On Grace (25 page)

As Cameron nibbles on her muffin and drinks her coffee, I tell her the entire story, starting with the not-so-sensational parts about my mom and sister, and ending with the all-too-sensational parts about Jake, the kiss, and my confession to Darren. While I do, I stare straight ahead at the television watching women try on dresses for what they assume will be the happiest day of their lives.

“Jesus, Grace.”

“I know, it’s a disaster.”

“Seriously,” Cameron says, and I sense a bit of acrimony in her voice.

“I know, but I can’t have you disappointed in me, too.”

“I’m not disappointed in you. But I feel like you are trying to sabotage your marriage. Are you?” Cameron asks.

“No. Absolutely not,” I say, taking a sip of my coffee and rearranging myself on Jack’s side of the bed.

“Then what the hell did you do that for? And then why the hell did you tell Darren about it?”

“I don’t know. It just kind of happened. I’m not going to say I didn’t allow it to happen, but it all just took on a life of its own, and it happened. And I told him because I have this innate need to be honest with people, and that’s really not such a bad thing. But now I have to deal with the nasty mess I’ve left behind.”

“Has Jake been in touch with you?” Cameron asks, trying to pick the crumbs off her shirt and duvet.

“No, and if he does email me, I’m just going to say that I don’t think we can be friends.”

“Wow,” Cameron says. “This is big. What was Darren’s reaction?”

“Well, he left. After I told him on Sunday night when I got home, he left. He went to the city, and I haven’t seen him since. I told the boys he’s on a business trip. I sent him a long email yesterday, but he pretty much said that what I did is worse than what he did, which is absolute shit, and he’s not sure he can ever forgive me,” I say quietly, the unrelenting tears starting to find their way back to my eyes.

“Jesus, Grace. What do you think is going to happen?” Cameron asks.

“Well,” I say sadly, trying to staunch the tidal wave of tears, “I originally thought that Darren just needed some time to process everything, and then he would realize that we’re going to be okay, but now I’m not so sure. I can’t believe this is all happening,” I say, shaking my head.

“I just think—” Cameron stops when the phone rings. She reaches to pick it up.

“Hello,” she says and looks at me nervously. From then, I only hear her side of the conversation: “Hi Shannon. . . . A little sore, but I’m okay, thanks. . . . And? Oh, okay. Is there someone you would recommend? . . . Okay, that would be helpful. . . . I know. Thanks, Shannon. . . . Okay, bye.”

I turn to look at Cameron and she’s holding the phone, staring straight ahead with a stunned look on her face. All of a sudden, she hangs up the phone, straightens up in bed, and turns to me.

“So, yes, I have breast cancer. Specifically, I have invasive ductal carcinoma in my left breast and lobular carcinoma in situ, which means that there’s an increased risk of cancer developing in my right breast in the future. I have to have surgery, and then based upon the pathology, they’ll be able to figure out what comes next in terms of postoperative treatment with chemotherapy and maybe radiation,” Dr. Stevens says in a very detached, clinical voice.

“Oh my God, Cam.”

“Don’t worry, Grace. It’ll be okay. They caught it early, and I’m going to be okay. Really, I am,” she says definitively. I can’t tell if she’s trying to convince herself of that or if she knows more about breast cancer statistics than I thought she did, being a pediatrician and all.

So I decide to go along with her positive attitude and leave my worrying and freaking out for when I’m alone.

“So what happens now?” I ask, deciding to be more matter-of-fact, because I know that’s what Cameron is comfortable with.

“Well, I have to find a breast surgeon to do the procedure. Shannon recommended someone at Sloan-Kettering who she says is the best. I’ll ask around and see if there’s anyone else I should meet with too, just to get another opinion. I’m assuming they’ll just need to do a lumpectomy, but since they found the lobular carcinoma in situ, it may indicate a double mastectomy. That’s what I have to find out from the surgeons.”

“Okay, is there anything I can do to help?” I ask calmly, trying not to sound patronizing.

“No, and you know what, Grace?” Cameron asks, looking determinedly into my eyes.

“What?”

“I’m really lucky.”

“Okay,” I say, unsure where she’s going with this.

