Kate Jacobs (33 page)

* * *

The doctor's receptionist answered after only
two rings: "Dr. Spelling's office. Can I help you?"
"Hi, uh, I'm a patient—my name is Georgia Walker—but I'd like to make an
appointment for someone else. She's in her seventies."
"That's fine, older women should still come in for an exam. Is this your
mother?"
"Oh, no, just a friend—but I said I'd come with her for support. You know,
sit in the waiting room and all that."
"You've recently had a pelvic yourself?"
"What? Uh, no. But I'm fine."
"How old are you?"
"Thirty-seven."
"Then if you haven't had an exam in the last year, you really should come
in. And since you're going to be here anyway…"
Georgia didn't really want to do the whole feet-in-stirrups with the little
look-see between the legs. But she didn't think she was going to be able to get
the receptionist off the phone otherwise. "Okay," she said.
"We'll see the two of you next Wednesday at nine, Ms. Walker. Have a nice
day."
Well, that didn't exactly go as planned, thought Georgia. But then what ever
does?

twenty-five

Pancakes on a Monday. Well, why not? The shop
was
closed as
usual, she'd muddled her way through the dreaded visit to Dr. Spelling the
previous week, and she and James and Dakota had come off an absolutely stellar
summer weekend, including a Saturday night birthday party in which they'd taken
their daughter and ten of her closest friends to see the latest teen flick. It
was awesome, just being all together. As a family. Their own kind of family.
And as for their elaborate machinations to keep the intimate side of things
under wraps—the way James would ring the doorbell in the morning, as though he
hadn't just spent the night—well, Dakota didn't seem to be buying it. Georgia
suspected as much, but somehow it had just seemed too strange to discuss
James's sleepovers.
"Hey honey, Dad is staying the night tonight!" Nah. It had been
easier to make James throw on a pair of sweats and run down to Marty's for
coffee, pretend he'd gone for a morning jog in the park. Never mind that his
apartment was across town on the East Side. It was feasible. Technically.
But last night James sprung his theory that he thought they should be open.
Really open. As in moving-in-together open.
Georgia offered several reasons why they shouldn't, of course, past history at
the top of the list.
James's rebuttal: If it's real, why wait?
"On that logic, we should just get married, silly," she'd said,
expecting a smart-ass response. She didn't get one.
"Okay."
Georgia lay there, stunned, watching the ceiling tiles. Counting them. There
were a lot. Eighty-two, in fact.
"Um, that wasn't a proposal."
"Oh," he said, unfazed. "Too bad. So how's that moving-in thing
looking to
ya
?"
"Maybe a little better than a few minutes ago."
"I would marry you, Walker."
"Yeah." Georgia propped herself up on one elbow. "I think that's
what I'm afraid of."

* * *

It had taken a long time to fall asleep, which
meant they almost missed waking up early to toss James out on the street for
him to "arrive" while she and Dakota were eating breakfast. Or, as
was the case today, making pancakes.
James rang the buzzer, having bought a bottle of water at Marty's to slap some
"sweat" on his face. It was his little nudge to Georgia.
"Hey, honey, Dad's here!"
"I was just jogging again and for some reason, ran across Central Park
instead of in it." James's voice boomed theatrically.
"Hi, Dad." Dakota didn't look up from the griddle. "Pancakes are
almost ready and today I put in blueberries."
Georgia walked over to the table and, for the first time, noticed that her
daughter had set it for three.
"Smart kid," muttered James so only his lover could hear. They sat
down to eat, this new Walker-and-Foster unit, passing the orange juice and the
milk for coffee, glancing at sections of the
Times
. Just like any other
family.
"Where's the syrup?" James.
"I eat '
em
straight up, with just butter."
Dakota.
"Well, I have both butter and syrup!" Georgia said, rummaging in the
cupboard for a container of maple. The clinking of knives and forks on plates
was interrupted by the beeping of Georgia's cell phone. A message.
"I'll just get that and see who it is—Dakota, make sure you eat some
fruit, too." She flicked open her phone and dialed her voice mail, then
turned off the cell.
"Who was that, baby?"
"Nothing much, just someone following up, uh, on an order for the
store."
And then she watched her daughter and her…boyfriend—yes, her boyfriend!—as they
washed and dried the dishes, not even leaving the griddle to be scrubbed later
but putting it away clean as new. She read the paper on the bed as James took a
quick shower and got dressed and gave a thumbs-up to Dakota's shorts-and-tee
ensemble for day camp, then stood at the door in her pajamas, waving them off
for the day.
They'd forgotten to talk to Dakota about moving in together. She had, in fact,
neglected to tell them anything.

