In the office, Kathleen forced herself to listen while Marcy explained what would happen next. After Dr. Singh met with them, they would take a tour of the center and see the radiation machine and the simulator, which was used for taking measurements. Measuring would take up most of the morning. Marcy recited the radiation litany, which Kathleen already knew by heart: no deodorant before treatments, cornstarch instead of powder, no perfume, and no lotion apart from the ones they would give her.
Why was Buddy writing this down again?
Then Marcy started talking about the “application of permanent landmarks.”
“You mean the tattoos, right?” Kathleen asked, unable to keep the edge out of her voice.
“Do you have a religious objection to tattooing?” Marcy asked.
“I don’t understand.”
“Are you Jewish?”
“Yes,” Kathleen said, instantly defensive. Kathleen Levine was never an easy name to explain.
“Some of our Jewish patients refuse the permanent markings on religious grounds.”
“I never heard of that.”
“Well, according to Orthodox law, tattooing is forbidden.”
“We’re not Orthodox,” said Kathleen.
“All right, then,” Marcy said gently. “Our patients say the tattoos don’t hurt. You can barely even see them, and oncologists prefer the permanence.”
Kathleen said, “I know. They do it so that if they have to treat the other breast, they’ll know which is which. I thought I already signed a paper agreeing to this.”
Buddy winced when she said “the other breast.”
Marcy looked at the bottom of her checklist, put down her pencil, and lowered her voice meaningfully. “Mrs. Levine,” she said, and then urgently, “Kathleen. I would like to emphasize the importance of support for women undergoing breast cancer treatment.” It was the first time Marcy had used the words breast cancer. She cited statistics about the benefits of mentors and support groups.
Kathleen had seen the pamphlets about support groups, but she couldn’t imagine complaining about her paltry symptoms to women who were throwing up and losing their hair. Besides, she didn’t want to devote any more time to this thing than she had to. She wanted to preserve the summer. She wanted to plant lilies, visit Jack in New York, spend more time with Joyce.
Or maybe she would die, and what good would a support group do then?
Kathleen could sense Buddy’s concern, but she wasn’t even looking at Marcy anymore. Her eyes wandered around the wall behind the desk, at a vaguely cubist rendering of Rockport’s famous red fishing shack, the college diploma issued to Marcy Yamaguchi, a nursing degree for Marcy Y. Myers, and a framed photograph.
The picture had been taken at a rocky seaside overlook. Marcy and a burly, bearded man wearing a blue T-shirt and a yarmulke smiled into the camera, their arms around two little girls. The older one looked to be about ten; the younger one had Down’s syndrome.
Kathleen focused on Marcy with new interest, but just then Dr. Singh arrived and everything stopped.
He was the most breathtakingly handsome man Kathleen had ever seen. He shook Buddy’s hand and resumed a conversation the two of them had begun in the hospital.
He had seen them after her surgery, he said, and Kathleen realized she must have been out cold. There was no way she would have forgotten these black eyes, the full arch of these red lips. He was so good-looking that Kathleen blushed.
“Would it be all right if we stay in here, Mrs. Myers?” he asked Marcy with a wave of his long fingers. His accent was British and formal.
“Have you found a house yet?” Buddy asked, picking up the thread of a conversation that was new to Kathleen.
“In Marblehead,” said the doctor. “We moved in last week. My wife and I feel fortunate to be living in such a beautiful place. But if we don’t find the television remote control very soon, we may end up in divorce court.”
Kathleen felt her cheeks color again, in anger now. This wasn’t a cocktail party. This was her funeral, thank you very much, and the corpse would like to remain the center of attention. She coughed into her fist.
The doctor seemed to take the hint and began describing the treatment for what seemed like the sixth time. He described the possible side effects: fatigue, aches and pains, swelling or shrinking of the breast, a kind of “sunburn” caused by the rays. Buddy scribbled furiously as Kathleen looked deeply into the doctor’s eyes and wondered if his wife was from India.
Good heavens, he was a masterpiece.
The doctor stood up and took Kathleen’s right hand between his. “Setting the machines properly will take a week or so,” he told her, “and then we will meet again for the first treatment. I shall see you every week, and Mrs. Myers will watch out for you as well. You may call upon us anytime, with questions.