Page 3 of Born to be Wilder

Marge went still. Silent.

My grip tightened around my glass as my breath stalled in my lungs.

Alice stiffened her shoulders, chin lifted high as she stared at us, and I tried to keep from passing out as I processed her words.

Alice has cancer.

Chapter Two

I hadn’t even noticed I’d stopped breathing until Doris’s wail startled me to take a sharp breath.

The world seemed to spin back into motion in fast-forward, my mind struggling to catch back up.

Cancer. Alice has cancer.

The words bounced inside my mind as I stared at her. At Alice. My friend. My family. The woman who seemed unshakeable had…

Cancer.

Doris’s sobs were the only sound filling the room, her shoulders shaking as she covered her mouth, big blue eyes filled with tears pouring from them like Niagara Falls.

Marge rose from her seat, her jaw locked tight as she turned and marched toward my front door.

The strange behavior shook me from my trance. “Marge, what—where are you going?”

“To get my chainsaw,” she said simply, her little slacks swishing together as she picked up the pace.

Alice and I shot each other wide-eyed stares, then together shouted, “What?”

Marge spun around, her face not filled with sadness that had Doris still in a puddle, or shock and terror, the emotions coursing through me. It was rage flickering in those oversized orbs.

“I’m going to get my chainsaw and hack off those traitorous titties right now! The faster they’re gone, the safer Alice is.”

I choked on a breath, coughing out, “Marge… you can’t…”

“I’m a nurse. Saw worse in ’Nam. She’ll be fine. Better than letting her run around with cancer in those bastards.”

“Marge, come back,” Alice said quietly.

Marge furrowed her brow. “I’ll give you enough whiskey to make you pass out. You won’t feel a thing.”

“Marge,” Alice soothed again, patting the couch beside her.

Marge stared at her for a long moment, then her shoulders slumped forward, and she sauntered over and sat down beside Alice like a scolded child.

Alice, in a very unnatural gesture, rubbed Marge’s back. “It’s okay. I know this is a shock.”

The anger returned to Marge’s face as she spun and looked at Alice’s breasts. “How? How in the hell is there even enough room for cancer to grow in your tiny titties? If anyone should be getting it, it should be me.” She gestured broadly at herself. “My boobs are down to my knees. Plenty of real estate. Yours are like”—she pinched her fingers together—“postage stamps. Barely enough surface area for a tumor to park on. It’s statistically improbable for you to get breast cancer.”

Alice scoffed. “Hey, they may be small, but they are nice. Proportionate to my frame. Dancer’s breasts.” Then her face dropped. “Well, at least, they were nice. Now… I have no idea what they’ll look like soon… or if I’ll even have any.”

Alice. Beautiful, proud, vain Alice. I realized in that moment how hard this must be for her. Cancer is scary enough to face, but I knew her well enough to know it wasn’t just the threat to her life that she struggled with; it was the assault on her beauty. We knew, of course, Alice would be beautiful with or without boobs, but I knew with certainty my friend was as terrified about her appearance after this battle as she was about her life.

Doris wailed again from beside us, still sobbing so hard I was sure she would pass out.

Marge spun toward our hysterical friend. “Cripes, Doris! She’s gonna have cancer and be deaf if you don’t get it together!”

“Doris.” Alice looked at her. “Doris. I need you to breathe.”