She shifts to make room for me, a hollow space beside her hip. “I’d like to walk to the beach while the sun is out.”
“There must be extra sweaters in the chest,” I say.
She sits up, adjusts a pillow behind her back. “I went to the gynecologist last week. I missed my period.”
“And?”
“I was sure I was pregnant.”
“I spoke to you last week. You didn’t say anything.”
“I was afraid if I said anything, I’d lose it again. I kept thinking ‘third time’s a charm.’” She takes a sip of coffee, makes a face. “We should have stopped at Cumby’s for milk. Anyway, I’m not.”
“Anna. Fuck. That sucks. I’m so sorry.”
She puts her coffee on the windowsill, looks down at her hands, turns them over, staring at them. She traces her finger across the upper line of her right palm. “Remember life lines?”
I nod. “Remember love lines??”
Anna laughs. “Mine had all those little feathers off it. Lindsay called them my slut lines.”
“Whatever happened to Lindsay?” I say.
“I’m never going to have a baby,” Anna says.
“Of course, you will. You’re only thirty-three. You just have to keep trying. You’ll probably end up with four brats that look and act like Jeremy.”
She shakes her head. “I missed my period because I have the Big O.”
“Why would that make your period late?”
“Ovarian cancer,” she says.
“The Big O means an orgasm, you idiot.” The words are out of my mouth before I realize what she has said. The room stops breathing, dust motes freeze in place, sunlight balks at the windowpane, waits. Inside me there’s a silence like cement.
I shake my head. “You don’t.”
“Elle.”
“How do they know it’s not just a fibroid?”
“It’s stage four. It’s already spread.”
“Have you even gotten a second opinion, because if you haven’t, you have to do it right away.”
“Elle, be quiet and let me talk. I mean it. Just. Shut up, okay? They saw spots on my liver. They are going to go in next week, but the doctor says to prepare for bad news.”
“That’s just one possibility. It could also be completely operable. They don’t know yet. You’ll do chemo and radiation. We’ll get the best doctor in New York. You are going to be fine.”
“Okay,” Anna says. “If you say so.”
“I say so.”
“Well then, we have nothing to worry about. Let’s walk to the beach.” She throws off her bedding, pokes me in the hip. “Move, please, so I can get out.”
“I know you hate physical affection, but I’m going to give you a really big hug, and you’re going to have to deal with it.”
“Fine. Give me a second to prepare myself.”
I put my arms around her and hug her so close. “I love you, Anna. It’s going to be fine. I promise.”
“Love you back,” she says. “I don’t know why I hated you so much when you were little.”
“I was annoying.”
“I was angry.”
“You were terrifying. You still sort of are.” I laugh.
“Do you remember that time Conrad sucker-punched me on the porch?” Anna asks.
“Yeah.”
“Leo grounded him and he fell down and cried. I still feel bad about it.”
“Why? He hit you.”
“Because I goaded him. I wanted to get him in trouble.” She stares out the big plate-glass window at the pond. The sun is hitting the ice at a perfect angle, so that it shimmers like crystal, throwing off sparks. “I was so mean to him,” Anna says.
“You were mean to everyone.”
“After Leo sent him to his cabin, I locked myself in the bathroom and cried. I have no idea why.” She gets up and goes over to the stove, picks up the metal jug, pours water into the kettle. “I saw some mint tea in the pantry,” she says.
“I’ll get it,” I say.
“It’s weird, the things we remember. There were probably a million worse things I did back then, but when the doctor told me about the cancer, that day with Conrad was what came into my mind. How horrible I’d been. And then he died the next summer.”
“It was two summers later,” I say. “You were working at that kibbutz in Santa Cruz.”
“Why was I doing that? A kibbutz? I must have been on acid.” She laughs, and for a moment she’s entirely herself again. “I keep thinking if I’d been a nicer person, this wouldn’t be happening to me. What if that whole karma thing is true? I could come back as a centipede. Or a blood clot.”