Page 109 - In Five Years

I toss my heels into my bag, pull on my slides, and get on the subway down to
Tribeca. I always wondered how people who had just been delivered tragic news
and had to fly on airplanes did it. Every plane must carry someone who is going
to their dying mother’s bedside, their friend’s car accident, the sight of their

burned home. Those minutes on the subway are the longest of my life.
Aaron answers the door. He’s wearing jeans and a button-down, half

untucked. He looks stunned, his eyes red-rimmed. My heart sinks again. It’s
through the floorboards, now.
“Where is she?” I ask him.
He doesn’t answer, just points. I follow his finger into the bedroom, to where

Bella is crouched in the fetal position in bed, dwarfed by pillows, a hoodie up
and sweatpants on. I snap my shoes off and go to her, getting right in around her.

“Bells,” I say. “Hey. I’m here.” I drop my lips down and kiss the top of her
sweatshirt-covered head. She doesn’t move. I look at Aaron by the door. He
stands there, his hands hanging helplessly at his sides.

“Bells,” I try again. I rub a hand down her back. “Come on. Sit up.”
She shifts. She looks up at me. She looks confused, frightened. She looks the
way she did on my trundle bed decades ago when she’d wake up from a bad

dream.
“Did he tell you?” she asks me.
I nod. “He said you lost the baby,” I say. I feel sick at the words. I think about

her, just last week, painting, preparing. “Bells I’m so sorry. I—”
She sits up. She puts a hand over her mouth. I think she might be sick.
“No,” she says. “I was wrong. I wasn’t pregnant.”

I search her face. I look to Aaron, who is still in the doorway. “What are you
talking about?”
“Dannie,” she says. She looks straight at me. Her eyes are wet, wide. I see

something in them I’ve only ever seen once before, a long time ago at a door in
Philadelphia. “They think I have ovarian cancer.”