“I’m lucky because I live in New York, one of the best places in the world for medical care and for cancer care. I have the connections and the resources to find the best doctors and get the best treatment. That is so empowering. It completely eliminates the stress of having no idea what to do next. I could be some scared woman in a small town in North Dakota who gets this diagnosis and has nowhere to turn. Can you imagine how overwhelming that must be? Instead, not only did I get my biopsy results the next day, I can make one phone call and have an appointment tomorrow with a leading breast surgeon at Sloan-Kettering. I’m really lucky, Grace.”

“You’re right, Cam, you are lucky. And I know that you’re going to do what you have to do and find the right people and get yourself better.”

“I am. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“But aren’t—” I hesitate.

“What, Grace? Say it.”

I turn to her and my eyes betray my fear. “Aren’t you scared, at all?”

“Oh, Grace,” she says looking into my eyes and then she hugs me. “Of course I’m scared. But I do scared very differently from you. You do scared all crying and sad and retreating and needing love. I’m not judging, I’m just saying. And that’s fine. That’s your scared, and you don’t know how to do it any other way. And sometimes I think that way of doing scared would be more comforting because other people help you get through it. But you know me. I do scared like a battalion on the front lines: a plan, a rush of adrenaline, and then lots of ass-kicking,” Cameron says, making karate chops with her hands.

I laugh.

“Yes, if it makes you feel better, then yes, I’m absolutely, ridiculously, fucking scared, but I’m not going to let it paralyze me. I’m just going to do what I have to do and get on with it. I am not seeing this as a death sentence at all. I know this is beatable. So I need you to not see it that way either. Deal?” she asks, turning toward me and putting her hand out.

“Deal,” I say, shaking her hand and drying my eyes. I smile at my friend who does scared really well and give her a hug.

“Now, I need to make some calls and schedule some appointments, but I’m not done with you and this Darren shit show, so don’t go anywhere.”

While Cameron goes into her study to get on her computer and make some calls, I open her windows, make her bed, clean up the muffin crumbs, and thank my lucky stars for this strong woman who is my best friend. I hear my phone ring, so I rush to find it in my purse before it stops ringing. It’s Darren.

“Hey,” he says in a detached voice.

“Thanks for calling me. I really need to talk to you.”

“What’s up?” I hear him typing. He’s not paying attention to me, so I just spill it.

“Cameron has breast cancer,” I say in a lowered voice. Cameron is downstairs, but I don’t want her to hear me.

“What?” The typing stops. I know I have his full attention.

“She went to the OB yesterday for a routine exam, and he felt a lump. She had a mammogram yesterday and then a needle biopsy. She just got the results. It’s cancer.”

“Shit.”

“I know.”

“How is she doing?”

“She’s being very Cameron. I’m at her house right now, and she’s on the phone making appointments with breast surgeons. She’s acting very gung ho and normal, so I don’t know if she’s in denial or if she’s really that strong. I would normally say she’s really that strong, but this is cancer, Darren.”

“I know. Well, I guess we need to let her handle it in her own way. I can’t believe what a bad run of it she’s having.”

“I know. It’s horrible.”

“Do you think it’s okay if I send her an email and let her know I know?”

“Yes, I think that would be really nice. I’m sure she’d appreciate it.”

“Okay, I’ll do that.”

“Do you have time to talk about some stuff with me right now?”

“Not really, and I’m not really ready to talk to you anyway. I need to figure some things out in my head, and I’ve just been really busy at work, so I haven’t had much downtime. I’m actually calling because I have on my schedule that you need me to be home early so you can meet your father in the city for dinner. Do you still need me to do that?”

“Yes, thank you. I have one of the high-school girls from the neighborhood coming over after school, but if you could get home by 6:30 or so, that would be great. And I know the boys would love to see you.”

“Okay.”

“Darren—” I start.

“I gotta go, Grace.”

And then I realize he has hung up.

I take the 4:42 train to Grand Central. My train gets in at 5:26, a half hour before I’m supposed to meet my dad at the Oyster Bar, his favorite restaurant in New York and a convenient one at that, being on the bottom floor of Grand Central. I walk up to the balcony of the terminal and go to The Campbell Apartment, one of my favorite bars in New York City, for a glass of wine and some quiet contemplation.

