Anderson, except a patient he wants to help. He doesn’t know how important she is—not only to me and our children, but to her friends, her co-workers, her employees, her customers. Hell, to the whole town.
He doesn’t know she can make a perfect meringue and roll fondant like a French pastry chef. He doesn’t know she once cooked and served a flawless five-course gourmet dinner to a group of European diplomats and scholars. He doesn’t know she’s a great artist, that Mr. Darcy is her favorite fictional hero, that she alphabetizes the cereal boxes in our cupboard and likes to put potato chips inside her peanut-butter sandwiches.
He doesn’t know she paints green leprechaun footprints on the kitchen floor the night before St. Patrick’s Day, or that she made me go outside at eleven on a freezing Christmas Eve to ring sleigh bells so the kids would know Santa was on his way, or that she spends the month of October hand-making Nicholas and Bella’s Halloween costumes.
This doctor doesn’t know Liv. And he doesn’t know that saving her life also means saving…everything.
Liv laughs suddenly. The sound is startling in the hushed atmosphere of a doctor’s office. A doctor who treats cancer. A doctor who is trying to kill the cancer inside my wife.
I blink, attempting to focus on why Liv would be laughing—now of all times—at something Dr. Anderson said. He’s still speaking, also looking amused, before he reaches across the desk to pat her hand.
“It’s a good plan, Liv,” he says. “Every case is different, and yours will be unique to you, but I’m optimistic. Once we get the surgery scheduled, we can move forward.”
“What…what’s so funny?” I ask.
They both look at me.
“Funny?” Liv repeats.
“Yeah.” My tie suddenly feels too tight around my neck. “You were just laughing.”
“Haven’t you been listening?” Liv eases the mild reprimand by putting her hand on my knee. “I was asking Dr. Anderson about chemotherapy and losing my hair. He said it was likely I would, so I said I could start a new career as Sinead O’Conner. And he said, ‘Or a bowling ball.’”
I stare at her. My insides twist.
“You’re joking about losing your hair?” I ask.
She shrugs, the lingering amusement fading from her expression. “It was funny. I mean, obviously I don’t want chemo, and Dr. Anderson doesn’t know if I’ll need it yet, but…why are you so mad?”
“I’m not mad.” My fists clench and unclench.
“You sound mad,” Liv says. “You look mad.”
“I don’t think joking about cancer and chemotherapy is funny. Especially not with the doctor who’s treating you.”
I shoot Anderson an accusing look. He pales, looking aghast at the thought that he’d behaved unprofessionally.
“Dean, I apologize,” he says quickly. “I really didn’t mean to be offensive.”
“Well, you fucking were,” I snap.
“Dean!” Liv glares at me and turns toward the desk. “Dr. Anderson, you don’t have to apologize. I would much rather have a doctor with a sense of humor than one who acts like he’s sending me to the gallows. And Dean isn’t going to swear at you again.”
She looks at me as if to say, “right?” Anderson stands, his expression somber.
“It’s all right if you do, Dean,” he says. “I can take it. But I want you to know that, bad jokes aside, I’m doing everything I can to help Liv, and I’m deeply committed to her care. I’m fully on her side, and yours.”
I can’t muster up any words of thanks, but I manage to nod before turning and leaving the office. I stop in the hallway, holding the door open for Liv, hearing her voice as she speaks to Dr. Anderson again.
We walk to the parking lot in silence, Liv’s mood shifting palpably into one of tension. Now, in addition to being irritated by the doctor’s remark, I’m angry with myself for smothering my wife’s first real amusement since her diagnosis.
“Dean, come on.” She closes the passenger door and puts her hand on my arm. “I’m glad to have a doctor who doesn’t feel like he has to walk on eggshells around me.”
My fingers tighten on the steering wheel. This is about her, I remind myself. What I think or feel doesn’t matter one fucking bit if Liv is happy—or at least, satisfied—with the way things are going.
“Is this about you not liking Dr. Anderson?” she asks.
“What? No.”
She drops her hand away from my arm. I can practically feel her withdrawing, and my self-directed disgust intensifies. I start the car and back out of the parking space.
“He’s my