Recipe for a Happy Life: A Novel (19 page)

Ten days later, when the hotel doctor came up to our room to examine me, he told me that my lungs had cleared. I was crushed. My mother went back to working the very next day, and I went back to resenting her. We flew back to New York soon after, and I spent the rest of the semester hoping, praying that I would get whatever virus was going around.

I would leave the house with a wet head on cold days, cozy up to kids who were coughing. I even took extra science labs, certain that whatever was in those petri dishes would give me something. Anything. But I didn’t get sick again.

*   *   *

“What do you mean sick?” I say.

“Why don’t we sit down and talk for a bit?” my grandmother says, trying to motion me over to a chair.

“I don’t want to sit down,” I say. “I want to know what you are talking about. Gray Goodman doesn’t get sick,” I say, parroting back one of my mother’s famous lines.

“I’m so sorry, Hannah,” she says.

“Sick how?” I say. “What does that mean?”

“Well, it means—”

“Really sick?”

“I’m afraid so,” she says.

“What is it?” I say, my voice getting smaller and smaller with each question I ask.

“It’s cancer,” my grandmother says. “I’m so sorry.”

“Well, cancer can be curable,” I say. “Which kind does she have?” I know that Priya’s mother had ovarian cancer and after a very long year filled with treatment and hospital stays, made a full recovery. I now find myself in the strange position of rooting for ovarian cancer.

“Pancreatic.”

“Is that one of the better ones?”

“It’s not good,” my grandmother says.

“I know cancer’s not good, but is it curable?”

“There is no cure,” she says. “At most, they’ll try to keep her comfortable for the next few months, but it will continue to grow.”

“Then why’s she coming out here?” I ask. “Shouldn’t we all go into the city to get her the best treatment we can?”

“Your mother is declining treatment,” my grandmother says, her head nodding downward just the tiniest bit. “She doesn’t want to spend her last few months on earth getting painful treatments if they won’t cure her. She’d rather just live out the rest of her life in peace. With us.”

“She’s declining treatment?” I ask. “Who declines treatment?”

We both answer at the same time: “Gray Goodman.”

“Sweetheart,” my grandmother says, “you have to understand. Cancer treatment is just miserable. I went through it with my sixth husband. It is extremely unpleasant and if your prognosis is either six months of misery as you go through treatment or two months if you just live your life, some people would choose to just live their days out more peacefully. Without the needles and doctors.”

“She only has two months to live?” I ask. My voice is barely a whisper.

“Darling,” she says, pulling me toward her for a hug. “I’m so sorry. It’s about two months, if she’s lucky.”

“Two months?” I say, and burst into tears. We may not get along, but she is still, after everything, my mother.

But the emotion I feel most is guilt. Guilt that I was never close to my mother. Guilt that I hadn’t spoken to her in months before she last came out here. Guilt that she’s dying alone.

“It’s going to be okay,” my grandmother murmurs into my ear, as she holds me tight in a hug. “It’s going to be all right.”

My mind goes to what my grandmother said about all of her husbands. About husband number six dying in the “best possible way to die,” as if there were a “best possible way.” You get to make peace with everyone you care about, you get to say good-bye.

That’s why she’s coming out here; that’s what she plans to do. And if that is what she wants, then I’m on board. Happiness will have to wait.

Twenty-eight

“Do you have a minute to talk?”

“I always have time to talk to you, Hannah,” Nate says. It feels so good to hear his voice. I take a deep breath and my shoulders begin to relax. After three hours, my grandmother and I are pretty much talked out about the whole thing, but it seems I still have more to say.

“Were you in court or something?” I ask, realizing that I’m about to embark on a conversation that may not be appropriate for the telephone. “I’m sure you’re busy. It’s only Tuesday.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “I’m not too busy.”

“You know what? This can wait until next weekend,” I say. I tell myself that I don’t want to occupy his mind with my problems if he’s about to go argue a big case. But maybe I just don’t want to taint what we have going so far with reality. “Let’s wait until you’re out here and I’ll talk to you then.”

“No, you should tell me now. You seem upset. Let me just close my office door for a second.”

“My mother is sick,” I blurt out, but the second I say it, I realize that he probably didn’t hear me, since I can hear the office door slam shut, and then Nate shuffling back to his desk.

