and me. And now more than ever, we need to remember it.
Chapter 19
Olivia
December 12
I need to be the strong one, the one who keeps our ship sailing on calm waters.
It’s my mantra, the dictate I repeat to myself as I go through our daily routine. Dr. Anderson calls me with the good news that I tested negative for the BRCA gene mutation, which solidifies my choice to go forward with the lumpectomy.
As I promised North, I go to an art store and buy a thick, high-quality drawing pad, charcoal, and colored pencils. Despite everything, it’s not difficult to think of “things that make me happy,” so in the evenings before dinner when Nicholas and Bella are reading or playing with their toys, I sit at the table and make sketches of gardens, flowers, cupcakes, and Paris.
The drawings help me look both forward and backward—walking through Paris gardens, pushing Bella in her stroller as Nicholas ran ahead chasing birds, and thinking about what new annuals I’ll plant in the garden next spring.
I start dinner preparations around six, calling Nicholas to come and do his homework. Dean comes into the kitchen, unshaven with his tie loose around his neck and his hair messy.
Usually when he gets home from work, he changes clothes and goes to hang out with the kids, occasionally coming into the kitchen to either sample whatever I’m cooking or to give me a pat on the rear. Often both. But lately he greets us all when he comes home, then goes up to his office until I text him that dinner is ready.
He puts a printout on the counter, turning it in my direction. I don’t spare it a glance as I continue slicing potatoes.
“So, did I tell you the latest in the Archey saga?” I ask brightly. “The producers want Kelsey and Archer to get married to bump up ratings for Storm Hunters. And of course Kelsey said no way in hell, and Archer is all fired up about proving they’d be even better as a married—”
“Liv, I don’t care about Archer and Kelsey’s love life right now.” Dean taps his finger on the paper. “Your surgeon is heading a clinical trial about assessing tumor margins. It’s worth asking him about.”
My spine tenses. I glance toward the sunroom, where Nicholas is doing his math worksheet and Bella is stamping out designs on her doodle pad. I want to be honest with our children about my illness, but I do not want them overhearing constant references to cancer and tumors.
“Can we talk about this later?” I ask Dean in a low voice.
“Yes, but when is your next appointment with Dr. Turner?”
“Not until the pre-op visit.”
“You have a pre-op visit? Did you schedule the surgery?”
Shit. This is a conversation I was hoping to save until later. But I know Dean will not let it go.
I drop the potato I’m holding and go into the living room where the kids have less chance of overhearing.
“When is the surgery?” Dean asks impatiently.
“Dr. Turner is one of the top-rated surgeons in the Midwest,” I say, “but that means he’s also in high demand.”
“And?”
“And that means they can’t schedule the surgery until after the new year.”
He stares at me. “What?”
“His nurse called me this morning.” I try to keep my tone calm and reasonable. “The earliest available appointment is during the first week of January.”
“We’re not waiting until January to have your surgery.”
“Well, we don’t have much choice. I talked to Dr. Anderson about it, and he said that a couple of weeks won’t make a difference, that it’s more important for me to be comfortable with my decision.”
“Hey, Mom, did my Lego Club magazine come today?” Nicholas calls.
“I haven’t checked the mail yet, honey,” I call back. “Could you go check it for me, please?”
“Okay.”
Dean folds his arms, irritation still radiating from him. “Liv, we won’t know anything else until after the surgery. We need the full pathology report.”
“I know that.” I return to the kitchen. “And we’ll get it. After the new year.”
“Why didn’t you tell me when you got the call?”
“I wanted to double-check with Dr. Anderson that the wait would be okay. And he said yes.”
I feel Dean looking at me, sense his frustration building again. I take a breath and approach him, reaching out to put my hand on his chest.
“I’d much rather wait and have Dr. Turner do the surgery than find someone else,” I tell him. “And I don’t mind waiting because that means we can still