Kate Jacobs (36 page)

twenty-eight

The sun was blazing hot by eight A.M. on
Saturday morning
;
Georgia wanted to not have to think, to just sleep the day away since Dakota
was off in Baltimore. But the little window-unit air conditioner was no match
for the sticky, humid weather. The air was stifling.
And so were the decisions weighing on Georgia, about surgery and side effects
and statistics. That's what she didn't want: to become just another number.
Another anonymous patient battling a devastating diagnosis.
How do you fight cancer anyway? You can't reason it away. Georgia had always
tried to think things out, not react hysterically, but simply weigh the pros
and cons and make informed decisions. It's how she approached the business, how
she looked at the idea of romantic relationships (after the first go-round with
James back in the day), how she dealt with her complicated exchanges with Bess
and Tom.
Telling the club had been good. The choices were still hers, but now she had
the ideas and input from the entire group. It made her feel stronger somehow.
Braver.

* * *

After a quick shower, curls still wet and
ringletlike
, Georgia decided to take a walk around the
block, maybe grab a bagel before opening the store. She didn't have to;
Peri
had offered to take another full day, but now that the
cancer wasn't a secret, she didn't feel so much as though she had to hide.
A summer Saturday means corner fruit stalls all around the city, as street vendors
push grapes and tomatoes and peaches for
supercheap
prices, far less than in the grocery stores. Trucked in from farms up-state,
the produce was fresh and delicious—a bargain sweet treat for every New Yorker
trying to stretch her food budget. Buying fruit on the sidewalk was a city
ritual, something that Georgia and Dakota loved to do, deciding beforehand to
spend only $5 and then seeing what they could get for the money, rushing home
to make a giant fruit salad. Rounding the corner of Broadway, Georgia saw the
regular corner vendor and waved.
He held up a basket of Rainier cherries.
"Fresh, fresh," he said, gesturing to her.
She swerved around a few pedestrians on the sidewalk and came over to inspect
the fruit, standing alongside some other customers surveying the table.
"Okay," she said, pointing to a few plums as well. "I'll take
them."
It was a busy morning at the fruit stand. The woman next to her was buying
corn, carrots, lettuces; a dark-haired man in a black polo shirt selected
fourteen apples.
"An apple a day," he joked. "Or two, for extra insurance."
That voice. Seemed vaguely familiar. Which was, by definition, unusual. She
didn't interact with a lot of men: most of her customers were women, and she
had basically four men in her life—James, Marty, her dad, and Donny. So why did
this one sound like someone she knew?
Georgia looked over.
It was Father Smith. From the church. The priest Lucie had introduced her to
when she went to discuss baptizing the baby.
Georgia'd
said, what, three words to the guy? He wouldn't even remember her. To be safe,
though, she avoided his eye, waited for the vendor to hand her the plastic bag
of cherries and plums so she could scram out of there.
"Oh, hello," boomed the priest.
She looked up from staring down the celery.
"Oh, Father," said Georgia, feigning surprise. "I didn't see you
there. You look different without the collar." She brought her hand up to
her throat, pantomimed a collar. Idiot!
The priest nodded. "I love the fruits of the season," he said,
hoisting up his bag of apples.
"Me, too," she said. "
Gotta
go."
She turned to leave and then hesitated. Why not? Why not just ask him? She
pivoted on her heel.
"Father Smith," she began. "I'm not Catholic. But I was
wondering if I could ask you something."
"About your friend Lucie?"
"
Nooo
," she paused, thought about
abandoning the conversation. "About me."
"Shoot," he said amiably, standing on the street corner, dressed in a
black shirt and khaki knee-length shorts, bag of apples in hand.
"You don't dress like I expected you would."
"Is that your question? I always get that one. I don't know why people are
so keen on what priests wear." He chuckled. "Don't always wear the
collar on my free time."
"Oh. Do you want a coffee? My friend runs the deli around the
corner."
Father Smith looked carefully at Georgia for a moment.
"I'd love one," he said. Even though he'd had his personal limit of
two cups a day already. "I like that deli—they have great pastrami."
"My knitting shop is right above it," said Georgia. "Walker and
Daughter."
"Are you the daughter?"
"No, I'm the mother—Georgia Walker," she said. "And I guess the
mother thing is kind of why I want to talk to you."
They went inside, got two cups of hot coffee from one of Marty's employees, and
sat down at one of the tiny tables.
"Father, I want you to know that I'm not into all sorts of churchy
mumbo-jumbo," she began.
"Okay, I'll try to keep the mumbo-jumbo to a minimum." To her
surprise, he didn't seem the least bit offended.
"I didn't mean to be rude," said Georgia. "It's just that I,
well, I'll get straight to the point. I've been diagnosed with ovarian
cancer."
"Yes, yes, I see. That's a trying thing."
"I haven't told my daughter yet. She's thirteen. And it just seems so
unfair. Unreal. I just want to know why this happened to me."
She waited expectantly. The priest looked back at her, pensive, nodding.
"Well," he said, after a time. "I don't know. But I do know it's
not because you did something bad, if that's what you're thinking. It's not
something you deserve."
"It's not, right?"
"No, Georgia Walker, it isn't." Father Smith shook his head.
"I'll tell you right now that I don't have all the answers you may be
looking for. I'm not God. But I can tell you some things that I believe."
"Please."
"I believe sometimes medical issues just happen—they're not cosmic tests;
they're not retribution for all the naughty things you've done over a
lifetime," he said. "It's not some moral righting of the universe.
It's just something going wonky with the wiring."
"Okay, and…"
"And I think God cries when we're in pain; he cries with us and he
supports us. But I also believe he stands back and lets us sort things out.
Lets the doctors do their work. Lets your body heal itself."
"And if it doesn't?"
"Then he welcomes you with open arms. God isn't really about the body, you
know—he's about the soul."
"So if I pray hard enough then I'll get better?"
"No, no, that's not what I mean at all. Praying isn't a form of divine
insurance. It's just a way of communicating, just a way of opening your
heart."
"By that definition, an honest conversation with anyone is a form of
praying."
The priest tapped his nose. "You're right on there, Georgia Walker."

