Love And Miss Communication Part 7

"Didn't Grandma want me to visit?"

"Truthfully, she said the only reason a young lady like yourself should be visiting a hospital is to bring her doctor husband his lunch." Fran and Evie burst out laughing.

"Grandma is ridiculous. But seriously, what's the prognosis? And please don't sugarcoat it."

"Breast cancer has a very high survival rate if there is early detection, which unfortunately Bette didn't have. That doesn't mean she won't be okay. I just wish we'd caught this sooner. She hadn't had a mammogram in over three years." Evie noticed her mother's eyes swell as she s.h.i.+fted her gaze to the table.

"Mom! This is not your fault! You are her daughter-in-law. Ex-daughter-in-law, if you really think about it. You're not responsible for her." Evie felt herself getting emotional. "Stupid Aunt Susan knitting her freaking quilts in the desert should be taking care of her."

"You're right," Fran said. "But she's not."

A chilling thought occurred to Evie. She could have reminded Bette to get mammograms the same way her grandmother could be counted on to call every October first to insist Evie get a flu shot. Bette was Evie's personal meteorologist in the wintertime. She would call from sunny Boca to say, "Evie, I heard on the news about a cold front in New York. Don't forget your scarf and gloves."

Fran read her mind.

"Don't you start feeling guilty, Evie. This isn't on you," Fran said. "Bette has her ways, but she was always a good mother-in-law to me. Henry would appreciate me looking after her. He was as dutiful a son as he was a father and husband. And we both know Susan can't be counted on, so there's no point in even discussing that."

Just then, Winston entered and joined them at the table. Fran turned to him.

"Evie's feeling like she might be to blame for Bette not taking better care of herself."

"That's crazy. If anyone's to blame, it's Sam. At least according to Bette," Winston said.

Fran shot Winston an unmistakable shut-the-h.e.l.l-up look.

"Who is Sam?" Evie asked, genuinely confused. "And why is he responsible?"

Fran kept her icy gaze on Winston, who bore the look of a man who would be sleeping on the couch that night.

"Who is Sam?" she repeated.

"Sam, is, um, Sam is Bette's companion," Fran said, rolling a grapevine between her thumb and pointer finger.

Evie was in shock.

"Grandma has a boyfriend?" Everyone knew "companion" was code for boyfriend or girlfriend in the seventy-plus set, the same generation that referred to couples as an "item."

"It's not serious, Evie. That's why Bette didn't want us to tell you about him."

"Really? It's not serious? I thought Grandma and her boyfriend might want to start a family."

Winston chuckled. "That really would be something."

"It's just, I don't know, Bette just said not to mention it to you. It doesn't matter anyway, since now it's out in the open, thanks to . . . oh, never mind." Fran, looking at Winston, shook her head in frustration.

"I know why Grandma didn't want me to know about this Sam guy," Evie said, crumpling the napkin in her hand forcefully. "She doesn't want me to feel bad that my grandmother has a boyfriend and I don't. Well she's wrong. I'm thrilled for her!"

Neither Winston nor Fran said a word. They looked at each other, as though hoping to telecommunicate how to handle the conversation.

"And pardon my morbid curiosity, but why is Grandma being sick Sam's fault anyway?" Evie asked.

"Well, according to Bette, when the lump was detected, it was already the size of a small grape," Fran said. Each of their eyes noticeably wandered over to the cl.u.s.ter of red grapes resting in the ceramic bowl on the table. "Just under two centimeters."

"So?" Evie asked, not sure where she was going with this.

"I guess Bette doesn't understand how Sam, never, um, felt it. You know, when they were being intimate." Fran blushed, unable to look Evie in the eye. Winston dug his hand into his collared golf s.h.i.+rt and scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably, but Evie noticed a hint of a smile. Sam, that old dawg, he was thinking.

"Jesus Christ. Grandma's having her b.o.o.bs felt up by some geezer? I think we need to move her up north permanently. Where is he now anyway?"

Fran's jaw tightened. "Actually, Bette's a little upset that he hasn't been in touch. She thinks he may be dumping her because she has cancer. Supposedly there are a lot of women after him."

Evie shook her head in disbelief. "Let me guess. He has his own teeth. Wait, wait, better yet, he can drive at night."

Winston chuckled, but Fran persisted with a grim face.

"Well, Bette's neighbor saw him playing shuffleboard with one of the less reputable women in the condo yesterday."

Evie reached for the m.u.f.fins after all. She took a big bite and chewed slowly, finding it hard to swallow.

"Okay, I think I've heard enough about Sam for now. For a while, actually. Just tell me more about the treatment she's going to need."

"Well, she will definitely need surgery to remove the tumor. Following the surgery, there will be radiation and possibly chemotherapy, depending on whether the cancer has spread into the lymph nodes. You'll hear more specifics when you meet the surgeon."

"Does that mean she'll lose her hair?" Evie asked. That would kill Bette, who treasured her weekly trips to the beauty parlor to have her 'do set in giant Velcro rollers.

"I'm really not sure," Fran said. "The chemo is much better these days. Apparently they've been able to reduce some of the worst side effects-the nausea isn't as severe, and the hair loss is not as certain. Thank G.o.d-right? Bette would, well, you know. She's vain like me. Not like you, Evie."

"What are you insinuating?"

Now Winston shot Fran a look that said, "Choose your words wisely." Fran didn't seem to notice.

"Sweetie, you know I think you're absolutely gorgeous," Fran beamed, as if taking credit for her daughter's beauty. "But you're in pajamas right now. It's the middle of the day. I could never do that, that's all I was saying. And you know how Bette is. I would have thought you'd change before coming here."

