Lana turned on the light and pushed aside the mountain of pill bottles to get to her binoculars. It was 1:30 a.m. Another sleepless night courtesy of the wonders of modern medicine. Lana glared at the unfinished dinner smoothie on the dresser, her throat seizing as she caught a whiff of its chalky blueberry froth. No one had told her chemotherapy would wreak havoc on her senses. Lana could now smell a decaying deer from a mile away, but she couldn’t taste anything. Everything she put in her mouth turned to damp wool, gummy and itching to get stuck in her throat.
There were lots of things about cancer she hadn’t been prepared for. The brain surgeries had gone well. But then the Stanford doctors in their double-breasted suits informed her they could not slice out the small army of tumors flanking her left lung. This was not a brush with death to laugh about over cocktails. It was a long-term condition, which was decidedly less glamorous.
The chemotherapy stole her energy. Then her hair, sticking to her comb in terrifying clumps until she took an electric shaver to it on a tearstained, wine-spilled afternoon. And then she lost her work. Her two-hundred-unit condo project in Westchester went to a Beverly Hills airhead who carried a hairless dog in her purse. A thirty-year-old shark who wore mirrored sunglasses indoors stole the Hacienda Lofts account. She kept her health insurance, thankfully, but everything else dried up. At first her assistant, Janie, was indignant, relaying each new slight in breathless, high-pitched voicemails as if someone were personally nailing the girl’s acrylic fingernails to a telephone pole. But Lana could hardly muster the energy to keep up the fiction of her imaginary foot condition, let alone raise the dead over another young buck who wanted to steal her perch on top of LA’s commercial real estate market. The day before Thanksgiving, Janie called to tell her she’d found a growth opportunity somewhere else. Lana was surprised to find she didn’t really care. She hung up the phone without saying goodbye.
Lana rang in the New Year with no hair, no business, and no clear answer on when it might all be over. “Too soon to tell,” the doctors intoned, as if she were a crystal ball of maladies. After three months of chemotherapy, she was now just two weeks away from her first full set of scans since treatment had started. Soon she’d know if she was improving, or if she was stuck in the back bedroom of her daughter’s shabby house forever.
A death sentence. That’s what it felt like. Even on the good days, Lana had nothing to do and no one to do it with. Beth was at work. Jack was at school or out paddling on the water. Lana hadn’t even opened the third care package from Gloria, which she knew would be stuffed with romance novels, crystals, and other worthless fantasies. All day, she watched life teem outside her window: egrets hunting along the banks, otters clutching their fuzzy babies to their chests, kayakers winding in and out of the shifting tides. She felt like a bystander, auditioning for a role that didn’t interest her. No one asking her for sign-off. No one waiting for her opinion. A life of irrelevance. It was almost as depressing as the cancer.
Two a.m. and she was still awake. The shrieks had ended, but the beach was alive with a chittering, scuffling sound. Lana pulled up the window blinds and lifted the binoculars in search of its source.
The moon was full above the slough, and the whole world looked flattened out in grayscale: wispy clouds, grainy fields, fast-moving current. Glints of moonlight bounced off the water where harbor seals surfaced, hunting crabs along the mud flats that edged the slice of beach behind the house. Beach was an optimistic word for the narrow strip of grit, weeds, and long-dead jellyfish that stretched from Beth’s scraggly neighborhood to an old power plant and the marina. Twice a day, the bank got swallowed up in a swirl of river and seawater, then spat out again at low tide, bearing tree branches, old tires, and whatever else the Pacific Ocean didn’t want.
She scanned the beach with the binoculars. At the far end, she saw sand flying into the air beneath a set of furry paws and gleaming eyes. Her shrieking demon was a bobcat, digging frantically, a dead rodent flopping in its mouth. Was it hollowing out a den in which to enjoy its kill? Or did it plan to stash the carcass for later? Whatever its intent, she hoped it would stop making a racket soon.
Lana dropped her binoculars and stared across the water. Everything here was mud and vermin. She missed her condo in Santa Monica, where the only late-night sounds were automotive, the only wildlife hypoallergenic designer pets. Los Angeles was alive in a way she understood, a buzzing hive she’d wrestled her way to the center of, as a queen, or at least not a drone. But Elkhorn Slough belonged to someone else, to creatures dark and hidden.