“Hannah, I’m so sorry,” he says. “I didn’t hear that. Did you say that your grandmother is sick?”

“My grandmother?” I ask, and can’t help but laugh. “No, she’s like a cockroach. She’s going to outlive us all. My mother, on the other hand, is a mere human.”

“Your mother?” he asks, and I can hear something in his voice. I don’t know what it is. In that split second, I realize we’re at that point in the relationship—the one where you know you’re crazy about the other person, but that’s all you really know. You can’t stop thinking about him, but things come up that make you realize you really don’t know much about him just yet. You still don’t know what his favorite flavor ice cream is. Or if he prefers to rent a movie or go out. What his favorite book is. Or if he’s ever lost someone he really loved.

What do I really know about Nate?

I know that he works for the DA, that he lives on the Upper West Side, eight blocks from the brownstone where he grew up, that he keeps in touch with almost all of his friends from college, but none of his friends from law school. I know that he loves the beach, hates the snow, and doesn’t like to drink beer. I still don’t know how he chipped that tooth.

“She has pancreatic cancer,” I say. The words hang in front of me. I can’t believe I’ve said them out loud. Once you say it out loud, it’s true.

“My god, Hannah. I’m so sorry. What can I do?”

“Nothing,” I say. “There’s nothing anyone can do, actually. They can treat it, but it would mean living the last few months of her life in a doctor’s office, going through painful treatments, and my mother doesn’t want to live out the last days of her life like that. That’s what my grandmother told me.”

“I’m so sorry,” Nate says. “There has to be something I can do. Has she gotten a second opinion yet?”

“She’s already gotten four, actually,” I say. “My mother isn’t big on listening to authority.”

Nate laughs. “I’m coming out there right now. Stay put.”

“No,” I say. “You don’t have to come out here. I’ll see you on Friday.”

“Friday?” he says. “I can’t wait until Friday to see you.”

“I’m fine now,” I say. “I think I’m still processing the shock of it. But I have a feeling I’ll need you by Friday. I’ll need you a lot.”

I call Priya next. It’s easier to get the words out now that I’ve said them already. She offers to cancel her weekend plans to come and see me—she was planning to go to Fire Island with Detective Moretti, who she began dating the day after my interrogation—but I insist she keep her plans and just promise to call me every day.

After hanging up the phone, I don’t really know what to do with myself. What do you do on the day you find out your mother is suffering from a terminal illness? I think about what my grandmother would do in the face of such morbid news. That one’s easy: she’d go shopping for pearls. I look out the kitchen window and see that I’m not that far off. She’s out by the pool, on a chaise longue, talking on the phone.

I cannot sit on a chaise longue and talk on the phone the day I find out my mother has cancer.

I sit down on a kitchen stool and take a deep breath. All at once, the room seems small and I have the overwhelming desire to run. I take another deep breath and put my hands onto the bottom of the stool.
You are not like your mother,
I remind myself.
You are not the type of person who runs away.

But all I can think about is getting out of this house. The walls are practically closing in on me. I have no idea where I’d go. It would be silly to go back into the city when my mother is coming out here to spend her last weeks with us, but I have to do something. I have to go somewhere. I settle on a drive into town to go to the bookstore. Reading up on my mother’s condition will make me feel more in control.

I walk out to the driveway and see Hunter walking up. What am I going to say to him? He just lost his own mother and now I have to tell him about mine. I don’t want to bring back painful memories he’s trying to get over. I just want to grab him and hug him tight—tell him that everything is okay, and then will it to be so.

“Hunter,” I say, and reach out to touch his arm without realizing it.

“Hannah, we need to talk,” he says. He motions to the front porch, and we sit down on the swinging bench. I kick my feet and the bench begins to swing, but Hunter puts his feet down on the ground and stops it from swinging, saying: “This is serious.”

“It’s a serious kind of day,” I say, looking at Hunter.

“I don’t know how to tell you this,” Hunter says, “but I’ve met someone.”

“That’s wonderful!”

“No,” he says, furrowing his brow. “I mean there’s someone else. Another woman. I can’t see you anymore.”

“Another woman?” I ask. “Please don’t tell me you’ve found another thirty-four-year-old.”

