Rebecca Serle - In Five Years

I nod. “This is her husband,” I lie. I’m not sure what the rule is for boyfriends. “He’d like to go back.”

“I’ll take you,” she says.

I watch them disappear down the hallway. It’s not until they’re gone, and Jill and Frederick are cornering me, asking questions, demanding we get the nurse back, that I feel happy for Bella for the first time. This is the thing she’s wanted forever. This, right here. This is love.

Bella is supposed to spend seven days in the hospital, but because of her age and general health she’s released after five, and on Saturday morning I meet her at her apartment. Jill has gone back to Philadelphia for the weekend to “take care of some business,” but hired a private nurse who runs the place like military quarters. The apartment is spotless when I arrive, more orderly than I’ve ever seen it.

“She won’t even let me stand up,” Bella says.

Every day she has looked better. It’s impossible to understand how she could still be sick, how there could still be cancer cells in her. Her cheeks are now rosy, her body has regained its color. She’s sitting up in bed when I get there, enjoying scrambled eggs and avocado, a side of toast, and a cup of coffee on a tray.

“It’s like room service,” I say. “You always wanted to live at a hotel.”

I set the sunflowers — her favorite — I brought on the nightstand.

“Where is Aaron?”

“I sent him home,” she says. “The poor guy hasn’t slept in a week. He looks way worse than I do.”

Aaron has kept vigil at her bedside. I went to work, slogged through the days, and came in the morning and night, but he refused to leave. Watching over the nurses, her monitors—making sure no misstep was made.

“Your dad?”

“He’s back in Paris,” she says. “Everyone needs to understand that I’m fine. Obviously. Look at me.”

She holds her hands above her head in proof.

Chemo doesn’t start for another three weeks. Long enough for her to recover, but not long enough for any cells to spread in a significant way — we hope. We don’t know. We’re all grasping. We’re all pretending now. Pretending this was the hard part. Pretending it’s over and behind us. Now, sitting in her sunny bedroom, the smells of coffee surrounding us, it’s easy to forget it’s a pretty, dressed-up lie.

“Did you bring it?” she asks.

“Of course.”

From my bag, I produce the entire season of Grosse Pointe, a WB show from the early two thousands that performed so poorly it apparently doesn’t warrant streaming on any service. But when we were kids, we loved it. It’s a sitcom about the behind-the-scenes of a fictional WB show. We were so meta.

I ordered the DVDs and brought my old computer — the one with the DVD player from ten years ago — with me.

I take it out now and reveal it to her.

“You think of everything.”

“Just about,” I say.

I kick off my shoes and crawl into bed with her. My jeans feel too tight. I abhor people who walk around in workout clothes. It’s the entity of the reason I could never live in Los Angeles: too much Lycra. But even I have to admit, as I tuck my legs in underneath me, this would feel more comfortable with some stretch. Bella wears silk pajamas, embossed with her initials. She makes a move to get up.

“What are you doing?” I say, springing into action. I toss my body across hers like train tracks. I lunge.

“I need some water. I’m fine.”

“I’ll get it.”

She rolls her eyes but tucks herself back into bed. I leave the bedroom and go into the kitchen where Svedka, the nurse, is furiously washing dishes. She looks up at me, her face practically murderous.

“What do you need?” she barks.

“Water.”

She pulls a glass down from the cabinet — a green goblet from a set Bella bought in Venice. While the water is being poured, I look out over her living room, the cheerful color, the bright spots of blue and purple and deep forest green. Her window drapes hang in soft folds of violet silk, and her art, collected over the years from everywhere she’s gone — high and low — lines the walls. Bella is always trying to get me to buy pieces. “They’re investments in your future happiness,” she tells me. “Only buy what you love.” But I don’t have the eye. Any art I own, Bella has picked out for me — usually gifted.

Svedka hands me the water glass. “Now move,” she says, cocking her head in the direction of the bedroom.

I find myself bowing to her.

“She scares me,” I say, handing Bella her water and getting back into bed.

“Leave it to Jill to find a way to imbue this situation with even more anxiety.” She laughs — a tinkling sound, like twinkle lights.

“How did you even get these?” Bella asks me. She takes the computer and opens it. The screen is dark, and she hits the power button.

“Amazon,” I say. “I hope it works. This thing is centuries old.”

It sputters to life, groaning at its own old age. The blue light flashes and then stills, then the screen appears in a flourish, as if presenting—still got it.