* * *

The chat had lasted for a long time and left her
feeling, if not exactly certain, then at least reassured that everything could
work out all right; in the end, the Father had told her his door was always
open and offered a blessing, which Georgia felt good about receiving but
assured him she had no intention of ever coming to Mass. They parted with
smiles and a warm handshake, and she'd met up with
Peri
at the shop and given her a big hug, had asked about the purse sales at
Bloomie's
, and looked at the
pics
of the mannequins holding
Peri
Pocketbooks. Anita,
K.C., Darwin, Lucie, Cat—they'd all pretended to have a reason for stopping by,
streaming in and out of the store. But it was good to have them around, to know
she had their support. To talk with them and offer it up to God.

* * *

It was late afternoon on Sunday when Dakota and
James finally hustled their way in the apartment door, dragging behind them a
giant stuffed whale and a bulging shopping bag.
"Mom! It was fantastic!" Dakota ran to give her a big hug. "I
met everybody. And they all seem to really like me." She was aglow.
"My parents pulled out all the stops," explained James.
"Impromptu visit number two turned into a massive family barbecue and
birthday party for Dakota, complete with gifts and a giant ice cream
cake."
"So that means I got two parties this year."
"Pretty lucky, I'll say."
It was nice to see James and Dakota so animated, so relaxed with each other.
But that just made what she had to do next that much harder.
"Guys? Let's sit down for a sec. There's something I have to tell
you."

twenty-nine

Fuzzy. Faces. Looming above. "You're
fine." "You're fine."
"You're fine."
Voices nattered at her: Anita. And James. She'd had a vague fear, after she
told him about the cancer, that he'd cut and run. But instead he'd been at her
side like glue until she went to the hospital, had even tried to get
Peri
and Anita organized to keep the shop running. (Georgia
had told him not to get
overinvolved
. A phrase that,
to be honest, she'd never imagined tossing out at the guy who had hardly been
around for most of Dakota's life. Crazy how things work out sometimes, she
thought.) And now there he was, peering at her, his lips moving.
"I love you," said James. "Do you hear me, Georgia, I love
you."
She mumbled in reply, felt Anita's cool hand stroking her cheek.
"There, there, dear. It's okay to cry."
It had been her idea for Dakota to stay back at the apartment with Cat, to not
see her so drugged up. And she was glad for that. God, she felt as though
someone had parked a truck on her chest. And tired. Very, very tired. Georgia
closed her eyes, just for a moment, just to try to make sense of everything.

