Rebecca Serle - In Five Years

“Dannie,” Aaron says, like he’s choosing his words very carefully. “It’s important that you know that I’m not going anywhere.”

“Why?” I ask him.

A jogger passes by and, sensing the tension of the moment, crosses the street. A car horn honks. A siren whirls somewhere down Hudson.

“Because I love her,” he says.

I ignore the confession. I’ve heard it before. “You don’t even know her.”

I start walking again. A kid zooms past us with a basketball, his mother sprinting after him. The city. Full and buzzy and unaware that somewhere, fifteen blocks south, tiny cells are multiplying in a plot to destroy the whole world.

“Dannie. Stop.”

I don’t. And then I feel Aaron’s hand on my arm. He yanks and turns me around.

“Ow!” I say. “What the hell.” I rub my upper arm. I am, all at once, overcome with the urge to slap him, to punch him in the eye and leave him, crumpled and bleeding, on the corner of Perry Street.

“Sorry,” he says. His eyebrows are knit together. He has a dimple in the space above his nose. “But you need to listen to me. I love her. That’s the long and short of it. I don’t think I could live with myself if I bailed now, but that’s not even relevant because, like I said, I love her. This isn’t like anything I’ve ever had before. This is real. I’m here.”

His chest rises and falls like it’s taking physical effort to be upright. That I understand.

“It’s going to be more painful if you leave later,” I say. I feel my lip quiver again. I demand it to stop.

Aaron reaches out to me. He takes both my elbows in his palms. His chest is so close I can smell him.

“I promise,” he says.

We must walk back. I must call a car. We must say goodnight. I must come home and tell David. I must, at some point, fall asleep. But later I don’t remember. All I remember is his promise. I take it. I hold it in my heart like proof.

On Tuesday, October 4, I arrive at Mount Sinai on East One Hundredth Street an hour before the scheduled surgery. I still haven’t spoken to Bella, but I come to her pre-op room to find both her father and mother there. I don’t think they’ve been in the same room in over a decade.

The room is loud, even boisterous. Jill, her hair blown out and impeccably dressed in a Saint Laurent suit, chats with the nurses as if she’s preparing to host a luncheon, not for her daughter’s reproductive organs to be removed.

Frederick chats with Dr. Shaw. They both stand at the foot of Bella’s bed, arms crossed, gesturing amicably.

This isn’t happening.

“Hi,” I say. I knock on the side door that is obviously already open.

“Hey,” Bella says. “Look who made it.” She gestures to her father, who turns around and gives me a sideways wave.

“I see that,” I say. I put my bag down on a chair and go to Bella’s bedside. “How are you?”

“Fine,” she says, and I see it right there — the indignant stubbornness that has been avoiding me for the past week. Her hair is already in a cap, and she’s wearing a hospital gown. How long has she been here?

“What did Dr. Shaw say?”

Bella shrugs. “Ask him yourself.”

I take a few steps down. “Dr. Shaw,” I say. “Dannie.”

“Of course,” he says. “Notepad woman.”

“Right. So how is everything looking?”

Dr. Shaw gives me a small smile. “Okay,” he says. “I was just explaining to Bella and her folks here that surgery will take about eight hours.”

“I thought it was six,” I say. I’ve done extensive research. I’ve barely left Google. Filing statistics. Researching these procedures, recovery times, added benefits of taking out both ovaries instead of one.

“It could be,” he says. “It depends on what we find when we get in there. A full hysterectomy is usually six, but because we’re also removing the fallopian tubes we may need more time.”

“Are you performing an omentectomy today?” I ask.

Dr. Shaw looks at me with a mixture of respect and surprise. “We’re going to do a biopsy of the omentum for staging. But we will not be removing it today.”

“I read that a complete removal increases survival odds.”

To his credit, Dr. Shaw does not look away. He does not clear his throat and look to Jill or Bella. Instead, he says, “It’s really a case by case.”

My stomach turns. I look to Jill, who is up by Bella’s head, smoothing her cap-covered hair.

A memory. Bella. Age eleven. Crawling up into my bed from the trundle because she’d had a nightmare. It was snowing and I couldn’t find you.

