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Amelia’s face wrinkles in disgust before a new round of tears escapes. I wrap my arm around her while she shakes with sobs, hiding her face in my chest.
“I can do the biopsy tomorrow,” Dr. Faber says, looking at me. “We’ll schedule it before you leave.”
After a few seconds, I return a slight nod.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
LEAST LIKELY TO … LIVE.
Is there a protocol for this?
I’ve never thought about receiving a cancer diagnosis.
The key to the city? Sure.
Getting hit by a bus? Absolutely.
But not cancer.
If someone had asked me what I thought my chances were of cancer in my thirties, I would have said close to zero for plenty of naive reasons.
I’m too young.
I don’t smoke.
I’m not diabetic.
None of my grandparents or parents have had cancer.
I exercise.
I eat a healthy diet.
Yet here I am with somewhere between three months to a year to live and a wife who’s fading before my eyes. Is it normal for people with cancer to spend their time consoling those around them? Sometimes, I feel like I’m not her husband. I’m not the one with the cancer diagnosis. I’m just a friend—a shoulder to cry on.
“It’s been four days. They said two to three,” Amelia says over a mouthful of suds, brushing the hell out of her teeth.
I finish towel drying my hair from my shower and pick at the thin strips of paper tape over my biopsy site. “I’ll call them in the morning.”
“We’re getting a second opinion.”
She’s mentioned this at least fifty times. I miss my even-keeled wife, who balanced my hyper-work drive with grace and patience. The woman who rocked our fussy daughter all night long for months, refusing to let me take a shift because she knew I had to work, and who swore Astrid was exactly where she needed to be—in her mother’s arms.
Who was I to argue? Inside Amelia’s embraceisthe most incredible place on earth.
Now, she’s either prematurely grieving my death or mad as hell at the whole world.
“A second opinion,” I repeat with a submissive nod.
After she spits and places her toothbrush in its holder, she turns, leaning against the double vanity, hands on the edge of the counter, hair brushed into silky straight strands down her chest over her black nightie. “How are you feeling?” She asks me that almost as often as she brings up the second opinion.
I step into our spacious closet, which has black suits and white shirts on one side, colorful dresses, rows upon rows of shoes and handbags on the other, and an island of drawers in the center.
“I’m tired. But it’s eleven at night.” I pull on a pair of black briefs.
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Sweetheart, I honestly don’t know what you mean.”
