All You Could Ask For: A Novel (23 page)

Like all girls, I had had crushes before, but that was the first
moment
for me, the first time I learned what it is like when your heart beats a little faster and your breath catches at the back of your throat. I wanted to tell him that he knew me, even if he didn’t realize it. I was the same girl he’d seen at these dances a dozen times before, only this time I was wearing a more grown-up dress and mascara and had gotten my hair blown out at a salon. But then I also
didn’t
want to tell him. There was something about being the mysterious, pretty girl that appealed to me. It was right there, in that chair, as I said the words “I would love to,” that I first realized it was all right to be a girl and also a jock. Maybe that’s why I remember the night so well.

Or maybe it’s because of the way Andrew held me.

At first, the band was playing “Stayin’ Alive” by the Bee Gees and everyone was out of their chairs in full boogie mode, even my dad was dancing with one of the divorcées in town who had been after him since the day my mother died. But I wasn’t thinking about that. I was thinking about how well Andrew could dance, how handsome he looked in his suit. He was really tall. I’ve always liked tall men, beginning with that night.

When they finished the song, the next one they played was “How Deep Is Your Love,” also by the Bee Gees. You know that song, don’t you? I love that song, and had even before that night. I think it is the most perfectly romantic song I know. When the band began to play it that night, in the ballroom in this very hospital, I felt myself sweat a little beneath my arms. People started leaving the dance floor all around us; lots of people who were willing to boogie were not going to stay out there together for a slow song. Were we? I didn’t know. And when I looked up at him I could tell he didn’t know either. And I could see that he wanted to, and I knew I did, so I knew ultimately we would but I would leave it to him to make the decision for himself. I just stood there, sweating, trying to smile away the awkwardness until he mustered up the nerve, and when he did it wasn’t really much, just an embarrassed shrug of the shoulders, and a look that seemed to say “I’m up for this if you are,” but that was enough for me. I took a very deliberate step toward him, and then he opened his arms and I stepped between them and he pulled me in. And then it was as though there was no one else at that party, no one else in the room, no one else in the world, just Andrew Marks and that song and me.

So that was the night I learned that I like being pretty. It didn’t matter to me at all before and it has ever since. It still does, now, even as I lie here in this bed, wearing a stained cotton gown that ties in the back, thinking about the dress I wore the night I danced with Andrew Marks. It matters to me, even as I contemplate what life is going to be like for me from now on.

They removed my breasts today.

There’s no doubt it was the right thing to do, it was an easy decision to make, but somehow typing out the words isn’t quite so easy. Just looking at them now is hard, reading them in the dim backlight of my laptop.
They removed my breasts.
I have a gene that dictates I am at a disproportionately high risk of breast cancer. If not for the gene, the doctor said he would have considered just a lumpectomy, but I think I still might have asked to have the surgery. I want this out of me and I don’t want it back.

Still, it was strange to hear.

“I strongly recommend we take your breasts off.”

Like they were ski boots.

Next up is reconstructive surgery. And then, for all intents and purposes, I am cured. So, my emotions are in a peculiar state this evening. Because of my breasts, but also probably because of the drugs. And what I find most interesting is that when I woke up from the surgery, my first thought was of you. I needed to go to the forum and find out what has happened to the heroine in your story.

You don’t know me at all, and I understand that I have absolutely no right to intrude on your experience, but I can’t help myself. You didn’t respond to my person-to-person and I fully understand that, but if you can please update your story, I can’t explain why, but I need to know.

Person2Person

From: Brooke B.

To: Samantha R.

BreastCancerForum.org

Andrew Marks is my family’s pediatrician, and he is super cute.

He looks like he’d be an excellent kisser. Is he?

Person2Person

From: Samantha R.

To: Brooke B.

BreastCancerForum.org

I cannot tell you the excitement that raced through me when I logged on this morning and found my icon flashing. No one has ever written to me on the forum before and I just knew it was going to be you. (And, by the way, I don’t have very good past associations with surprises in my e-mail. I’ll tell you that story someday.
Major
drama.)

It hasn’t been the easiest day. The good news is my reconstructive surgery was a complete success, and the surgeon does not foresee any complications. Everything is as good as it can be under the circumstances. Still, I feel tired and sad, and a little worried about ever feeling as good as I did just three weeks ago. I was a serious athlete. Now I am a patient. I know I should feel grateful, I know how much worse this could have been, but I’m sorry, I’m just having a hard time feeling lucky right now.

Your note cheered me. I cannot believe Andrew is your doctor. I knew he had followed in his father’s footsteps but I had not heard he was still in Greenwich. I lost track of him while he was at Yale. He’s not on Facebook—one of the very few people I grew up with who is not. I think the last time I saw him was at his father’s funeral, maybe ten years ago. The whole town was there. I saw Andrew from a distance but I never got the chance to talk to him.

I’m not at all surprised to hear that he is good-looking. He always was, and never more than that night with the Bee Gees in our ears and me in his arms. We danced for a while, through three or four more songs, and when the next slow dance began (“Can You Feel the Love Tonight,” by Elton John), my father came barging over and announced loudly that it was his turn to dance with his daughter. I could see a funny look on Andrew’s face. He knew my dad (everybody knew my dad), and I think it was at that moment that he realized who I was. And I looked up into his eyes, afraid I’d find regret or embarrassment, but there was neither of those. Andrew just looked very content, and very handsome.

He bowed formally and raised my hand, offering it to my father with an overdone flourish. It was very corny and funny, the sort of thing that could have come off cheesy but I had such a crush on him he could have gotten away with anything. So I danced with my father and then I went back and sat down and continued to pick at the frosting on my chocolate cake. And Andrew never came back to ask me to dance again, or to say good night, or anything. I went home and ran a hot bath and lay in it for a long time.

