Storm in a B Cup - A Breast Cancer Tale (32 page)

“Why didn’t the
skeleton go to the ball?”

I move my face
from his chest, and look up, past the manly profile, into his eyes, “That’s
your idea of a joke?”

“I have
children. I have to keep it clean.”

So, I humour
him. At least, I’ve stopped with the crying. Almost. “Okay. Why?”

“He had no body
to go with.”

“Seriously?” I
begin to laugh. I laugh so much my stomach starts to hurt and I forget I was
sad. Jared laughs too. It’s a deep, gutsy sort of laugh and one that I find I’m
awfully attracted to.

And that’s when
the other insane thing happens. As our laughter abates, we become still and
something changes. He’s looking at me, not like a friend, but like a lover.
He’s bending his face towards mine and after a brief pause, perhaps to consider
if the following action is wise, his lips move towards mine.

“Okay, you
blokes. Time to get this show on the road.”

Jeff has
appeared in the doorway. For the first time in history, I see a look of
awkwardness on his face. His eyes are as big as golf balls. “Holy shit. Sorry,
I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Jared and I
spring apart like we’re magnets repelling each other. He runs a hand through
his dusty hair and bends to pick up the last box by my feet. I hope he doesn’t
feel he’s made a mistake by almost kissing me. I don’t think it was a mistake. I
could burst out laughing at the absurdity of it.

I glance at
Jared out the corner of my eye. He’s now at a safe doctor-patient-friend
distance, which is made more obvious by the box he’s hugging to his body, like
a suit of armour. He’s adopted the detached, yet empathetic, look of the surgeon.

“We’re doing a
final check,” he replies. “Making sure the windows are locked and we haven’t
left the dog behind.”

Jeff lets out a
huge belly laugh. “Sure. Right. Thank Christ, you didn’t say you were getting
something out of Sophie’s eye. ’Cause there’s not a hope in hell I would’ve
believed that.”

Tension
diffused, we do a final pass of the house. Then I lock the door on my old life
and get in the car and as I do, I can’t help but wonder what this new
development means. I’ve closed the door
—
literally
—
on the past three years and now a new door is
opening.

*****

The packing
boxes have been left in their respective rooms for unloading and the furniture
is in a type of order throughout the house. Well, the beds are in the bedrooms
and the sofa is in the lounge. I’m not happy about it though, the positioning
is wrong. I’ll have to move it.

With moment’s
reflection as to how Brendan may have subliminally influenced my sudden need to
put the sofa in another spot, I bend my knees and take hold of one of the arms.
I’m tired. Even though I haven’t been moving boxes, this day has been
exhausting both emotionally and physically. If I get this sofa where I want it
to be, I’ll be able to relax. Then I can tackle the task of feeding
 
these men.

Completely
forgetting that I had major surgery on my stomach a couple of months back, I
give the sofa a hefty push and as I do, there’s a sudden tightness in the left
side of my stomach, right near my navel. It feels like a very large, five-course
dinner is lodged in my intestines and is trying to escape. Either that or I’m
giving birth to a litter of puppies from my belly button. I rub my hand over
the spot, hoping it will disappear like it has in the past but as my hand
slides over the huge lump, I know it’s got no intention of doing that. In fact,
I think I may have made it worse. I let out an anguished groan.

Lifting my
t-shirt, I take a good look at the thing in its stretched-skin glory. There’s
an egg-shaped bulge extending from my navel to somewhere near my groin. I try
to poke it back in which, of course, doesn’t work. So, I do the only thing I
can after a day of emotional upheaval, I flop down on my nicely positioned sofa
and wail.

When is this
torture going to be over? Am I such a revolting person that I must be
constantly punished like this? Can’t my life go back to some semblance of
normal? Not that I’m even sure what that is anymore.

By the time
Jeff, Jared and the other two men have finished unloading the outdoor setting, I’m
lying on the lounge room floor, praying that the bulge disappears so I can walk
around the house without looking six months pregnant. I had surgery to correct
that cosmetic fault, thank you.

“What
are
you doing, Sophie?” Jeff asks, as he
escorts his team of helpers into the kitchen, where I’ve left a slab of cold
beer in the fridge. “I’ve heard of lying down on the job, but that’s taking it
a bit literally.”

“I think I may
have a hernia,” I say. “My stomach feels like it’s going to explode.”

“How did that
happen?”

“It was there
before, but I tried to move the sofa and I think I made it worse.”

There’s a good
deal of grumbling about women wanting to be independent before Jared, beer in
hand, comes over to where I’m lying. He squats down beside me. “Do you want me
to take a look?”

“If you two are
going to get up close and personal again, I’ll take the boys outside,” Jeff
comments.

Jared rolls his
eyes and holds out a hand to help me up. “Come into the bedroom.”

“And isn’t that
the phrase every woman in Perth wants to hear from you?” Jeff jokes. Then sees
my glare of disgust and promptly suggests he might fire up the barbecue as
Angela will be arriving shortly with the kids.

In the bedroom,
Jared instructs me to lie down on the bed and unzip my shorts. He’s put his
professional hat on and I can see he’s taking this very seriously, so I’m not uncomfortable,
despite the fact that I’m lying on my bed and he practically had his lips
locked on mine an hour ago.

He puts his
beer down on the floor beside the bed and peers at my side. “May I?” he asks,
indicating he wants to touch the spot.

“Of course.”

He places his
fingers gently on my skin and a flash of chemistry darts from my navel setting fire
to the muscles in my stomach. I wriggle against it but only because I’m trying
to hide that his touch is turning me on.

“Am I hurting
you?” he asks.

“No, I’m fine.”

As long as I
don’t contemplate the idea of wanting to grab him and pull him on top of me.

