George shook his head. “They’re not paying you enough, Sonja.”
He looked back at the screen. Sonja noticed the glass next to his laptop, the finger of amber liquid. Silently she unloaded the rest of the groceries. Whenever George had been drinking, he had a tendency to underestimate his own strength. He also tended to become more aggressive after a few drinks; sometimes it even felt as though he intended to hurt her, as though he enjoyed it.
She’d heard all the popular sayings about marriage—how it was so much more about giving than receiving—but it was impossible to understand how much you had to give, and forgive, until you were in the situation. Sonja wanted her marriage to succeed. Then again, what did it mean to make a marriage succeed? Was it simply about staying together? Or was there something more she should be striving for?
Suddenly Sonja noticed George’s gaze lingering on her. An uneasy feeling started.
“Come here,” he said.
“George, I … I’m making dinner.”
He cocked an eyebrow and glanced at the peculiar assortment of groceries. His expression said, Really? You call this dinner?
There wasn’t a lot she could do at this point. If she’d thought ahead, she might have been able to fake an emergency at work and get out of the house. But it was too late now, George already had that look about him. His eyes were narrow and glassy, his body rigid. If there was such a thing as body language, it was saying, I’m about to take what’s mine.
“Come here,” he said again.
Sonja cringed internally. It would be worse because he’d been drinking. It was always worse. A few years back, after a half bottle of Scotch, he’d broken a bone in her wrist from holding her so tightly. It was an accident, of course. It was never intentional.
Sonja walked around the bench and stood in front of him. He grasped her waist and pulled her closer. She saw something in his eyes. A pulse of excitement.
“Lie on the bench.”
“Can’t we just wait until—”
He turned her around. Her stomach pressed painfully into the sharp edge of the countertop. Then he pushed her face down against the cold stone. The cabbage rolled onto the floor.
Marriage was all about giving, she thought. And George gave a lot. With his work, he’d changed so many lives for the better. He’d changed her life. It was only fair that he got something in return. With her hands gripping the counter, Sonja stifled a whimper. She could have stopped him if she’d wanted. She could have said no. But she didn’t.
24
When Alice woke the morning after her operation, she couldn’t find her phone. She needed to call Zoe. She was about to press her buzzer for the nurse when Dr. Brookes came in, trailed by Sonja. Today Sonja was wearing a silk shirt, tailored pants, and an immovable expression.
“Can I sit?” Dr. Brookes asked, and Alice hesitated. She’d been waiting all night for him to come in and discuss her prognosis, but suddenly she didn’t want to hear it.
He sat anyway. “You sure you don’t want anyone to be here?”
“Sonja’s here,” Alice said without looking at her.
“All right.” Dr. Brookes let out a slow breath. “I’m going to get straight down to it. The bad news is the tumor in your right ovary is extensive. We also found tumors on your left ovary and the cancer has spread to the outside lining of the bowel, which puts you at stage three. I was able to debulk some tumors, though not all.”
“Debulk?”
“Remove them.”
“Okay!” Alice said, feeling a burst of optimism. “So you removed them?”
“Some of them. It’s what we call a suboptimal debulking. Unfortunately some of the tumors were inoperable, due to their location near organs.”
“So … what happens now?”
“Now we hit hard with chemo.”
Alice’s heart sank. “Chemo?”
“Yes, I’d like to get you started as soon as possible.”
Alice had known there was a strong likelihood she would need chemo, so she wasn’t sure why this felt like such a shock. “And … after the chemo, then what?”
“With any luck you’ll go into remission.”
Beside her, Sonja scribbled furiously on a legal pad. When Alice looked at her, she lifted her head and gave the tiniest of nods. It made Alice feel a little better. For the first time, she felt glad Sonja was there.
“And,” Alice said, “remission is—?”
“Remission is when we can’t find any evidence of cancer.”
Her mood lifted. “Okay. Good. Remission.”
The pause, though short, was a presence in the room.
“Alice,” Dr. Brookes said, “I always like to be optimistic. But you should know that only about twenty percent of women with stage-three ovarian cancer survive five years.”
A shiver went down Alice’s spine—powerful enough to make her jolt. But just as fast, something else happened. A memory. Of a bumper sticker she’d seen when Zoe was about a year old. She had been stuck in a line of cars in the supermarket parking lot while a tub of ice cream sat melting on the passenger seat. Alice looked around for another exit while simultaneously reaching back to pat Zoe’s feet while she screamed in the backseat. Finally she’d opened the tub of ice cream and, with her fingers, scooped some into Zoe’s mouth. The crying stopped immediately. That’s when she noticed the sticker, on the rear window of the car in front.
I’M A SINGLE MOTHER, WHAT’S YOUR SUPERPOWER?
Single mothers, she realized, did have superpowers. Ovarian cancer might have been the silent killer, but the silent killer hadn’t banked on the superpowers of a single mother.
“Good,” she said. “I plan to be one of those twenty percent.”
Dr. Brookes smiled. “Glad to hear it. Now, I should have the pathology back before Friday and then we can come up with a plan of attack. I want you to know I’m going to give this my all, Alice.”
“So am I,” she said.
Once he was gone, Sonja put down her notebook and came to Alice’s side. Alice was staring at her knees, tented in the bedcovers. She couldn’t be bothered with Sonja. She was thinking about cancer. About 20 percent survival rate. About her superpowers. She was thinking about how she needed to find her damn phone.
“Sonja,” she said. “Have you seen my phone? I really need to call Zoe.”
Sonja was quiet long enough for Alice to look up.
“Alice,” Sonja said, “there’s something I need to tell you.”
25