Hugh closed his eyes and made a wish, blew out the candle. “We all chipped in,” one of the junior detectives said, “and we bought you this.” He held up a cane, decorated with a bright red bow.
Everyone laughed, including Hugh. “Thanks. That’ll come in handy when I want to beat the crap out of you later.”
“Paula,” the chief said, “don’t forget to make a prostate exam appointment for our boy.” He clapped Hugh on the shoulder. “All right, grab your donut and let’s get back to work. It’s not like it’s Jesus’s birthday. Just Hugh’s.”
Hugh accepted the good wishes of everyone in the department, until he was left alone with Paula in the staff room.
“You don’t look so happy for a birthday boy,” she said.
“I’m not a big fan of surprises.”
She shrugged. “You know what my husband got me for my fortieth?” she said. “Knocked up.”
Hugh laughed. “I don’t think that’s in the cards for me.”
“What did you wish?”
He opened his mouth, but Paula waved her hand. “No, no, that was a trick question. You can’t tell me, because it won’t come true. Honestly, Hugh. Have you never had a birthday before?” She handed him a plate with three donuts on it. “You get the extra, because you’re special. But only for today. Don’t go letting this get to your head.” She grinned and left him alone in the staff room.
He took the candle from the donut on the top. What he’d wished for was, quite simply, the one thing he couldn’t have. He wished that everything could stay the way it was, right now—with Wren making him eggs for breakfast, and people who cared enough about him at work to throw him a silly party, and his health intact. He wished that he could keep getting up morning after morning, with the world remaining unchanged. That was the thing about feeling like life was good. Even when it was—especially when it was—you knew you had something to lose.
—
MY GOD, COULD THIS BE any more embarrassing? Izzy had barely approached the reception desk before a wave of nausea rolled over her. She’d bolted for the door marked BATHROOM, and had gotten profoundly sick. She wiped her mouth and then took a stack of paper towels, wet them down in the sink, and rubbed them over the clammy skin of her face and neck.
There was a knock on the door, and Izzy opened it a crack. “You all right?” said the woman who had been sitting at the front desk.
“I am so sorry, Miz—”
“Vonita,” she supplied.
“I am not usually quite so rude,” Izzy said.
Vonita passed her a small tin of ginger mints. “These help,” she said, matter-of-fact. “When you’re ready, come on out and we’ll get acquainted.”
Izzy closed the door and sat down on the closed toilet seat. She found herself thinking of the time she was in third grade and she didn’t have a winter coat. She had gone to the school secretary and told her she needed to check the lost and found, and then she had picked out a coat that didn’t belong to her. The worst part was that the school secretary had known damn well it wasn’t Izzy’s coat, but she didn’t say anything.
Vonita was being nothing but kind, but there was something in her eyes that made Izzy feel like the other woman already knew all her secrets.
Well. Izzy was a nurse. This was not the first time she had faced something new and overwhelming, and it was not the first time she’d had to bluff her way through a situation until confidence caught up to her.
She might be in an abortion clinic, but she had been and always would be a survivor.
—
AS SOON AS SHE HAD seen the blood, she knew it couldn’t be good. Women Olive’s age didn’t have spotting, especially when they weren’t heterosexually active. Add to that the pain she’d had urinating and the odd numb tingles in her leg, and it was enough for her to go to the Center. For years, that was where she had gone for her gynecological checkups. Harriet, the nurse practitioner, had done an exam and then had turned to her. “When was the last time you had a Pap smear?” she had asked.
Well. Long enough that Olive couldn’t remember.
“Olive,” Harriet had said. “I think you should see an oncologist.”
That had been two weeks ago. In the aftermath, she’d had a chest X-ray, an abdominopelvic MRI, a CBC, and an electrolyte and liver series. She had heard what the oncologist said, but maybe she didn’t really believe him. Or maybe she needed to hear it from someone she knew and trusted.
She sat now in the examination room, waiting for Harriet to come in. The medical file from the gynecological oncologist’s office was in her hands. It might as well have been Greek:
Fungating mass, exophytic, with obstruction of the right pelvic sidewall.
Moderate right hydronephrosis; posterior involvement through the rectosigmoid serosal and muscularis … pelvic and paraaortic lymphadenopathy … no evidence of ascites.
Creatinine: 2.4 mg/dL; hematocrit: 28%
Hell, Greek would have made more sense to her.
The door opened. “Olive,” Harriet said. “How are you feeling? What did the oncologist say?”
Olive handed her the file. “I should have brought a translator along.”
Harriet scanned the papers inside. “Neuroendocrine carcinoma of the cervix,” she read. “Oh, Olive.”
“Carcinoma,” Olive repeated. “That was the one word I did understand.” She shook her head. “The doctor talked to me. Well, he talked at me. I just … stopped hearing him after a few minutes.”
“You have cervical cancer,” Harriet said gently. “I’m so sorry.”
“Are you sure it’s not a mistake? How could I? I’m a lesbian.”
“Lesbians actually have higher rates of cervical cancer,” Harriet said. “They don’t get monitored because they aren’t having penetrative intercourse. There’s a certain type that nuns get—not the kind that’s squamous cell cancer, which is associated with HPV—but one even virgins can contract.”
“Well thankfully,” Olive said, “I’m not one of those.” She looked at the nurse. “How bad?”
“It’s stage four, metastatic. Do you know what that means?”
“It’s like winning the lottery,” Olive replied. “But Shirley Jackson’s kind.”
Harriet stared at her blankly.
“Never mind.”
The nurse looked down at the numbers again. “It’s in your lungs; possibly in your liver. It’s blocking your right kidney.” She looked Olive in the eye. “I’m going to level with you. It’s unlikely that someone whose cancer has spread this far can be cured. I’m sure there are things the oncologist can do to help you have a good quality of life, but … you should get your affairs in order.”
Olive felt her mouth go dry as dust. She, who always had a witty retort, had nothing to say. “How long? she finally managed.
“Six to eight months, I’m guessing. I hate to say that, Olive. And I hope to hell I’m wrong. But if I were you, I’d want someone to tell me the truth.”
Olive sat in the stew of that information, sinking in her own sudden, inevitable mortality. She felt Harriet’s arms come around her, hold her tightly.
This. This was why she had come to the Center. She knew already what was hiding inside that medical folder. She had just not wanted to face it alone.
There was a sharp rap on the door, and then Dr. Ward stuck his head inside. “Harriet? It’s go time.” He smiled at Olive and closed the door again.
Olive had so many questions: Was it her fault—some deficiency in diet or some promiscuity in college that had led to this? How would she tell Peg? Would it happen fast, or would it be a slow decline? Would it hurt? Would she still be herself, at the end?
Harriet stepped back, still holding Olive’s hands. She gave them a final squeeze. “I need to go assist. You going to be all right?”
She left without hearing Olive’s response. But they both knew the answer, anyway.
—