Lana counted herself lucky that at fifty-seven years old this was her first time being wheeled into a hospital. Even lying on a gurney, Lana knew she looked worth saving. A tailored charcoal suit hugged her lithe frame. She hadn’t yet twisted her hair into a chignon, and plum-brown waves flowed down her back, some of them now tinted in strawberry yogurt. She held eye contact with the nurse as he rolled her into a giant white tube, silently directing him to do his best work.
Once she blocked out the loud clunks from the machine, Lana found the MRI to be oddly relaxing. No emails from architects about why they couldn’t get the drawings done in time. No calls from her friend Gloria about the most recent loser to break her heart. Lana figured this must be what being dead was like. No one asking her for anything.
After she emerged from the MRI scanner, Lana negotiated her way into a hospital room with no roommates, but also no windows. Her assistant messengered over three project files, two draft contracts, a red pen, a pair of black pumps, a smoked salmon salad, and a bottle of Sprite. Lana was about to send the girl a text about the importance of attention to detail—was it really too much to remember Diet Coke was the only soda she drank?—when she opened the offending plastic bottle and sniffed. Janie had filled it with Chardonnay. Lana took a sip. Not half-bad.
That afternoon, when they told her they were still waiting on test results and recommended she stay overnight for observation, Lana humored them. One bed was as good as another. Not exactly true, but she didn’t relish the thought of wasting daytime hours in LA traffic shuttling herself back to the hospital the next morning to get a lecture from a doctor with mismatched socks about taking better care of herself. She figured she’d get the tests back early, pass with flying colors, run home to shower, and make her lunch meeting with the mortgage brokers.
Lana spent the evening in the hospital bed inking up development plans. When the nurses came to check on her, she smiled so she’d get better service, but she didn’t chitchat. They sampled and poked her while Lana worked. She didn’t tell any of her associates where she was. There was no reason for them to know.
The next day broke sour. Lana woke early, impatient, with a fog in her head and a rash on her neck from the cardboard hospital pillows. At 7:30 a.m., she rang the nurse and badgered her into getting someone more important. The doctor who showed up was tall and willowy and entirely unhelpful. The tests weren’t completed yet. No, Lana couldn’t leave and get the results later. No, they didn’t have laptops for patients’ use. Yes, she would just have to wait.
Lana counted the water stains on the ceiling and made lists of everything she’d have to do when she got to the office. She wanted a Diet Coke. She wanted her own bathroom. She wanted to get out of there.
After what felt like hours, a new doctor came in, a middle-aged man with unkempt hair and scuffed white sneakers. There was an angry squeak as he yanked a wobbly plastic cart clear of the hallway and into the room.
“Mrs. Rubicon?”
“Ms.” Lana was perched on a visitor’s chair in her blazer and pumps, tapping furiously on her phone. She didn’t look up.
“I have some images from the MRI and PET scans we conducted yesterday of your head and neck.”
“Can you just give me the highlights?” Lana gave him a brusque once-over, her fingers still moving across her phone. “I have somewhere I have to be. Had to be, three hours ago.”
“Ma’am, you’re going to want to see this.”
The doctor wheeled the portable computer terminal over to Lana’s chair. He clicked some windows into view. Then he angled the monitor and stepped aside.
It was strange to see her own head on someone else’s computer screen. The images were black and gray, with thin white lines delineating Lana’s skull and eye sockets and the top of her spinal cord. Lana rose to stand beside the doctor, getting as close to the screen as she could. He used the mouse to orient four different views into the four quadrants of the screen: from above, front, back, and in profile. Lana tried to follow his twisting motions, watching her gray blob of a brain rotate in the darkness, spinning in search of a solid foundation.
Once the doctor was satisfied, he hit a button. The gray blob went polychromatic. Clustered along the back of her skull were three bright smudges of orange with pink halos around them.
“What are those?” she asked.
“Those are the reason you’re here,” he said. “Have you been having headaches? Blurred vision? Any trouble finding words?”
A thin needle of fear pierced Lana’s confidence. But there was nothing wrong with her. Lana was the fittest, most active woman in her loose gaggle of friends. All single. All professional. All surviving dickwad ex-husbands with bank accounts and dignity intact. Lana was stiletto sharp. Lana was thriving.
At least, she had been until yesterday morning.
“Those bright blotches are tumors,” Dr. Scuffed Sneakers told her. “They’re causing swelling and inadequate blood flow to the part of your brain that controls your balance and large motor functions. That’s why you fell.”
“Tumors?”
He nodded. “They have to come out. As soon as possible.”
Lana lowered herself back into the stiff visitor’s chair. She lined up the points of her shoes and held herself taut, muscles vibrating.
“I have brain cancer?”
“Maybe. Hopefully.”
“Hopefully?” She fought to keep her voice from breaking.
“Sometimes, cancer originates elsewhere in your body and spreads to your brain. That would be worse, more advanced. We’ll biopsy the brain tumors once they’re removed to confirm the site of origin. And we’ll do a full body scan now to see if there are any more.”
She focused on his chapped lips, willing them to take back the words he’d just said. This couldn’t be happening. When Lana had breast cancer ten years ago, it wasn’t a big deal. Stage 0. Beth had come down for the initial surgery, but otherwise, she’d handled it on her own. After a few spins in the radiation chair and a reconstruction procedure she used to get a tad more lift, she was back to work.
Now this doctor was looking at her like she was an injured bird.
“Do you understand what I just said?”
“I’ve got to call my daughter,” she said.
Chapter Two
Beth took a swig of tepid coffee and considered her cell phone. Three missed calls from her mother. One voicemail, short, asking for help. The content was alarming, and more so, Lana’s voice. Was she drunk? Congested? Beth was used to her mom’s staccato messages, a mix of crowing and indignation, with a slug of guilt thrown in for good measure. This was different. Unfamiliar. Lana’s voice sounded lost, almost pitiful.
Beth left Amber in charge at the nursing station and walked out the side door of Bayshore Oaks. She gave a reassuring smile to the young man fidgeting by his car, clearly nervous about visiting the long-term care facility. Then she ducked around the corner, slipping into the grove of Monterey pines. She took a deep breath and dialed.
“Ma?”
“Beth, finally.” Lana’s voice came through in an urgent whisper. “Are you still working for the brain surgeon? The one with the big teeth?”
“The one with the Nobel Prize? You know I left two years ago to spend more time with—”
“Beth, listen to me. They’re telling me I’ve got tumors. Lots of them. In my brain. That I need surgery, right away. But you should see the shoes this doctor is wearing. I mean, how can he expect anyone to take him seriously?”
Beth’s face froze in a half smile. “Wait. Slow down. Where are you? Are you okay?”
“Besides being held hostage by a radiologist who can’t be bothered to brush his own hair, I’m fine. I’m at City of Angels hospital. They say I can’t check myself out. That someone has to take care of me. I need to get to a better facility. One with real doctors in decent suits. So . . .”