The Campbell Apartment was the private office of John W. Campbell, who was a tycoon in the 1920s. It is a spectacular space with soaring ceilings, a huge leaded-glass window, and enough historic Grand Central architectural details for me to admire in one sitting. The bartender gives me the wine with a sly smile, motions to the other end of the bar, and tells me the man sitting there has bought the wine for me. I look to see who my benefactor is, a little annoyed that I’m now going to have to deal with some stranger’s overtures and wondering why the guy didn’t just make the extra effort to notice that I have a wedding ring on, the universal sign for, ‘No need to waste your time and money on me, friend.’ I see an attractive older man with slicked-back, graying hair impeccably dressed in a dark suit, a white shirt, and a decidedly Hermès ice-blue tie. He raises his glass, and I do the same, and then he smiles and gets up from his seat.

“It’s my father,” I say to the bartender, not wanting him to think I’m that easy. Or into old guys.

“Uh huh,” he says and gives me a look that means he’s heard that one way too many times.

“Hey, Gracie,” my dad says to me, giving me a kiss on the forehead.

“Hey, Dad. Thanks for the drink. Funny meeting you here.”

“I was early, and I remember you mentioned this place to me last time we ate at the Oyster Bar, so I figured I’d give it a try. And you were right. It’s magnificent.”

“Well, I’m happy to see you. How has your trip been going?”

“Fine, just fine.”

My dad and I sit amongst the splendor of The Campbell Apartment, enjoying our drinks, and talking about the case he’s working on.

“Do you remember the first time I bought you a drink?” I ask, nudging my dad in the shoulder.

“I certainly do. It wasn’t in quite as rarefied a place as this,” he says, laughing.

“No, not quite,” I say, laughing along.

“A beer on tap from Smokey Joe’s, I believe,” he says.

“That would be the place. But in my day we called it Smoke’s, Dad.”

“Right, Smoke’s,” he says of the dive at Penn, my dad’s alma mater as well as mine. He had been in New York for work one week and took the train to Philly to visit me for an afternoon. After a walk through campus, I decided that we should go to Smoke’s so I could buy him a beer. I remember feeling so grown up. I wasn’t even 21, but my fake ID worked fine at Smoke’s, and my dad didn’t mind. I know he was proud of me that day, that he stopped seeing me as a little girl and was starting to look at me as a woman. And I could tell by the way he said goodbye that night that, in his own way, he felt sentimental about his baby being all grown up.

“Well, shall we?” my dad asks as he hands money to the bartender, who winks at me.

“We shall,” I say, sneering at the bartender.

My dad has been coming to the Oyster Bar forever. A venerable New York institution, the restaurant opened in 1913 but fell into disrepair until it reopened in the 70s as the much-lauded, beautifully designed restaurant it is today. I am smitten with the vaulted Guastavino tile ceilings as much as I am smitten with the gorgeous astronomical ceiling in the terminal’s main concourse. The dining room is crowded and filled with an interesting mix of tourists, commuters, and native New York Oyster Bar devotees. After we order—oysters Rockefeller and a tuna steak for my dad, and a shrimp cocktail and grilled salmon for me—I tell him about Cameron.

“Oh, Gracie, that’s just terrible,” my dad says with a grimace, setting his butter knife and roll back down on the plate.

“I know. But she says the statistics are in her favor, and she’s going to go all Cameron on cancer and get rid of it.”

“Well, I hope that she’s going to be okay.”

“I know. I can’t imagine losing someone else close to me.”

“I can’t imagine it either,” he says, looking into my eyes, knowing that I’m talking about Danielle just as much as he’s thinking about her. For someone so tough as nails in the courtroom and so seemingly emotionally simple, I know my dad is deeply distraught to this day over the death of his daughter. He smiles at me and we make a silent truce to change the subject.

“How’s Darren’s business going? The market is doing quite well these days.”

“Well, yeah, Darren’s doing well. Very busy.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to see him.”

“It’s just hard with sitters and all, so I thought it would be easier if he stayed home with the boys. Next time, though. Hopefully, you’ll come in for longer, and you can come up and see the boys.”

“That would be nice, Gracie.”

I stare down at my plate and fidget a bit as I decide whether to tell my dad about my and Darren’s problems.

“What is it?” my dad asks, sensing my internal debate.

“I don’t know if Eva already told you, but Darren and I are having some problems.”