Lightning (35 page)

Once again, Liz bought most of the presents for her, and the paper goods. But when the day came, the bakery sent the wrong cake, and Alex had forgotten to call the clown. Annabelle's best friend got the flu, and so did three more of her friends, and her party slowly fell apart. The entire day was a disaster, even with Carmen's help, and Alex cried when she saw the disappointment in Annabelle's eyes.

Sam had flown in late the night before, and he was jet-lagged and cranky, and obviously not pleased to be back, and when he saw Annabelle's chopped-off hair, he went absolutely crazy.

”How could you let her do something like that? How could you? Why did you ever let her see you without the wig?” he raged.

“I was throwing up and it was on the floor, for God's sake, Sam. I can't worry about how I look every minute. I'm sick.” She didn't realize it but Annabelle was listening to them argue with frightened eyes.

“Then she shouldn't be with you,” he accused, and with a look of absolute terror, Alex hauled off and slapped him, as Annabelle began to cry out loud, but still her parents battled on.

“Don't you ever say that to me! She's not going anywhere! And don't you forget that!” Alex yelled at him and he shouted back.

“You're in no condition to take care of her,” he roared as Annabelle flew into her mother's arms.

“Oh yes, I am,” Alex snarled at him, “and if you lay a hand on her, you sonofabitch, I'm going to hit you with the biggest fucking discrimination suit you've ever dreamed of. She's staying with me. Is that clear?” She clung to her child, shaking, as Sam glared at her in fury.

“Then keep your wig on.” He backed down only slightly in the face of Alex's threats, and his daughter's sobs. She didn't want to be taken away from her Mommy, but she also hated it whenever they fought. She knew it was probably her fault, but she was never quite sure why.

It was a rough night for all of them, and Sam left as soon as Annabelle went to bed. But the next day, he and Alex sat down and talked in earnest. This wasn't working out. It was time for him to move out, and they both knew it. Their battle in front of Annabelle the day before had shaken them both. But he absolutely amazed her by saying he didn't think he should go until she finished her treatments. As far as he was concerned, the business of Annabelle's hair seemed to prove that. He felt he needed to be there to help watch her, and keep her from getting distraught while her mother was still sick and in treatment.

“I don't need you here as a nursemaid, Sam. You can leave if you want to.”

“I'll move out in May when you're finished with your chemo,” he said firmly.

“I can't believe you're saying this to me. You're staying because of my chemo?”

“I'm staying for Annabelle's sake, in case you're too ill to take care of her. And when you're finished, I'll go.“

“I'm impressed. And then what, Sam?” She was pressing him. She wanted to know if he was going to marry his girlfriend. And who she was. But he wasn't ready to let her in on his secrets.

“I haven't figured that out yet.” But she could guess. It was pretty obvious. He was looking young and lean and very handsome. It was easy to see that he was happy and in love, and she was amazed that he was willing to hang around, even some of the time, until she finished her chemo. The end was still four months away, and nobody wanted it to be over more than Alex herself.

“Do you think you can stand it till then?” Alex asked him, pressing him again.

“I can if you can. I'm not going to be here all the time, but I'll be around and available if Annabelle needs me.”

“I appreciate it,” Alex said grudgingly, half wanting him to go, and half wanting him to stay, and not sure which was worse. It just delayed the inevitable, and she had stopped fooling herself about that. She knew that eventually, now, or in four months, he was going to leave her. And in most ways, he already had.

And when she told him the next day, Brock couldn't believe the arrangement they had come to. It made sense, for Annabelle's sake, but it was hard on everyone else, and just seemed to drag things out forever. No one was more aware of that than Daphne. She looked like a disappointed child when Sam told her what he had agreed to with Alex, to stay at the apartment with her until May.

“I so hoped you would move in with me now.” They had had such a good time in Europe. They had made love constantly and had a great time in Gstaad and then he had taken her to Paris and bought her everything they could lay their hands on. They had gone to Carrier and Van Cleef, Hermes and Dior, Chanel and Givenchy, and every little boutique she fell in love with. But what she really wanted was Sam, even though she understood his reason for postponing moving into her apartment. It was too small for both of them anyway. And he was talking about buying a co-op for them in May, after Alex finished her treatment.

