s not fair,” she says.

Dr. Shaw looks to me, but for the first time I feel at a loss for words. Cancer. No children. I have to focus on inhaling.

“It’s not,” he says. “You’re right. But your attitude matters a lot. I’m going to fight for you, but I need you in here with me.”

She looks up at him, her face streaked with tears. “Will you be there?” she asks him. “For the surgery.”

“You bet,” he says. “I’ll be the one performing it.”

Bella looks to me. “What do you think?” she asks me.

I think about the beach in Amagansett. How was it only three weeks ago that she was blushing over a pregnancy test—glowing with expectation?

“I think we need to do the surgery now,” I say.

Bella nods. “Okay,” she says.

“It’s the right decision,” Dr. Shaw says. He slides over to his computer. “And if you have any questions, here is my direct cell number.” He hands us both a business card. I copy the number down in my notebook.

“Let’s talk through what to expect now,” he says.

There is more talk then. About lymph nodes and cancer cells and abdominal incisions. I take precise notes, but it is hard—it is impossible—for even me to follow everything. It sounds as if Dr. Shaw is speaking in a different language—something harsh. Russian, maybe Czech. I have the feeling that I do not want to understand; I just want him to cease speaking. If he stops speaking, none of it is true.

We leave the office and stand on the corner of Sixty-Third and Park. Inexplicably, impossibly, it is a perfect day. September is glorious in New York, bellied even further by the knowledge that the fall will not hold—and today is banner. The wind is gentle, the sun is fierce. Everywhere I look people are smiling and talking and greeting one another.

I look to Bella. I do not have a clue what to say.

It is unbelievable that right now there is something deadly growing inside of her. It seems impossible. Look at her. Look. She is the picture of health. She is rosy-cheeked and full and radiant. She is an impressionist painting. She is life incarnate.

What would happen if we just pretended we’d never heard? Would the cancer catch up? Or would it take the hint and screw off. Is it receptive? Is it listening? Do we have the power to change it?

“I have to call Greg,” she says.

“Okay.”

Not for the first time this morning, I feel my cell phone vibrate fiercely in my bag. It’s past ten, and I was due in the office two hours ago. I’m sure I have a hundred emails.

“Do you want me to get you a car?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “No, I want to walk.”

“Okay,” I say. “We’ll walk.”

She takes out her phone. She doesn’t lift her eyes. “I’d rather be alone.”

When we were in high school, Bella used to sleep at my house more than she slept at her own. She hated being alone, and her parents traveled all the time. They were away at least 60 percent of each month. So she lived with us. I had a pullout trundle bed beneath mine, and we’d lie awake at night, rolling from my bed to hers and then climbing back up again, counting the stick-on stars on my ceiling. It was impossible, of course, because who could tell them apart? We’d fall asleep amidst a jumble of numbers.

“Bells—”

“Please,” she says. “I promise I will call you later.”

I feel her words bite through me. It’s bad enough as it is, but now why would we face it alone? We need to stop down. We need to