“You’re thirty-four?” he asks.

“Don’t look so surprised,” I say. “Why don’t you tell me about her?”

“Oh,” he says. “Is that okay to talk to you about her?”

“Of course, honey,” I say. “I’m so happy that you’re happy.”

“Okay,” he says, still unsure of my motives. “Well, you actually met her.”

“It’s one of the girls from the beach?”

“Yeah,” he says, looking down at his feet.

“That’s so great,” I say. “Those girls seemed really sweet. Is she staying out here all summer, too?”

“Yeah,” he says. “So, I guess I won’t see that much of you now.”

“Don’t be silly,” I say. “You two are welcome over here to swim, or have lunch, or hang out whenever you want. And I expect to be invited to the next bonfire.”

“But won’t that be weird?” he asks. He clears his throat. “You know, given our history?”

“I think it’ll be okay,” I say. “I actually went out with Nate on Saturday night.”

“Nate Sugarman?” Hunter asks. “I didn’t think he was your type.”

“I didn’t either,” I say. I’m smiling despite myself.

“Well, then, that’s great,” Hunter says, and then gets up to leave. “Maybe the four of us can get together for a double date or something.”

“We’d love that,” I say. I really have no idea what Nate would think of a double date with a couple of fourteen-year-olds, but I get the sense that he finds Hunter just as charming as I do.

“Oh, and Hunter,” I say, as he begins walking down the driveway. He stops and turns around. “
We’ll
drive.”

I never make it to the bookstore. In fact, I don’t make it off the bench. I kick my foot and start to swing. All I can think about is Hunter and his mom. What she was like, what their relationship was like. How she died. How a fourteen-year-old kid can deal with losing his mother. How a mother can handle the knowledge she’s leaving a child behind.

Then my thoughts float to Nate. What will he think of my relationship with my mother? What will he do if I fall apart? Why did I insist that he not come out here until Friday? But I don’t have to think about that last one for very long.

Three hours later, Nate’s Jeep is pulling into my driveway.

Twenty-nine

The Hamptons are quiet during the week. No crowds. No weekend refugees. No reservations. Best of all, no traffic. Nate has insisted that we take advantage of this, so today—the day before my mother comes out to spend the rest of the summer in the Hamptons with us—we’re taking a leisurely drive out to the tip of Long Island. Out to Montauk. He tells me that the drive will clear my mind and prepare me for my mother’s arrival.

It’s one of those perfect summer days, the kind of day when the sun is out, but it’s not too hot. A breeze is coming off the ocean, and there’s hardly any humidity in the air. Nate is wearing a T-shirt with a pair of khaki cargo shorts. He’s even got on a baseball cap. I love that he’s forgone the usual Hamptons summer uniform of collared polo shirt and pressed khakis. I, myself, am wearing one of my Vivienne-approved outfits, a white halter sundress with flats. Nate comes to the door and rings the bell, ever the gentleman. My grandmother loves the fact that he doesn’t stay in his car and merely honk his horn at me. I have to admit, I like it, too.

He grabs me around the waist and kisses me. I wasn’t expecting it, so I lose my breath for a moment. I give in to the kiss and he tangles his hands in my hair. It sends chills down my spine. Every time he presses his lips to mine, I feel like I’m in junior high, being kissed for the first time. He looks at me, and brushes his hand across my right shoulder.

“Ready to go?” he asks. I look outside and see that he’s taken the windows and doors off his Jeep.

“I’m just going to let my grandmother know that we’ll be out for the day,” I say, and Nate nods. He grabs my tote bag and brings it out to the car.

I walk through the kitchen and then outside to find my grandmother. From the patio, I have a clear view of the pool, but she’s not on her usual lounge chair. I hear voices near the pool, so I head in that direction.

“After all these years, Viv,” I overhear Rhett saying to my grandmother. “You have a lot of nerve.”

“But you’re here now, Adanet,” she pleads, in a voice I’ve never heard before. “Isn’t that what’s important? Right now?”

I try to walk over to them quickly, so I don’t overhear any more of their private conversation, but I can’t find them. Seconds later, I see them emerging from the outdoor shower. I retreat immediately—the sight of Rhett and my grandmother walking out of the shower together is really too much for me to bear—but my grandmother sees me first.