“It won't be long,” he promised her, and he certainly didn't have to sleep at their apartment every night. He was going to continue doing just what he had been, and spend most of his nights with Daphne. He wanted to introduce her to Annabelle too, but he was still afraid it would be too confusing for her, and she might tell her mother. But Daphne wasn't pressing him to meet her anyway. As she had admitted to him from the first, she was not overly sentimental about children. She was not overly sentimental about many things. But she was sexual about everything, every moment, every opportunity. They had made love absolutely everywhere in Europe, including a fitting room at Dior, and another at Givenchy. She was wild and passionate, and she made him feel young again, and totally free of his problems.

Alex caught a glimpse of them again one Saturday afternoon in February. They had just come from previewing the jewelry items at Christie's, where he'd left a bid on an emerald ring for Daphne. Sam bought her a lot of things, and seemed to be happy to spoil her. And as Alex stood watching them, she saw them stroll up Park Avenue, oblivious to anything but each other. It made her sad seeing them again. A lot of things made her sad these days. The way Annabelle looked when her father left, or when she asked about him, and Alex had to find excuses about why he didn't sleep there very often. It still made her sad to see what her body looked like, or that her hair didn't grow back. And it didn't cheer her particularly when Dr. Webber suggested reconstructive surgery to her. It had been long enough since the surgery to begin thinking about it now, but she found she didn't care. She didn't like what she saw, but she was used to what she looked like. And oddly enough, it was Brock she discussed it with, and she was surprised when he thought she should have it. There was nothing she couldn't talk about with him. There was not a single sacred subject. He was the closest thing to a brother she'd ever had.

“What difference does it make, if I have one boob or two? Who gives a damn?” she said belligerently, over lunch at Le Relais during one of her better weeks without chemo.

“You give a damn, or you should. You can't live like a nun for the rest of your life.”

“Why not? I look cute in black, and I don't even have to shave my head.” She pointed to die longer, more glamorous wig she was wearing, and he made a face at her.

“You are truly disgusting. I'm serious. It'll make a difference to you one day.”

“No, it won't. I like being a freak. So what? So what, if somebody loved me, would they really care if I went to all that trouble and got an implant? I mean, hell, we're not talking about Sam. For him, I'd have to get two new ones to compete with his British bimbo.”

“Never mind.” Brock looked at her, thinking about it. “I still think you should do it. It'll make you feel good. You won't be mad at yourself every time you look in the mirror.”

“Would you care?” she asked him bluntly. “If you met a girl with one breast, I mean?”

“It could save a lot of time,” he said, making fun of her now, “save you all those difficult decisions. No, I wouldn't care,” he said honestly. “But I'm unusual, and I'm younger. Guys your age are more hung up about appearances, and perfection.”

“Yeah, like Sam. We know all about that kind, thank you very much.” She still remembered all too clearly his face when he saw her. “Okay, so what you're telling me is that I either need reconstructive surgery, or a younger man in my life. Those are my choices.”

“That's basically it,” he responded, playing with her again. She was in good spirits. And there were things he had always wanted to say to her, and never had. He never seemed to find the right moment.

“I still think it's too much trouble. Even the doctor said it hurts like hell. And the procedure sounds disgusting. They take a little skin from here, a little from there, they make tunnels and flaps and loops and bumps, and attach implants and tattoo on nipples.

Christ, why don't I just paint one on if I meet someone I like. I can do it any shape, any size, any color. You know, I could really be on to something, here,” she went on, and he laughed at her and threw his napkin at her to stop her.

“You're obsessed.”

“Can you blame me? I lost a husband with my boob, and the guy ran off and found a girl with a pair, now doesn't that tell you something? If nothing else, he was greedy.”

“I think you should do it.”

“I think I'll have a face-lift instead. Or maybe a nose job.”

