Live a Little (6 page)

“I’m glad.” I was. Really. Gladness personified.

Shiny’s squeaky falsetto dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “You didn’t hear this from me, but this couldn’t come at a better time for the show. Our ratings have been slipping a little. Alicia—that’s the station director—isn’t happy, Laurie’s nervous, and our biggest competitor is gaining on us. That’s why we need a win right now, something we can spin but really
matters,
you know? But we have to dot every ‘I’ and cross every ‘T’, too. Otherwise they’ll find some reason to can us, and . . . let’s just say I think it would be, like, a
travesty
if the world lost a visionary like Lauren White to the ratings wars, you know?”

She had me convinced.

“Look, Raquel, I’m glad to have this chance to talk with you, because I just want to say you’re really making a difference.

I, like, totally respect you for putting yourself out there while you’re going through this, and trying to help other women. Nobody would blame you if you didn’t, but the way you think of others before yourself, is, well, it’s awesome. And the fact that you speak your mind instead of sugarcoating everything. You may not realize it, but you’ve just become an icon to the breast-cancer community.”

Raquel Rose, icon.

Like all thoughts that brew in the cavernous pit of self-doubt and wishful thinking that is midnight ponderings, this one stinks of delusion. I lick my finger and dab at the potpourri of crumbs on my plate. Being a pillar of iconlike strength sounds like hard work. All the more reason to keep my strength up.

CHAPTER 4

Confucius Wish You Double Happiness

“I don’t understand. How can you possibly make a mistake like this?” I wail.

Samuel Meissner, M.D., sighs and rakes his hand through his Harvard-approved mop of chestnut hair. It is hard to look straight at him, now that I know where that hand passes the time when it isn’t palpating my breasts.

“Mrs. Rose, I’m sure you can appreciate the unlikelihood of two women named Raquel Rose getting breast biopsies the same week at the same hospital.”

“Not really. I mean, don’t you use computers to keep track of this stuff?”

Meissner leans back and studies me. He looks unhappy. I wonder if he gives Wendy Yen that look when she does something that pisses him off, like rushing back to San Carlos to make sure the housekeeper has finished making Connor Welch’s brats’ dinner or not letting Meissner come in her mouth.

“Mrs. Rose, you’ve just had a death sentence revoked. I would think you’d be thrilled.”

“I am. Of course I am.”
Am I?

“You don’t have cancer. The lump’s benign. You’ll live a long, full life.” He checks his watch, a fancy gold cuff that shouts Shiksa Goddess, There’s More Where This Came From.

“But how can I trust anything you people tell me after this? What if I
do
have it?”

“I promise, you don’t. The biopsy, remember?”

Oh yeah. “But . . .”
But what?
“I don’t
feel
right. I feel sick.”

Annoyance flashes, quickly veiled. “Mrs. Rose, I have a hundred percent confidence that at this moment you are suffering nothing more than an attack of nerves. You’ve had a trauma, but you’ll recover. If you want, I can refer you to a qualified therapist.” His hand dangles threateningly over his Rolodex.

“I already have one, thanks.”
And she’s going to get an earful this week!

He is halfway out the door. “Now you just skedaddle on home and tell your family the great news.”

“Skedaddle.” I hate that word, even when children use it.

I tuck the sunflower with the snapped stalk between two of its sisters to prop it up, careful to maintain the upturned motion of its face. Wouldn’t do to have a party pooper spoiling it for everyone, now, would it?

I drove home from Meissner’s office in a daze. “Reeling” would be too scrawny a word to describe my state of shock. Once you’ve had someone point the finger at you and pronounce the “C” word, it’s pretty much incomprehensible that God is going to amble on down the mountain and revise His handiwork. I’d even demanded to see the biopsies side by side. Meissner had humored me with a shrug and a sigh, but by that time the characters had blurred into a morass of ink and I’d stumbled out of the office into the sunlit, alien-looking parking lot. During the forty-nine minutes it took to locate the car, I had plenty of time to ponder the latest development.