Jared moves his
fingers closer to the top of my leg where he presses again. I can feel the heat
in his fingers. I can see the concentration on his face as he asks me to clench
my stomach muscles and watches to see the alien springing from my side. Then he
gives a doctorly nod.

“It’s a
hernia.”

“But how?”

“You’re stomach
muscles must have been weakened by the Tram Flap surgery. Moving the couch has
caused it to open further. It’s a common occurrence.”

“Can you fix
it?”

“Easily. Ring
my rooms on Monday and make an appointment. We’ll schedule you in for a repair.”

“But my other mastectomy?
The implant surgery?”

How many more
am I going to need? The tally is almost in double digits.

Jared stands to
look out the window as I zip up my pants as pull myself to sitting on the side
of the bed. “We’ll sort it out when you come into the surgery. This is a minor
blip, believe me.”

“But I look
like I’m pregnant! And it’s so uncomfortable.” I know I’m whining and he’s
being very patient with me.

“Monday,” he
says, facing me again. “We’ll discuss it Monday.”

I let out a
sigh. “Okay, but can I ask you a question? Something personal?”

“Yes.” He
swallows. Well, it’s more of a nervous-type gulp actually.

“Did you really
sleep at the hospital when I was in ICU?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Jared’s quiet. His
eyes are on the carpet. He seems to be contemplating his answer. “It wasn’t
about you as a person. It was more about me as a surgeon. I wasn’t brought up
to fail. My parents put enormous pressure on me to be the best and even when I
thought was, I had to keep proving myself. Straight A’s on a school report
weren’t enough.”

This isn’t
exactly what I want to hear. “So you don’t ‘like’ me like that? You just felt you’d
failed after the surgery didn’t work and you were trying to fix it?”

“That’s more
than one question.” His voice is jokey but I can tell he’s tense about the answer.

I give him my
best ‘don’t be smart’ look.

“I have
feelings for you, Sophie. You must have worked that out by now. As a doctor, I
know I shouldn’t and I’ve felt so guilty because of it. I convinced myself my
feelings clouded my professional judgement, in regards to your care.” He walks
towards me and looks down. His legs are so close to my knees we’re almost
touching. “I’ve worked hard to be the best surgeon I can, to show everyone I’m
not as useless as they think I am. Then I let this happen.”

God, I’m
confused. Is he talking about me or the surgery now? Am I just ‘something that
happened’?

“When things
went pear-shaped,” he continues, “the self-doubt came back. I don’t like to
fail, Sophie. I
don’t
fail. I
couldn’t face what I’d done to you, especially with my personal feelings
appearing at the most inappropriate times
—
like in the operating theatre. The only way I
could do my job was to remain at a distance. I couldn’t even look at your
face.”

I want to reach
up and hug him to me, to take away the terrible pain in his eyes. Instead I
stand, bridging the gap between us. It’s almost another invitation for him to
kiss me. “And that’s why you were acting weird after the surgery? I hadn’t done
anything?”

“Yes. I mean,
no. You know what I mean.”

I mull this
over for a second. Strangely enough, I can understand his reasoning for
everything. It must be hard to have to be that person all the time, to always
be striving to prove something to the world. Still, I’m not sure I want another
man like that in my life. One obsessive-compulsive was enough. “So you’re a
perfectionist?”

“You ask an
awful lot of questions.” He’s smiling again. The tension’s gone. “And no, I’m
not a perfectionist. Well, maybe only a little bit. And only with my work.”

“You don’t line
up tins in the pantry and re-fluff the cushions if the dent in the middle isn’t
right, do you?”

“Not in recent
history.”

“Are your
shirts in colour-coded, seasonal order?”

“You can come
and check if you like. Most of them are in a crumpled pile in the ironing
basket.”

Now, I’m
smiling too. It’s nice to have things out in the open. I still have no idea
where I stand, romantically speaking, but at least our friendship is back on an
even keel. I tempt fate with one last question. “So you want to like me but you
can’t, either because I remind you that you failed or because you’re afraid you
might get indiscreet with me in the examination room?”

Jared takes a
step away. A mischievous twinkle sparks in his eye. “If you think about it for
a while, I’m sure you’ll be able to answer that question yourself,” he laughs. And
without even retrieving his half-full bottle of beer, he rushes from the room
like I’ve suggested group sex with his friends might be a good idea.

*****

“So, Jared
kissed you?”

I’m curled up
on the couch with a hot cup of tea, the dog and the phone. It’s been less than
an hour since everyone went home after helping with the move but already Angela
feels the need to call me to establish whether the news is true. Jeff has a
habit of stretching reality for the sake of comedy.

I reach over
and rub my fingers over the soft fur on Grover’s ears. “Nearly.” I sigh,
knowing that owning up to what happened is the only way to stop her talking
about it.

“And you wanted
him to?”

“Of course I
did. He’s hot Ange. And he’s sweet. Why wouldn’t I want him to kiss me?”

“May I remind
you, he’s your doctor?”

“May I remind
you, you tried to set us up some months back? You should be overjoyed at this
development.”

“Oh I am, I am.
But I’m also pondering your surgical future. Clearly, you can’t go on with the
doctor-patient relationship now.”

“He didn’t rip
my clothes off and have wild sex with me on the rug.”

Not that I’d be
saying no to that at this point in time.

“From what Jeff
said, it sounded as if he was about to.”

“Oh for Pete’s
sake. As if you’d believe anything that husband of yours says. He’s a stirrer.
Don’t you remember when he sent you that picture of him and Nicole Kidman from
his last trip to Sydney and you thought it was real?”

“He had me
going for days, the bastard. How was I to know he’d been to some function at
Madame Tussauds?”