and said: ‘I wanted so badly for you to kiss me that night.’ And we stood up and he held me just the same way, and we made out standing there in my father’s living room.”
“Could you hear the song in your head?” I asked.
“I think I could.”
“Samantha,” I told her, “I’ve heard a lot of stories, but that is the most romantic first kiss of all time.”
I could only barely hear over the wind whipping past. “I know,” she said.
SAMANTHA
IN THE RIGHT LIGHT, everything is fabulous.
I forget who said that, but I read it somewhere, and it’s true. This morning, the light is just right everywhere, and everything is fabulous. The sunshine reflecting off the Hudson River as I passed the George Washington Bridge, in particular, was gleaming with endless possibilities.
On these sorts of days, even a chemotherapy center seems brighter, cheerier, and it helps when the patient is in good spirits, which Katherine clearly was. I could tell the moment I arrived. There was a twinkle in her eye, almost as bright as the sun on the river. Something had happened, and she was excited to tell me, but first she wanted to know about Andrew.
As I recounted, in intricate detail, every second of my evening and long night, I found myself looking around the room more than I ever have before. I’ve been in this center with Katherine more times than I can count, but I suppose I have usually been so focused on her that I’ve blocked out everything around us. I haven’t paid much attention to the large, open room with the lounging chairs and intravenous drips positioned behind each one. Or the nurses’ station in the center of the room, and the rotation of friendly, supportive nurses, one cheerier than the next. Or the table with food and drink, pastries and finger sandwiches, juices and coffee. The food is for the visitors, but I’ve never eaten anything. Neither has Katherine; usually her treatments leave her nauseated and sleepy, and cold. She always has a large cashmere blanket draped around her shoulders and a quilt over her legs. Today I helped myself to coffee and glanced around at the other patients. Some were dozing, others reading, some were listening to music; not many of them looked sick. They looked alive, and Katherine did, too.
After I finished the story of my date with Andrew, Katherine lowered her reading glasses to the tip of her nose, like a teacher about to ask a tough question.
“Why on earth didn’t you fuck him?” she said, too loudly.
I shushed her and looked around. But no one was staring at us. If any of the patients had heard her, it wasn’t obvious.
“Please, Katherine,” I said, “have a little class.”
“Please, Samantha,” she said, mimicking my tone, “I have more important things to worry about right now than maintaining the proper decorum.”
“To answer your question,” I said, “it wasn’t the right time and it wasn’t the right place.”
“Listen to me,” she said. “After all the history, I think doing it in your father’s house would have been the perfect place, and if he’s as good-looking as you say he is then I’m not sure there could ever be a bad time.”
“Well, aren’t we all riled up this morning?” I said. “What’s gotten into you?”
So she told me about her visit from Phillip, and the money and the herpes and his clumsy, pathetic advances, and when she was finished there was only one conclusion to be reached.
“My goodness, Katherine,” I said, “we need to celebrate, and you need a little action.”
“You bet your ass,” she said, and we both laughed.
Then it hit me. “Saturday night!” I said, slapping my forehead. “Marie’s wedding! Black tie, fancy-schmancy, perfect occasion for a little flirting. We have to shop for your outfit tomorrow.”
“It would be perfect, you’re right,” she said. I saw the arrival of the wistful look that occasionally came over her and heard it in her tone. It was the “but” in everything. That’s what living with cancer means, more than anything. There’s always a “but.”
“Well,” I said, moving it along, “I hope you’re ready to shop tomorrow, because you are going to be the hottest thing at that party.”
It looked to me like Katherine was holding back tears. “Thanks, Samantha,” she said.
That’s another way I knew she was sad. Katherine is one of those people who doesn’t use your name much when she talks to you. When she does, it usually means she’s sad.
So I