On the one hand:
This is great, right? I won’t have to delegate the preservation of Taylor’s virginity to Phil after all.

On the other:
Several thousand people just wrote fat checks to the Bay Area Breast Cancer Alliance because I spilled my sob story.

That said:
It’s not my fault the hospital data-entry people suck.

Still:
The Alliance cashed them.

And:
You did go on TV. . . with a blow-out, no less.

But:
They told me I had to! Mom and Laurie railroaded me! I was scared!

Not to mention:
Nobody will believe you.

Hey:
It’s true!

So:
Pathological liar spins better than data-entry victim.

But:
Duh . . .

Plus:
And let’s not forget, you’ve been. . . different since this happened.

So:
Different how?

Well:
Different good.

Okay:
Whatever. Do you ever think about, you know, the other Raquel Rose?

’Nuff said.

The most pressing issue: how to break the news to my family for the second time. It seemed wrong to deliver the good— awesome? apocalyptic? weird?—news without ceremony, so I buckled down and cleaned the house, undoing some of the damage I’d done when I’d thought no one would hold it against me (salad spinner put away unwashed, household receipts plopped in art-supply drawer, wine bottle opener put back with cork rammed on). I put on a festive garment—red knit tunic and matching palazzo pants—and dabbed Chanel number something behind each ear and in the furrow of my (happy again) cleavage. My beloved tunic is, in Sue’s opinion, one small step above Jaclyn Smith for Kmart, but it does have the magical redeeming quality of expanding to accommodate whatever I care to put in my stomach. I go out and shop for foods that occupy the bottom portion of the pyramid at the snooty organic store, come home and crack my mother’s
Joy of Cooking,
and sweat my way through a four-course meal.

At the last second, I light a stick of tangerine–butternut squash incense I got free for participating in a focus group (“Mrs. Rose, on a scale of one to five, how likely would you be to buy peanut butter with fish oil in it?”). Now Phil, Micah, and Taylor will associate my second lease on life with the restorative scent of citrus and root vegetable instead of the stench of anxiety perspiration.

Sounds of teenagers and husband and canines mingling at the front door.

“Mom! We’re home!”

It’s funny how it takes a cancer diagnosis to rouse a civilized greeting. Maybe they’re afraid I’m dead?

“I’m in here!” I call gaily, Doris Day with a tumor (or not, as the case may be).

They explode into the room. I watch, amused, as the kids go through the usual ritual of dropping their backpacks on the floor then, shamefaced, pick them up unsolicited and deposit them on the countertop in a semblance of order. Taylor pauses to sniff the table bouquet, as if verifying that it is indeed real.

“Hi, all. Hungry?” I say.

Micah and Taylor nod, suspicious. I crack the oven; eau de pot roast wafts out. My kids look at each other, then at Phil, who still has a sheaf of exam papers clutched to his chest.

“I also made Micah’s favorite mashed potatoes with the baked garlic and chives. And green beans with those little bacon bits. See?” The pot lid comes off, enveloping us in a pork sauna. I wink at Tay. “I got
green tea ice cream
!” I hear myself singsong, vaguely aware that there is something frightening about my behavior but powerless to stop it.

“Mom, shouldn’t you be resting?” Micah seals the pot. Bye-bye, bacon.

I shrug. “I just felt like making dinner. I have something to tell you guys. Something great.”

“It’s just . . . We didn’t expect you to be, uh, cooking and stuff,” Taylor says.

“Why don’t you all sit down and get comfortable?” Before they can argue, I strip Phil of his papers, briefcase, and jacket and give him a wifely peck on the cheek. He leans over. I swear I hear him sniff my breath.

“Are you all right?” he whispers.

“Hon, I couldn’t be better.”

I steer the three of them into their seats and proffer the platters I created. Between the giant sunflowers, their faces peek at me, creased with worry. Oh well, that’ll change when I drop my bombshell.

Back to biz as usual.

“Isn’t this nice?” A droplet of sweat tickles the trough between my breasts, itching against the synthetic fabric of my minimizer bra.

