They left home an extra hour early, planning for traffic in Boston, but the roads were oddly empty and they arrived at the medical complex before Dr. Truman’s office opened. Buddy and Kathleen shared the elevator with a young woman who had a gold stud in her nostril and who turned out to be Madge’s niece, Ellen. When Kathleen started to thank her, Ellen raised her hand like a traffic cop stopping a car. “Having a little bit of pull is the best part of this job. And don’t you worry. Our patients get the best care in the world.”
Kathleen noticed Ellen didn’t say “Our patients get well,” but that was okay with her. Honesty in a doctor’s office is a good thing, she thought.
They sat in the mauve-and-cream waiting room as the office staff arrived and started swapping stories about the weekend. A receptionist, who looked to be about forty, had been out on a blind date. The nurse with cornrowed hair had a colicky baby at home.
The phone rang and the smell of fresh coffee saturated the room. Kathleen felt as though she’d fallen down another rabbit hole. But I’m in better shape than Alice, she figured: I feel like I know everything and everyone here.
When Ellen warned them that the doctor was running a little late, Buddy let out a loud “Huh.” Kathleen had forgotten the way he held his breath when he was nervous. He squirmed in the flowered armchair that was far too small and feminine for him and reached for a copy of Good Housekeeping.
Ten minutes later, Dr. Truman barreled through the door, white coat flapping over khaki pants, a stack of folders in her arm. She lifted her finger at the desk staff, signaling that she needed a moment, and hurried down the hall.
Kathleen watched her go. The doctor was shorter than she had pictured her: maybe an inch over five feet, and no string bean. Not fat, but substantial. Her hair was longer and darker than Kathleen remembered from the newspaper photographs.
When she realized that Buddy was holding his breath again, Kathleen touched the tip of his nose and he snorted, embarrassed.
“Mrs. Levine?”
Kathleen looked up.
Dr. Truman had her hand out. “Mr. Levine?” Buddy stood. “Come on down.” She gestured for them both to follow her.
Kathleen was glad for the window in the doctor’s office and for the chestnut tree it framed. “Sit down, Mr. Levine, Mrs. Levine. Or would you rather I called you Kathleen? Or is it Kathy?” Dr. Truman closed the door.
“Kathleen,” she said. The wall behind the desk was decorated with diplomas and photos: Dr. Truman shaking hands with Barbara Bush, with an arm around Barbra Streisand, behind a lectern with Barbara Walters.
“You’ve got a theme going there,” Buddy said.
“Yeah,” the doctor said. “I’d like to get Barbara Kingsolver. Too bad Barbara Stanwyck is no longer with us.”
Dr. Truman pulled up a chair next to Kathleen and asked about her children: Two sons? Where did they live? What did they do?
She asked about how long it took to drive in from Cape Ann, and about Kathleen’s job. When the doctor heard the words “children’s librarian,” she grabbed a notepad and asked about books for her daughter, who was just on the verge of reading.
Kathleen mentioned four titles and thought of a few others while Dr. Truman led her into the adjoining examination room. She took off her blouse and bra and lay down on the table while the doctor washed her hands. They were big, Kathleen noticed, the nails cut flat across the top, like Buddy’s. The doctor palpated her left breast and then the right without any change in expression.
After Kathleen dressed, Dr. Truman clipped the mammograms to the light board and, using a pencil, pointed to a scattering of what looked like white grains of sand contrasted against the shadowy mass of her breast. “These are the calcifications,” the doctor said, and described how a wire would be inserted into that area to guide the incision. “But let’s go back into the office and talk all this through with your husband, so you both get the whole picture.”
From the doorway, Kathleen was startled at how pale Buddy looked in the light from the window.
“Okay now,” said Dr. Truman, looking from one anxious face to the other, “I’m not telling you to pretend that this isn’t serious or to act all stiff-upper-lip around each other. But we caught this early, and there’s every reason to be optimistic.”
Buddy let out a breath.
“Mr. Levine,” Dr. Truman said.
“It’s Buddy,” he corrected her.
“Well, Buddy, I believe Kathleen is going to be
around for a long time. And I’m not feeding you a line.”
Buddy and Kathleen nodded.
Quickly, but not too quickly, Dr. Truman reviewed the options. Since the biopsy had confirmed DCIS, they had to decide between wide excision with radiation or mastectomy — with or without reconstructive surgery.
“Dr. Cooperman didn’t say anything about a mastectomy,” Kathleen said, alarmed.
“Yes, she did,” Buddy corrected quietly.