At school that Monday I found a note in my locker, handwritten in red ink on a sheet of loose-leaf paper with holes on the side where it had been ripped from a binder.

I still have it. I love everything about it. I love that he took the time to find out which was my locker, and I love that he used the word “splendid,” which I’m not sure I have ever seen used in any context since. I still remember it as one of the sweetest encounters of my life, even if nothing ever came of it. There is something endlessly romantic about my memory of the whole thing; in fact, if you told me you had it all on videotape I would refuse to watch, because I’d be afraid it wasn’t quite as perfect as I remember. And I still think of Andrew as my first boyfriend, even though I’m afraid I can’t tell you for sure if he’s an excellent kisser.

Please write me back.

Person2Person

From: Brooke B.

To: Samantha R.

BreastCancerForum.org

Pity, he’s a hunk.

Person2Person

From: Samantha R.

To: Brooke B.

BreastCancerForum.org

I’m not at all surprised. His father was the only man in town more handsome than mine. Is he married? Does he have a family? Does he seem happy?

You may or may not know the answers to any of those. I realize he is your children’s doctor, not necessarily a family friend. Frankly, it’s
you
I want to know about. I apologize for prying when it is so clear you don’t want to share, but I’ll ask one more time and then I promise to leave it alone.

How is your heroine doing?

Person2Person

From: Brooke B.

To: Samantha R.

BreastCancerForum.org

What was the major drama you found by surprise in your e-mail?

Person2Person

From: Samantha R.

To: Brooke B.

BreastCancerForum.org

I found a naked photo of another woman in my husband’s inbox. And it happened on my honeymoon. So I was married for two days.

Person2Person

From: Brooke B.

To: Samantha R.

BreastCancerForum.org

Wow, I’m sorry.

I didn’t mean to be so glib about something so serious.

I’ll tell you, though, maybe in a way you could look at it as though you
are
lucky. You say you’re having a hard time feeling lucky, and I understand that, but in a way you are, because you found out more quickly than most that you married the wrong man. Some women don’t have the good fortune of discovering that in two days. For some it takes two years, or two decades. And it isn’t always so obvious. A nude photo of a woman seems less like a sad surprise than a sign from above, like a flashing light with a megaphone attached, blaring: “You married an asshole, run away before he ruins a lot more than two days of your life!”

I have been married a long time. People often ask me about my marriage, and I always tell them the same thing: being married to the right man is hard work but it is the most wonderful thing in the world. Being married to the wrong man is the worst mistake a woman can make. I know that to be true, not from personal experience but because I have seen it. I have practically lived it with some of my closest friends. I won’t get into any names or specifics, but just understand any number of men in the swanky suburbs turn gay when you least expect it, or become addicted to prescription drugs, or develop a sudden longing to travel the world with a backpack. Or, worse, sometimes they just become distant, because they are disappointed in themselves or envious of the husband across the street who just put a six-figure addition on his house, so they drift away emotionally, blaming the women closest to them for their own shortcomings, projecting onto their wives feelings of inadequacy that most times the women don’t even feel.

Men are complicated, Samantha, but they are also very simple. If yours was such an asshole that he was cheating on you within two days of your wedding and clumsy enough about it that you caught him, the best thing that ever happened to you is that you found out when you did. Because the alternative would be finding out
after
you had twins and a joint mortgage and reservations to go on safari in Africa. That would be much worse.

What I’m saying is I understand that you are struggling to grasp how lucky you are right now, but if you were able to read it instead of live it, you might decide that where you are is actually a fairly wonderful place. Even if you are wearing a hospital gown instead of a pretty dress.

Person2Person

From: Samantha R.

To: Brooke B.

BreastCancerForum.org

You know, I have had a lot of people say a lot of things designed to make me feel better these last few weeks: my father told me there isn’t a medical procedure known to man that will not be considered if I desire it, a nurse told me the nice thing about reconstructed breasts is I can choose the size and they will always be perky, and my best friend from college said, “Dude, you’ve always been hot and you always will be.” I appreciated all their support, but none of them made me feel lucky. You just did. Thank you.

Person2Person

From: Brooke B.

To: Samantha R.

BreastCancerForum.org

You’re welcome. Good night.

Person2Person

From: Samantha R.

To: Brooke B.

BreastCancerForum.org

Good morning!!!!

I hope you can sense the energy in my exclamation points. I slept more, and better, than I have since all this began. I awoke feeling strong and optimistic. I am going home either today or tomorrow. The end of this is in sight for me.

I also want to tell you I totally respect that you don’t want to share what is going on with you right now. I know how hard and how personal this is for me, and I understand that unlike me you have a husband to share your feelings with, to cry with, to laugh with, to hold you, to make you feel lucky.

You don’t need me. I understand that, and I won’t ask you again. But I do want you to know that I will help in any way I can if you ever do.

Person2Person

From: Brooke B.

To: Samantha R.

BreastCancerForum.org

Let me tell you about me. When I was first out of college, I worked in marketing for Donna Karan, and I enjoyed the work and the people and mostly the clothes, but to me it was not a career, it was nothing more than a job. I have never had any interest in a career; I never saw the point. What would I do? Sell something? Market something? To what end? Nothing I would be selling or marketing would be really important to me, certainly not in the way my family is.

So that is who I am. And I don’t mind at all telling you what is going on with me. What is going on is I am living my life, nothing more, nothing less. And by the way, you are right that I have a lot of people in my life to care for me and I have a wonderful husband to share my feelings with, and he often holds me, and he always makes me feel lucky, and in all the years we have been together I have never kept a secret from him. But I haven’t told him about this and I’m not sure I ever will. And if you try to tell me I have to, you will never hear a word from me again.