Raquel, don’t be a freak. Just get on with it.

“Guys, you’re not going to believe this, but . . .” Why is Micah looking at Phil like that, like there’s a feral bobcat loose in the house and nobody else has spotted it yet? “I don’t have, you know, um, cancer.”

Silence.

“They mixed up the test results. It was all a big mistake.”

I smile, expecting glad cheers, backslaps, relieved tears.

Something . . . considerable.

Nothing.

“They mixed them up with somebody else’s. I know, I know. . . it’s hard to imagine, but I guess even computer networks aren’t perfect. Dr. Meissner told me today. Isn’t it terrific?” I stab my fork into a pile of green beans with a satisfying crunch. A weird giggle escapes me, as disconcerting as a public fart.

Taylor gets up, crosses the room, and kneels beside me. She grabs my hand and stares into my eyes. “Stop it, Mom. Just stop it!” Her whole body issues a rolling but subtle spasm, as if it’s coming from so deep inside her, it’s emerging diminished.

Huh?

“Dad, I think Mom needs to go to bed,” Micah says. He says it almost leisurely, as if he needs time in between words to locate the stun gun.

Phil stands up. The logo on his white T-shirt, advertising some off-Strip hotel in Vegas, filters through his gray dress shirt. What does he do with the dozens—hundreds—of plain white undershirts I buy him? Why does he think it’s okay for the world to know he’s too cheap to spring for the Bellagio or Mandalay Bay?

“I don’t need to go to bed! Why aren’t you listening to me?” I don’t mean to cry out, but nonetheless, green-bean paste dribbles from my lips. Embarrassed, I wipe it away, which only results in the formation of a big veggie mouth booger that I am forced to deposit on the tablecloth because I have forgotten the napkins. “I’m trying to tell you something important! Something important to me! You never listen! You just. Never. Listen.” I realize I am whining.

“Quel, come on. You’re tired. You’ve worked so hard on all this. And it’s great, it really is. But you just want to go to bed, right?”

I feel myself nodding. They’re right, of course. I do want to go to bed. Who doesn’t? Who doesn’t want to go to bed after slaving over a hot stove and, like, arranging flowers for four fucking hours? That doesn’t mean I have cancer. Or that I’m crazy.

Does it?

I let them lead me to my fluffy cell of a room because, truth be told, a goodly part of me does not believe what Meissner said or what I’m saying, either. Who ever heard of someone getting cancer—then ungetting it? Perhaps I imagined the conversation, or maybe this is all another dream, my version of
Dallas
and the Sue Ellen yearlong nightmare that won’t end until somebody important gets shot for ratings.

When I wake up, there is breakfast on a tray on my bedside table, and the room is ruddy with morning sun. My neck feels stiff, as if I dreamed too deeply to make the usual nighttime movements. I lift the platter lid, which some resourceful person has created out of an only slightly dingy hatbox, and sniff: steaming eggs crisscrossed with shredded cheddar and chives, chubby strawberries, and a fragrant sprinkling of bacon over the eggs that was probably rescued from last night’s green beans. Still, I have to give it an A for effort. I lean over the accompanying pink and yellow mottled rose and inhale deeply before drifting back into the mound of pillows. Delicious. A rose! A freakin’ rose!

Shit, I’m dead.

I have entered the hereafter. I must have. How else to explain the otherworldliness of my current circumstances? Breakfast in bed. Uninterrupted sleep. Absence of needy humans. Starched sheets. Quiet. Good smells. These are not things that happen to me on a regular basis.

I wiggle my toes, wondering at the authenticity of sensation, the clarity of sight. I’d envisioned something more ephemeral, gauzy, a simulation of real life, minus the bad parts, of course. Breezy islands and starlit nights. Gentle slap of angels’ wings. Skinny jeans. Sweeping flights over the unknowing heads of my loved ones, me impishly dropping hints of my presence— a whiff of perfume here, a ghostly reflection there. Piles of M&M’s. Good books. Viggo.