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I take two thick pottery mugs in a pretty, iridescent blue and put them on the counter.
‘Teabags in that jar,’ Grace says with another nod, and I fetch two. I look at her uneasily; she really seems rough.
The kettle clicks off and I pour the water while Grace watches. ‘Sorry,’ she mutters. ‘I’m not up for much right now.’
‘It’s okay.’ I find milk in the fridge. ‘Do you…?’
She nods. ‘Please.’
It all feels kind of weird, and Grace looks as if she could keel over. She moves slowly to the kitchen table tucked in an a
lcove and sits in a chair, wincing slightly as if every movement makes her ache.
‘Is there anything else I can do for you, Grace?’ I ask, because I’m wondering how she’s going to make it through the rest of the evening. ‘I could make dinner…’
‘Oh…’ Grace lowers her gaze as she takes a small sip of tea and then shudders.
‘Really,’ I say. ‘You look as if you should go back to bed.’
‘I probably should. Today’s been a rough day.’
‘How long have you been sick?’
‘A while.’ I wonder why she didn’t call me sooner. How has she been managing? ‘Actually, Heather…’ She looks up, seeming to deliberate whether to say anything more. I wait, feeling tense although I’m not sure why. ‘The truth is…’ She puts down her mug with shaky hands, and a little tea slops onto the table. She looks at me directly, her expression so bleak something in me both freezes and then recoils. ‘I have cancer.’
Twenty-One
GRACE
Heather is looking at me slackly, her mouth open, her expression dazed. Clearly she wasn’t expecting that one. I debated whether I should tell her; in my better moments Heather would be the last person I’d want to tell. But I feel the need, the craving, to tell someone, to feel that sense of relief and liberation, the way I did with Eileen, because suffering through this alone is so damn hard. I know I should tell Stella, and I’m working up my courage for it, but it’s Heather who was there for me today, who bailed me out. She deserves to know.
‘Oh, Grace.’ Her lips form the words slowly. She still looks dazed. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s okay,’ I say, even though it’s not, not by a mile. But what else can I say? I try to smile, but my mouth wobbles, and suddenly I’m afraid I’m going to cry. And that is something I am not ready to do in front of Heather.
‘What kind of cancer?’
‘Breast cancer, stage four, invasive,’ I answer flatly. ‘It’s gone into my lymph nodes but no farther. I shouldn’t be surprised,’ I add, with a bizarre attempt at careless levity. ‘My mother died of breast cancer when she was forty-five, and I’m forty-six. I’ve always checked for lumps.’
‘So you found it quickly…?’
‘Not quickly enough,’ I reply bitterly. I was so diligent about checking; it feels unfair that the cancer had got to fucking stage four before I found it.
‘And have you started treatment?’
‘Why do you think I look so shit?’ I laugh, the sound both hard and hopeless. ‘I’m on my second round of chemo, to shrink the tumor so it can be operated on. After that, I’m looking at a double mastectomy.’ I haven’t even let myself think about that yet, or what comes after. My brain, my soul, can’t take anymore.
‘And then? I mean…’ She trails off, and I know what she is thinking but doesn’t feel is polite to ask. What is my prognosis?
‘I don’t know.’ It feels awful to admit that. Dr. Stein has given me pep talks, assured me what I’m experiencing now is normal, was perfectly calm when she discovered my tumor hasn’t shrunk enough yet. None of it matters. I don’t let myself think of that awful what-if, but it hovers on the horizon of my mind, the darkest cloud. ‘Hopefully, I’ll go back to normal life.’ Which feels like the best thing I could hope for. The only thing I want.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ Heather asks. ‘To help?’ I know she means it, just as I know she wants to help – not just me, but Isaac. Of course she does. I would be the same in her position.
‘Thanks,’ I say. I wrap my hands around the warmth of my mug even though I can’t stand another sip of tea, bland as it is. My stomach seethes and every joint aches. ‘I can’t think of anything right now. I have a nanny, Yelena…’ I trail off, because suddenly I feel as if I am being cruel. Would I rather Isaac spent time with the mostly indifferent, cold-eyed Yelena, or his anxious, needy birth mother? What a question. What a choice.
‘Okay.’ Heather nods, acting unconcerned even though I know I’ve hurt her. I’ve always known; it’s as if we’re irritatingly attuned to one another, to each infinitesimal shift in our moods. I can read every flick of her eyelid, every tightening of her lips. I wonder if she’s as attuned to me as I am to her, and I cringe to think that she is, that she might know the petty and ungenerous thoughts that creep into my mind so often.
‘Well, let me know,’ Heather says. ‘If anything comes up…’