* * *

"Anita?" It was barely three hours
later; Georgia was talking into her cell phone on the street, wearing a hooded
sweatshirt even though it was a warm July day. Not New York–sizzling, to be
sure, but sunny and bright. With a breeze that was picking up in intensity.
"Georgia, I'm so glad you called!" Anita was chatting away. "So
you won't believe: I snore in my sleep. The doctor said so. Can you
imagine?"
"You snore," Georgia repeated, straining to hear over the noise on
multilaned
Park Avenue as the taxis honked and screeched
their way uptown and downtown.
"Yes, and what a shock. I have a condition called sleep apnea—I saw it on
one of those newsmagazines years ago, but I thought you had to be a fat man to
get it." Anita was laughing. "Good thing I didn't you-know-what with
Marty or I might have snored him right out the door!"
"So it's not serious?"
"Well, not if you treat it—but that's why I've been so tired. I'm not
getting enough oxygen," she explained. "So I'll go to a sleep
disorders clinic and get some sort of mask I can wear at night. It's very Darth
Vader."
"And you don't think that'll freak out Marty?"
"Oh, no, dear. Men love contraptions." Anita spoke with confidence.
"In fact, you can always—"
Georgia cut her off. "Did you hear from Dr. Spelling?"
"The gynecologist? Oh, yes, last week. I'm all good. Didn't think to
mention it. A bit of advice on getting back into the swing of things, though.
So we'll see," said Anita. "So did you tell Dakota about James?"
"What? Uh, no, I didn't."
"I thought that was your plan?"
"It was. But I got a phone call, Anita, a phone call from Dr.
Spelling." Georgia's voice cracked. "And I saw her again today."
"Oh my goodness, you're pregnant. I knew it!" The older woman was
making cheering noises in the background. "Another baby! Oh, it's so
wonderful. A little quick, maybe, but who am I to judge?"
Georgia stopped moving on the sidewalk, bothered by the wind blowing in her
face and the tightness in her chest. She turned around so the gusts were
hitting her back and put a finger in her right ear to block out the street
noise, pulling the cell phone close to her mouth.
"No, Anita, just stop. It's bad. Really, really bad." Georgia lowered
her voice to a whisper, though no one was paying any attention to the
curly-haired woman talking on her cell phone in the middle of the sidewalk.
They just maneuvered around her, on their way to job interviews and lunch dates
and shopping sprees with the girls. All the oh-so-important details of a
regular life. Was this really happening?
"Dr. Spelling says I have a tumor on my ovary. A big one. And it looks
malignant."
There was a gasp on the other end of the line.
"What did you say? I don't think I heard you properly."
"I have cancer," said Georgia, snapping her phone shut and swaying
slightly in the sea of people walking around her, listening as the phone began
to ring and ring. Knowing Anita was calling her back.
"I have cancer," she said to no one in particular.
"Cancer."

starting again

Every knitter has a sweater left unfinished;
the bags of bits and pieces stashed away and never picked up again. And why? A
change in fashion? A change in season? If that was so, you'd just pull out the
stitches and use the yarn for something new. No, there's a secret hope that
makes you hold on, to dream that you'll get it right someday, that you'll go
back and take it up again and it will finally come out right. That this time
all the pieces will fit. The mistake is waiting until you feel renewed enough
to give it another try. You simply have to pick up the needles and keep at it
anyway.

