Page 122 - In Five Years

“She’s really sick,” I say. “She needs surgery next week. Stage three. Four
rounds of chemo.”
David hugs me. I want to feel the comfort of his arms. I want to fold into him.
But I can’t. It’s too big. Nothing will help, nothing will obscure it.

“Did they give you some data?” David asks, grasping. “The new doctor?
What did he say?” He releases me and puts a hand gently on my knee.

I shake my head. “She’ll never be able to have kids. They’re taking out her
entire uterus, both ovaries . . .”
David winces. “Damn,” he says. “Damn, Dannie, I’m so sorry.”
I close my eyes against the rising tide of pain from my feet. The knives that

are now burying themselves into my heels.
“Take them off,” I tell him. I’m practically panting.

“Okay,” he says. “Hang on.”
He goes to the bathroom and comes back with baby powder. He shakes the
bottle, and a cloud of white dust descends on my foot. He wiggles the heel of my

shoe. I feel nauseous with pain.
Then it’s off. I look down at my foot—it’s raw and bleeding but looks better
than I thought it would. He dumps some more powder on it.

“Let me see the other one,” he says.
I give him my other foot. He shakes the bottle, wiggles the heel, performs the
same ritual.

“You need to soak them,” David says. “Come on.”
He puts an arm around me and leads me, wincing and groaning, into the
bathroom. We have a tub, although it’s not a claw-foot. It’s always been a dream

of mine to have one, but our bathroom was already built. It’s so stupid,
impossible even, that my brain still relays this information to me now, still notes
it—the missing feet of a porcelain tub. As if it matters.

David begins to run the water for me. “I’m going to put some Epsom salts in
it,” he says. “You’ll feel better.”
I grab his arm as he turns to go. I cling to it—hold it against my chest like a

child with their stuffed animal.
“It’s going to be okay,” he tells me. But, of course, the words mean nothing.
No one knows that. Not him. Not Dr. Shaw. Not even me.