“Let's go back to work before you decide to get your ears done.” He loved being with her, and working with her, and he liked Annabelle too. He had met her several times when he came by from the office with papers for Alex. Annabelle thought he was funny and she liked playing with him. He had even taken her skating one day when Alex was really sick and Carmen had the flu, and Sam had disappeared with Daphne.

They talked about their latest cases on the way back to work. Alex hadn't been to trial in four months, but there was one coming up, and she was trying to decide if she was up to doing it, if Brock helped her. She was tempted to, but she didn't want to give the client less than they deserved. It was a lot to think about while she was in the midst of chemo. And in the end, she decided to give the case to Matthew Billings.

In March, Brock invited her to Vermont again, on a weekend that Sam was taking Annabelle away. She went, and they had a lovely time. She tried skiing, and she was a little better. She was stronger, and she only had eight weeks left of chemo. She was looking forward to it desperately, but to her that meant several things. It meant Sam would move out, and move on with his life. And even though she called his friend a bimbo, she suspected that they would probably get married. He was obviously very involved with her, and he was very protective whenever Alex tried to ask him questions. He had never actually acknowledged that there was someone else, but it had become obvious that Alex knew. But he was always a gentleman, and refused to discuss her with Alex.

It also meant that Alex had to get on with her life too. She had to face the fact that Sam was gone, even if he still lived in the same apartment for the moment. When the chemotherapy was over, she could go back to trial work again. But she wasn't sure what else she wanted to do. It was suddenly more than a little frightening to be on her own again, although Brock kept telling her that the worst was already over.

They were walking back from the chairlifts in Sugarbush when he said it to her again, and she looked up at him pensively, and realized that he was right. Going through chemotherapy without a husband was pretty bad, but then again she had had Brock, and he had been there for her every moment.

He had even gone to the doctor with her once so he could understand it better and see what it was like. He had held her hand through the entire procedure. There was very little he hadn't done for her in the past six months. He had become like a brother to her, and there was nothing she was afraid to tell or show him.

They started talking about reconstructive surgery again that night, after she cooked dinner for him this time, and he told her she was a pretty good cook, though not as good as he was.

“The hell I'm not. Can you make a souffle?” she bragged. They were always like two kids together, pushing and shoving and laughing and making fun of each other, when they weren't deeply engrossed in more serious subjects.

“Yes, I can,” he lied, and she grinned at him.

“Well, neither can I,” she laughed, and they went back to discussing the surgery Dr. Webber had suggested. Sometimes they played because the things they talked about were too sad. “I don't care,” she insisted, serious at last. She really didn't want to discuss it, but Brock had brought it up.

“You should.” It was a familiar argument by now, and suddenly, she turned around and looked at him. She was completely unashamed with him. He had watched her throw up for months, and seen her bald head. She didn't see anything wrong with showing him what they were discussing. She looked at him oddly then, wondering what he would think of it. She genuinely trusted his opinion, and his kind heart.

“Do you want to see it?” she asked casually, like a kid offering to drop his pants to one of his playmates. She felt a little strange for a minute, and she laughed nervously, but he looked at her seriously and nodded.

“Yes, I would. I've always wondered what it looked like,” he said honestly. “Somehow I could never imagine it being as bad as you described.”

“It's pretty bad,” she warned. “It's not pretty, and there's a scar.” But even she knew that it looked better than it had in October. And then, without further ado, she pulled off her sweater and unbuttoned her blouse slowly and neatly. She took it off then, and hesitating for only a moment, she pulled off the thermal undershirt she wore with no bra. It was like a slow and very respectable striptease. She stood before him, in all her nakedness, with one breast bare, and the other missing.

He looked at her eyes first, before he looked anywhere else, and the way she looked at him gave him permission. It was a clean, simple look that passed between them. And as he looked at her, his heart went out to her. She looked so sweet and so young, and so vulnerable, the one breast was still high and firm, the other looked as though it had been slashed from her body with a saber. And without thinking, he reached his arms out to her, and pulled her slowly toward him. He couldn't show her anything different than what he felt. He had loved her for too long to hide it now, with her simple, courageous gesture.