In Five Years: A Novel - Rebecca Serle Page 0,49

into caffeinated chaos, and no one notices Dr. Shaw’s request or my exit.

“We’re going to try our best to get all of the tumor. We’ve categorized Bella’s cancer at a stage three, but we really won’t know definitely until we take tissue samples of the surrounding organs. And I know you raised a concern about an omentectomy. We’re just not sure how far it has spread yet.”

“I understand,” I say. I feel a deep, wet cold creep from the hospital floor, up my legs, and settle in my stomach.

“It’s possible we may need to remove a portion of Bella’s colon as well.” Dr. Shaw looks to Bella’s door and back at me. “You are aware that you are listed as Bella’s next of kin?”

“I am?”

“You are,” he says. “I know her parents are here, but I wanted you to be made aware, too.”

“Thank you.”

Dr. Shaw nods. He turns to leave.

“How bad is it?” I ask him. “I know you can’t tell me that. But if you could—how bad is it?”

He looks at me. He looks like he really would like to answer. “We’re going to do everything we can,” he says. And then he’s striding toward the operating room doors.

They wheel Bella into surgery with little fanfare. She is stoic. She kisses Jill and Frederick and Aaron, who Jill has clearly taken to. A little too much. She keeps finding excuses to grab his forearm. Once, Bella looks at me and rolls her eyes. It feels like a candle in the darkness.

“You’re going to be great,” I tell her. I bend over her. I kiss her forehead. She reaches up and grabs my hand. And then let’s go just as abruptly.

When she’s gone, we’re moved into the big waiting room, the one filled with people. They have sandwiches and board games. Some chat on cell phones. A few have blankets. There is laughing. Yet, every time the double doors open, the entire room stops and looks up in anticipation.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get you a coffee,” Aaron says. We choose seats by the window. Jill and Frederick pace a few feet over on their phones.

“It’s fine,” I say. “I’ll go down to the cafeteria or something.”

“Yeah. It’s going to be awhile.”

“Had you met her parents before?” I ask Aaron. Bella never mentioned it, but now I’m not so sure.

“Just this morning,” he says. “Jill came and picked us up. They’re kind of a trip.”

I snort.

“That bad, huh?” he asks me.

“You have no idea.”

Jill saunters over. I realize she’s wearing heels.

“I’m putting in an order to Scarpetta,” she says. “I think we could all use some comfort food. What can I get you two?”

It’s barely 9 a.m.

“I’ll probably just go down to the cafeteria,” I say. “But thank you.”

“Nonsense,” she says. “I’ll order some pasta and salad. Greg, do you like pasta?”

He looks to me for the answer. “Yes?”

My cell phone rings then. David.

“Excuse me,” I tell the group, which now includes Frederick, who is looking over Jill’s shoulder at her phone.

“Hey,” I say. “God, David, this is a nightmare.”

“I imagine. How was she this morning?”

“Her parents are here.”

“Jill and Maurice?”

“Frederick, yes.”

“Wow,” he says. “Good for them, I guess. Better they be there than not, right?”

I don’t respond, and David tries again. “Do you want me to come sit with you?”

“No,” I say. “I told you. One of us has to keep our job.”

“The firm understands,” David says, even though we both know that’s not true. I didn’t tell anyone about Bella’s illness, but even if I did, they would be supportive as long as it didn’t get in the way of my work. Wachtell isn’t a charity.

“I brought a ton of work with me. I just told them I’m working remotely today.”

“I’ll come by at lunch.”

“Call me,” I say, and we hang up.

I sit back down in my chair. “There’s a free latte,” Aaron says, handing me a Starbucks. “I forgot to make Jill’s nonfat.”

“How could you,” I say in mock horror, and Aaron chuckles. It feels wrong here, that sound of joy.

“I guess I was a little focused on my girlfriend’s cancer.” He gives me an exaggerated headshake. “How dare I.”

Now I’m the one to laugh.

“Do you think this counts as blowing it with her parents?”

“There’s always the chemo,” I say. And now we’re both in hysterics. A woman knitting a few chairs over from us looks up, annoyed. I can’t help it, though. It feels nearly impossible to get any air, that’s how hard we’re laughing.

“Radiation,” he says,