twenty-six

She'd gone several blocks before hailing a cab,
ignoring
the
phone all the while; it had become silent by the time she was riding across the
park to the West Side. Georgia got out at the curb, could see Marty through the
glass of his store window, looked up at the big window one floor above and the
Walker and Daughter sign hanging there. Thank God it was Monday, and she didn't
have to focus on customers and the shop; James was at work, Dakota at camp,
Peri
enjoying a day off, and Anita…
She knew where to find her. Climbing the stairs, Georgia wasn't surprised to
see the door to the yarn store unlocked, to see her dear mentor sitting at the
table in the center of the shop, hands in her lap, waiting. Like a child caught
being naughty, Georgia skulked her way into the room, for once not glancing
around and taking in all the colorful merchandise that lined the walls. She sat
down and faced Anita. Not sure of what to say or do next. The older woman
brought her hands out of her lap and reached across the table; Georgia did the
same. They held hands for a long time across the table, silently.
"Okay," said Anita, finally breaking the quiet. "We'll just
figure out how to get through it."
"Okay." It felt better to just agree. Her mind was spinning.
"So tell me everything the doctor said."
"I have a tumor on my ovary. And it's big."
"And?"
"The fatigue, the upset stomach, the bloating—all the little stupid things
I've been complaining about for the past little while," sighed Georgia.
"It's all been symptoms, probably."
"But that's like having a flu," said Anita. "Isn't there
supposed to be some big thing, a can't-miss clue?"
"I guess not—she said the signs can be vague."
"But you're so young! I'm twice your age and I've never had a tumor."
"I don't know anymore!" Georgia groaned. "I can barely remember
what she said." Anita nodded; she'd had enough friends experience
breast-cancer scares to know how the brain just turned to mush when you heard a
doctor say that word. Cancer.
"So we'll call the doctor and I'll be on the phone this time and we'll
take notes."
"Okay." Georgia was staring at Anita, holding her hands so tightly,
willing her old friend to know how to save her.
"Let's start at the beginning, though, and you can just tell me as much as
you can."
Georgia took a breath and then shared the details of her appointment with Dr.
Spelling the day she'd gone with Anita, how the MD had felt something that she
thought was most likely a benign cyst. Something common. They'd done some blood
work and she had her receptionist make an appointment for an ultrasound, which
Georgia had gone back to do the previous Thursday morning, before the shop
opened.
"Why didn't you say anything when we left Dr. Spelling's?" Anita
frowned.
"She said it was just routine, and I decided I wouldn't worry anyone
unless there was anything to worry about." Georgia pulled her hands back
and ran them through her curls. "I wanted to keep things under
control."
"So why didn't you tell me on Thursday?"
"Because the ultrasound technician told me before she even started that
she wasn't able to comment—her job was just to perform the procedure,"
said Georgia. "I didn't want to be a pain in the ass, so I didn't press
her. I tried to sneak a look at the screen, but it was hazy and hard to figure
out what was what."
"And then?"
"And then Dr. Spelling's office called today and said I needed to come in
and boom! 'Here are the findings and look, now we need to get you to a
specialist.'"
Tapping her fingers on the table, Anita seemed lost in thought for a moment.
She made a clicking sound with her tongue. "So, okay, I'm going to start
making some calls."
"I thought you didn't know any doctors in the city?"
"That's different: I didn't know any doctors that I wanted peering down
there, and I wasn't about to ask my son David to recommend someone." Anita
was dry-eyed and reflective, rummaging through her handbag for that pen and
paper again, ready to make a list. Georgia had expected her to be all emotional
and blubbery. But the silver-haired dynamo was all business. "Some of my
friends have sons and daughters who became doctors, and I'll call David to see
if he has a connection with the kind of specialist you need."
If it had been something else, something not so dire, Georgia would have
pooh-poohed Anita's help, saying it was too much trouble. Don't spend so much
effort on me, she would have said, it's not important. Or she would have
insisted that she could figure it out all by herself.
But not this time. She needed the help and she knew it.
"Thank you, Anita."
"Thank me when you're fifty-five and playing with your grandchildren,"
responded Anita in a clipped tone. "Until then, let's save all our energy
for dealing with the problem at hand."

* * *

Thirteen is a magic age. Old enough to know too
much; still too young to know everything. Georgia watched Dakota so closely at
dinner the previous night that she made her daughter self-conscious.
"What? Do I have food on my face or something?"
"No, I just enjoy looking at you," she said. "You're my favorite
person in the whole wide world."
Dakota grinned, turned to her dad. "You know what that makes you, Dad?
Chopped liver!"
And they all laughed, James and Dakota with gusto, Georgia with restraint. Why
tell them now? She'd wait until she had more details. And when James brought up
the moving-in-together thing again, she put him off, suggested that he go to
his own apartment to sleep.
"I'm just tired," she said.
"Me, too. Let's just go to sleep," he replied. "I don't know how
long I can keep up this daily sex thing anyway! We might have to cut back, you
know, or run the risk of a heart attack."
Georgia barely responded.
"I'm just joking," James said. "I'll go home if you want, but
I'd rather stay here. And just sleep. I promise I'll run out in the morning and
pretend I've just come from a yoga class or something."
"I just kind of want a night to myself."
James considered for a moment, wavering between hurt and anger, and then moved
on to reasonableness.
"You know what? You're right. I might be a little smothering," he
admitted. "I just wanted to make up for lost time. But absolutely, take a
night for yourself. Can I still see you tomorrow?"
"Yeah."
"Can we make fajitas?" Dakota had just walked into the room.
"Sure, baby," said Georgia, relieved to know she'd have some hours to
think.
Now it was Tuesday morning and she lay in bed listening to the sounds of Dakota
thumping around, changing her outfit several times before being ready for her
first day of drama camp. Anita had made some decisions, about having
Peri
come in early to watch the store today while the two
of them made calls and did Internet research in the apartment upstairs. Having
delivered her huge order of
Peri
Pocketbook felted
purses to Bloomingdale's on time and in a variety of shapes and colors—with
cute labels sewn in by Lucie and Anita and
Peri
herself, of course—the fledgling handbag designer was more than happy to
accommodate Georgia's change in schedule. "No problem," she told
Anita. "I'll let myself in and stay the entire day if you need me."
Georgia hauled herself out of bed to sit in the kitchen while Dakota
chowed
on cereal and juice.
"Where's Dad?" asked her daughter. "I thought he'd come by after
yoga class or something."