* * *

Hours later, she woke up, the same faces
hovering around the room.
"Hey," she said weakly.
"Oh, you're doing great." That was Cat. There she was. Looking perky
in a navy-and-white striped dress. And there was something different about her.
"You cut your hair," said Georgia, her voice raspy.
"Like that's important," said Cat. "It's my breakup hairdo. You
know, clean slate and all that." She smiled at Dakota over the bed: the
two of them had spent the previous day getting their hair and nails done. She'd
told the teen that it was to make themselves look extra-special for Georgia,
but really it had been the best distraction she could find. For Dakota and for
herself. There was so little she could really do, thought Cat, glancing about
the room. It was private, another thing she'd quietly arranged for Georgia. If
there was one thing money could buy in America, it was good health care. And
pride? That could get you in to see the top doctor; she'd signed all the
documents agreeing to the settlement the same time Georgia got in to see
Ramirez. Adam was always true to his word when it came to money deals.
"Mommy?"
"Hi baby," said Georgia. "How long have I been asleep?"
"You woke up a few times in the night—do you remember?" interjected
Anita.
"No."
"Well, it's morning. Tomorrow. You got out of surgery yesterday
afternoon."
"Are you in pain, Mom?"
Everyone was talking all at once. It was overwhelming. Georgia held up her
hand.
"Okay, okay, everybody, I think that's the signal that we've come on a
little strong," said James. "Besides, if the doctors catch all of us
in the room at the same time, we'll be in trouble."
The group filed out, leaving only Dakota with Georgia. She reached out for
Georgia's good hand; the other one was hooked up to the morphine drip and a
push button clipped to her finger, in case she wanted more medication.
"Are you okay, Mom?"
"I am now, sweetheart," said Georgia. "Now that you're
here."

* * *

The week was a blur of sharp pains and a
constant throb of soreness that permeated every movement, of indignities large
and small, of trouble going to the bathroom and seeping out in other spots as
the incision healed. Georgia felt exhausted, yucky, relieved to be through it;
her excessive sleeping and soap opera–viewing interrupted daily by visits from
the usual suspects. She tried hard to be attentive and listen to Dr. Ramirez
explain the surgery: her ovaries and uterus had been removed, and she'd needed
a small amount of bowel resection as well. She nodded sagely when he explained
that they'd gotten all the cancer they could see, but that it appeared she was
in stage III, which was serious but certainly not hopeless. They would have to
stay the course with chemotherapy and possibly, down the road, a second-look
surgery.
"Bring it on," she told him, her face pale beneath the bravado.

* * *

It was difficult to tell one day from the next,
though Cat's daily
morningflowers
helped her keep
track. On the fifth bouquet, she was surprised to get a knock on the door.
Typically, when it was Anita, James, or Dakota, they all barreled inside,
filled with chatter and carrying magazines and candy bars. This time, the
visitor waited, then knocked again.
"Come in?" No one entered. Georgia assumed it was the morphine; maybe
she was finally hallucinating and dreaming up phantom visitors?
The knock came again.
"Come in!" yelled Georgia, causing a sharp jab in her abdomen as she
automatically stretched her body toward the noise.
The door opened. And there, in a beige belted trench coat that was too hot for
a New York August and holding an oversized brown leather handbag, stood her
mother, Bess. Shadowed closely by Tom, all white hair and big hands that he
kept pulling in and out of his pants pockets.
"Hello, Georgia," said her mother. Primly. "Your father and I
have come to see you."
A moment went by as Georgia thought about what to say. But no words came out.
Just a mangled cry and searing, hot tears that made her insides feel as though
they were going to rip apart. Bess's arms were around her instantly as mother
and daughter rocked together.
Turned out she didn't have to say anything at all.