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Fiona’s eyes cut to me, then Simone. “So? Was he on a date?”
“You are all insatiable,” I mock-grumble, then let Candice pull a chair out for me as Fiona bustles over to get the gossip.
As it turns out, I don’t get any work done that day at all.
Rudy and I finish preparing for the audit late Monday afternoon. When I make up an excuse about having to get some work done, he gives me a soft, tender kiss that sets my blood on fire, then tells me he’ll see me soon.
It makes me feel like dirt. I don’t deserve him, and the longer I string him along, the worse it’ll be when I tell him about the baby. Resolving to ask my new therapist about it, I leave Rudy’s house with the taste of his lips lingering on mine.
Tuesday comes around faster than I can blink, and I find myself sitting in a brown cushioned chair in Dr. Gardner’s waiting room. My fingers worry at the strap of my purse. There are magazines stacked in the corner, and the middle of the waiting room is dominated by various toys and children’s books. The walls have faded posters about pregnancy, postpartum depression and anxiety, and pictures of happy women holding happy babies.
It’s all a bit too real, but before I can jump up and run away, my name is called.
A woman about my age—maybe a bit younger—stands at the mouth of a hallway holding a clipboard. When I look up, she smiles and gestures down the hall. Stomach in my throat, I follow. Her expertly highlighted hair is twisted into a neat bun at the nape of her neck, right above the collar of her pale pink silk blouse. The material is tucked into straight-leg brown pants, giving her a soft, professional look.
“I’m Dr. Gardner,” she tells me, gesturing to an open door. I step inside a comfortably furnished room. There are four soft-looking chairs angled toward each other. On the opposite wall is a desk with a computer chair tucked in. The screen is dark.
“Take a seat,” the doctor tells me, and I choose the closest chair. I put my purse down on the seat next to me. Dr. Gardner takes the chair opposite, crossing one leg over the other. Her eyes skim my file for a moment, then rise to meet my gaze. “So,” she starts.
“So,” I repeat.
“What brought you here?” Her voice is neutral, but kind. Her tortoise-shell glasses have a slight cat-eye shape, and they emphasize her brilliant hazel eyes. She’s a very beautiful woman, elegant yet approachable.
“My doctor recommended you,” I hear myself saying.
Dr. Gardner nods, waiting for me to go on.
“I…” I clear my throat. “I’m pregnant, and I…have breast cancer.” The words come out slowly, their jagged edges ripping at my throat. But I get them out, and I realize it’s the second time I’ve told the truth—and the first time I’ve told someone both secrets.
“I see that you’re going to get a mastectomy,” Dr. Gardner says, her hand on my file, eyes on me. “And you’ll be getting chemotherapy once the surgery is done.”
“Is that safe for the baby?” I blurt, my hand sliding over my stomach.
Dr. Gardner nods. “It is. Does that worry you?”
All of a sudden the dam bursts, and I can’t stop the words from coming. I tell her how terrified I feel about the surgery, the safety of my baby, what will happen during the birth, if I’ll even survive long enough to see my baby grow up. I tell her how alone and isolated I feel, but that I’m even more terrified of telling anyone what’s going on.
With gentle, open-ended questions, Dr. Gardner coaxes the truth from me. She guides me to the hard ball of feelings that’s sat like a weight in my chest for weeks.
It’s painful, saying these things out loud. When tears start leaking from my eyes, Dr. Gardner pushes a box of tissues across the coffee table toward me. We do a breathing exercise that softens the knife-edge of my terror, and I slowly regain control over my own body.
By the time our hour is up, I feel exhausted, but for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel alone. I don’t feel like some freak of nature going through this horribly complicated medical drama. Many other women have been through what I’ve been through, I’m told. I’m not doomed. My baby isn’t doomed.
But it still scares me to death.
“I can see you at the same time next week, if that works for you?” Dr. Gardner says from the chair at her desk, her computer lit up with an appointment calendar.
I nod. “Sure.”
When I walk out of her office a few minutes later and tilt my head up to the blue sky, I feel…lighter. Still terrified, of course, but ever so slightly less alone.
Then I go home and sleep for three hours to recover. When I wake up in time for dinner, I feel a tiny step closer to opening up to my family and friends about what’s going on. A little worm of doubt has wiggled inside me, whispering that my silence is hurting them—and me. I know I’ll be better off once everyone knows the truth.
Realizing that and acting on it, though, are two very different things.
CHAPTER 22
Nora
