Page 119 - In Five Years

bellied even further by the knowledge that the fall will not hold—and today is
banner. The wind is gentle, the sun is fierce. Everywhere I look people are
smiling and talking and greeting one another.
I look to Bella. I do not have a clue what to say.

It is unbelievable that right now there is something deadly growing inside of
her. It seems impossible. Look at her. Look. She is the picture of health. She is

rosy-cheeked and full and radiant. She is an impressionist painting. She is life
incarnate.
What would happen if we just pretended we’d never heard? Would the cancer
catch up? Or would it take the hint and screw off. Is it receptive? Is it listening?

Do we have the power to change it?
“I have to call Greg,” she says.

“Okay.”
Not for the first time this morning, I feel my cell phone vibrate fiercely in my
bag. It’s past ten, and I was due in the office two hours ago. I’m sure I have a

hundred emails.
“Do you want me to get you a car?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No, I want to walk.”

“Okay,” I say. “We’ll walk.”
She takes out her phone. She doesn’t lift her eyes. “I’d rather be alone.”
When we were in high school, Bella used to sleep at my house more than she

slept at her own. She hated being alone, and her parents traveled all the time.
They were away at least 60 percent of each month. So she lived with us. I had a
pullout trundle bed beneath mine, and we’d lie awake at night, rolling from my

bed to hers and then climbing back up again, counting the stick-on stars on my
ceiling. It was impossible, of course, because who could tell them apart? We’d
fall asleep amidst a jumble of numbers.

“Bells—”
“Please,” she says. “I promise I will call you later.”
I feel her words bite through me. It’s bad enough as it is, but now why would

we face it alone? We need to stop down. We need to get coffee. We need to talk
about this.
She starts walking and, instinctively, I follow her, but she knows I’m behind

her and she turns around, her hand signaling—be gone.