I tear the last of the plastic and pop in a DVD. The screen buzzes and we’re met with old friends. The feeling of nostalgia — pleasant nostalgia — the kind imbued with warmth and not melancholy, fills the room. Bella settles herself down and nuzzles her neck into my shoulder.

“Remember Stone?” she says. “Oh my god, I loved this show.”

I let the early two thousands wash over us for the next two and a half hours. At one point, Bella falls asleep. I pause the computer and slip out of bed. I check my emails in the living room. There’s one from Aldridge: Can we meet Monday morning? 9 am, my office.

Aldridge never emails me, certainly not on a weekend. He’s going to fire me. I’ve barely been in the office. I’ve been behind on due diligence and late to respond to emails. Fuck.

“Dannie?” I hear Bella call from the other room. I get up and run back to her. She stretches lazily, and then winces. “Forgot about the stitches.”

“What do you need?”

“Nothing,” she says. She sits up slowly, squinting her eyes to the pain. “It’ll pass.”

“I think you should eat something.”

As if we’re being bugged, Svedka appears at the door. “You want to eat?”

Bella nods. “Maybe a sandwich? Do we have cheese?”

Svedka nods and exits.

“Does she have you on a baby monitor?”

“Oh most likely,” Bella says.

She sits up farther now, and I see that she’s bleeding. There is a dark crimson stain on her gray pajamas. “Bella,” I say. I point. “Stay still.”

“It’s fine,” she says. “It’s no big deal.” But she looks woozy, a little bit nervous. She blinks a few times rapidly.

Ever alert, Svedka returns. She rushes to Bella, pushes up her pajamas, and, as if she were a clown, pulls gauze and ointment from her sleeve. She replaces Bella’s bandages with fresh white wrappings. All new.

“Thank you,” Bella says. “I’m fine. Really.”

A moment later, the door opens. Aaron comes into the bedroom. His arms are laden with bags — errands, gifts, groceries. I see Bella’s face light up.

“Sorry, I couldn’t stay away. Should I make Thai or Italian or sushi?” He drops his bags and bends down and kisses her, his hand lingering on her face.

“Greg cooks,” Bella says, her eyes still locked into his.

“I know,” I say.

She smiles. “Do you want to stay for dinner?”

I think about the pile of paperwork I have, Aldridge’s email. “I think I’m going to head out. You two enjoy. You might want to put on some armor before entering the kitchen,” I say. I look toward the door at Svedka, who is scowling.

As I gather my things, Aaron climbs into bed with Bella. He gets on top of the covers, still in jeans, and he gently shifts her so she’s in his arms. The last thing I see when I leave is his hand on her stomach — gently, tendering, touching what lies beneath.

It’s Monday morning. 8:58 a.m. Aldridge’s office.

I’m sitting in a chair, waiting for him to return from a partner meeting. I’m wearing a new Theory suit with a silk high-necked camisole underneath. Nothing frivolous. All severity. I’m tapping my pen to the corner of my folder. I’ve brought all our recent deals, the success I’ve helped and in some cases overseen.

“Ms. Kohan,” Aldridge says. “Thank you for meeting me.”

I stand and shake his hand. He has on a custom Armani three-piece suit with a pink-and-blue shirt and matching pink-trimmed detail. Aldridge loves fashion. I should have remembered that.

“How are you?” he asks me.

“Good,” I say, measured. “Fine.”

He nods. “Lately I’ve been noting your work. And I must say—”

I can’t bear it. I leap in. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ve been distracted. My best friend has been very sick. But I’ve brought all my case work to the hospital and we’re still on schedule with the Karbinger merger. Nothing has changed. This job is my life, and I’ll do whatever I can to prove that to you.”

Aldridge looks puzzled. “Your friend is sick. What’s wrong?”

“She has ovarian cancer,” I say. No sooner are the words out than I see them, sitting on the table between us. They are bulking, unruly, bleeding. They ooze all over everything. The documents on Aldridge’s desk. His gorgeous Armani suit.

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” he says. “It sounds serious.”

“Yes.”

He shakes his head. “You’ve gotten her the best doctors?”

I nod.

“Good,” he says. “That’s good.” His eyebrows scrunch, and then his face descends into surprise. “I didn’t call you here to reprimand your work,” he says. “I’ve been impressed with your initiative lately.”