“Where were you?”

“Alaska, maybe.”

“Why Alaska?”

“I don’t know.”

But I did. Her mother had been there for a month. Some kind of two-and-a-half-week cruise followed by a specialized spa.

“Well, I’m right here,” I said. “You’ll always be able to find me, even in snow.”

How dare Jill show up. How dare she claim ownership and offer comfort now. It’s too late. It has been too late for over twenty years. I know I’d hate Bella’s parents even more if they didn’t show today, but I still want them gone. They don’t get the place by her side, especially not now.

Just then Aaron walks through the door. He’s holding one of those carry trays full of Starbucks cups and starts handing them out.

“None for you,” Dr. Shaw says, pointing to Bella.

She laughs. “That’s the worst part about this. No coffee.”

Dr. Shaw smiles. “I’ll see you in there. You’re in great hands.”

“I know,” she says.

Frederick shakes Dr. Shaw’s hand. “Thank you for everything. Finky speaks very highly of you.”

“He taught me a lot of what I know. Excuse me.” He makes a move toward the door and stops when he reaches me. “Could I speak to you in the hall?”

“Of course.”

The room has descended into caffeinated chaos, and no one notices Dr. Shaw’s request or my exit.

“We’re going to try our best to get all of the tumor. We’ve categorized Bella’s cancer at a stage three, but we really won’t know definitely until we take tissue samples of the surrounding organs. And I know you raised a concern about an omentectomy. We’re just not sure how far it has spread yet.”

“I understand,” I say. I feel a deep, wet cold creep from the hospital floor, up my legs, and settle in my stomach.

“It’s possible we may need to remove a portion of Bella’s colon as well.” Dr. Shaw looks to Bella’s door and back at me. “You are aware that you are listed as Bella’s next of kin?”

“I am?”

“You are,” he says. “I know her parents are here, but I wanted you to be made aware, too.”

“Thank you.”

Dr. Shaw nods. He turns to leave.

“How bad is it?” I ask him. “I know you can’t tell me that. But if you could — how bad is it?”

He looks at me. He looks like he really would like to answer. “We’re going to do everything we can,” he says. And then he’s striding toward the operating room doors.

They wheel Bella into surgery with little fanfare. She is stoic. She kisses Jill and Frederick and Aaron, who Jill has clearly taken to. A little too much. She keeps finding excuses to grab his forearm. Once, Bella looks at me and rolls her eyes. It feels like a candle in the darkness.

“You’re going to be great,” I tell her. I bend over her. I kiss her forehead. She reaches up and grabs my hand. And then let’s go just as abruptly.

When she’s gone, we’re moved into the big waiting room, the one filled with people. They have sandwiches and board games. Some chat on cell phones. A few have blankets. There is laughing. Yet, every time the double doors open, the entire room stops and looks up in anticipation.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get you a coffee,” Aaron says. We choose seats by the window. Jill and Frederick pace a few feet over on their phones.

“It’s fine,” I say. “I’ll go down to the cafeteria or something.”

“Yeah. It’s going to be awhile.”

“Had you met her parents before?” I ask Aaron. Bella never mentioned it, but now I’m not so sure.

“Just this morning,” he says. “Jill came and picked us up. They’re kind of a trip.”

I snort.

“That bad, huh?” he asks me.

“You have no idea.”

Jill saunters over. I realize she’s wearing heels.

“I’m putting in an order to Scarpetta,” she says. “I think we could all use some comfort food. What can I get you two?”

It’s barely 9 a.m.

“I’ll probably just go down to the cafeteria,” I say. “But thank you.”

“Nonsense,” she says. “I’ll order some pasta and salad. Greg, do you like pasta?”

He looks to me for the answer. “Yes?”

My cell phone rings then. David.

“Excuse me,” I tell the group, which now includes Frederick, who is looking over Jill’s shoulder at her phone.

“Hey,” I say. “God, David, this is a nightmare.”

“I imagine. How was she this morning?”

“Her parents are here.”

“Jill and Maurice?”

“Frederick, yes.”

“Wow,” he says. “Good for them, I guess. Better they be there than not, right?”