Evie knew that try as she might, there was no way she could convince Fran that Lululemon leggings and a Juicy top were not pajamas, and that her outfit was pretty decent, considering she had no notice for the visit. Why couldn't Bette wear pastel tracksuits like every other grandmother? How did she manage to look pristine a week after a cancer diagnosis?

She made her face into an innocent pout and said, "Oh, I'm sorry, I completely forgot to get my hair blown out before visiting my sick grandmother. I should have booked GLAMSQUAD."

Winston intervened, forcing a detente.

"Let's move on. Evie, I want to hear what's new with you. Have you been searching for a job? I still cannot believe your firm let you go. Fran said it's the market-everyone is suffering."

"Nothing's really new with me. I read about an opportunity at McQualin, which I may pursue, but I'm not sure. I don't think I took one fully calm breath my entire time at Baker Smith. There was always some client drama or deadline hanging over my head. And all the jockeying for position was just exhausting. I need to convalesce."

"Makes sense," Winston said. "What about in-house counsel? The folks in my shop seem to have decent hours." Winston worked as a financial planner at a midsize commercial bank. Evie had seen many of her colleagues transition to similar positions, offering better hours and less pay than Baker Smith. These exits were usually billed as "lifestyle" moves, something she'd once balked at but now was coming to comprehend.

"Maybe. I don't want to jump into anything, though. But actually, I do have something interesting to report. It has to do with why I'm not at Baker Smith anymore."

Fran and Winston leaned in more closely.

"I've given up using the Internet." She waited for a dramatic reaction to her announcement.

Fran and Winston just looked confused. "How does one quit the Internet?" her mother asked.

"And why?" Winston added.

"The Internet was dominating my life. Not in a good way. I was wasting endless hours looking up people who meant nothing to me, checking out wedding and baby photos. Trying to find out where people lived and where they went to school and who they knew. It was a stupid waste of time. And depressing. So I stopped going online. I don't check my e-mail or even text anymore. No Facebook or JDate either."

"Why was it depressing?" Fran asked, sounding alarmed. "Evie, you're amazing, and I'll be d.a.m.ned if you can't see that."

"But, Mom, just think about it. What do people put online? All their best stuff. Their glamour shots, fabulous vacations, pictures of them with celebrities or at cool events. Videos of their kids riding their bikes in Izod s.h.i.+rts on sunny days. n.o.body chooses a fat photo for Facebook. None of my friends would dare post their marital spats on YouTube. No, they post clips from cheery surprise parties. There have to be ten Tweets about job promotions for every one about getting fired. It's not reality. And while intellectually I know it's not reality, it still b.u.mmed me out every time I went online."

Winston and Fran continued to look puzzled. They were clearly from the wrong generation to understand the gravity of her announcement.

"I think I get it," Winston said finally. "I wish the girls would get off their stupid phones once in a while. Bunny wants to throw them out the window." He smiled. "The iPhones, that is. Not the girls."

Bunny was Winston's ex-wife. Evie had met her only a handful of times. Barbara, as Fran called her because she refused to use her pretentious nickname, worked as a real estate broker in Manhattan. Fran told her Bunny cheated on Winston with her now-husband, Albert, whom she met at an open house. Between the time of contract-signing and closing, Bunny left Winston and shacked up with Albert in the apartment she sold him. A few years later they moved out to Rye so the TWASPs would have more s.p.a.ce. The girls were skittish about the divorce when they were small, but by the time they became teenagers they overlooked the fact that Albert broke up their family because he was a top executive at Ralph Lauren who got them steep discounts and tickets to fas.h.i.+on shows.

"Winston gets it!" Evie said excitedly. "Not to mention that I was constantly updating my seventy-five different online dating profiles with new pictures. I would change my list of interests or favorite movies regularly, like some guy would suddenly notice that I like Woody Allen movies and contact me for a date. Well, you can see where that got me."

Fran reached across the table and laid her hand on Evie's arm. "Evie, like I said, you're going to meet someone very soon. Men are just intimidated by you because they think you're out of their league."

"Thanks, Mom. I'll be sure to list you as a reference. But that's not the point. There's more to the story. There was a catalyst for my Internet strike. But I don't feel like getting into it right now." The day had been strenuous enough without having to bring Jack into it.

"But what's this got to do with your job?" Fran asked.

Evie sighed deeply. "Suffice it to say the partners.h.i.+p committee was displeased with the number of personal e-mails I was sending. And frankly, they were right. But I really don't want to talk about that either. I'm embarra.s.sed enough."

Luckily Winston and Fran didn't push her. They just stared at her, surprised, befuddled, and concerned.

"Enough about me. Winston, are you still attempting your renovation of the bas.e.m.e.nt?" Evie said, resuscitating the conversation.

Winston happily obliged the s.h.i.+ft.

"Yes, though I had a minor home improvement injury from my new electric sander," he said, showing Evie a bandage hidden beneath his sleeve. "I think your mom is going to lose it if she has to clean another one of my self-inflicted wounds."

Winston's voice faded as Evie zeroed in on a piece of paper lying on the table. It was a letter from Yale, addressed to May, explaining how the cla.s.s "shopping period" worked and directing her to the website where she could read descriptions of all the courses offered. Evie thought back to the days when her course catalog arrived. Back then it was a thick blue book, stuffed with possibilities. She remembered dog-earing it to death. By the time school started, her catalog was a mess of yellow sticky notes and highlighter streaks. The result was a cla.s.s schedule with no early-morning cla.s.ses and Fridays off. Despite having many more years of experience in her armor, the present Evie still wasn't far from that hopeful girl starting freshman year. She chose Columbia over Harvard for law school because she thought New York was a better place to meet men, something she'd never admitted to anyone. When she did work out, it was at the Reebok Sports Club, an extra ten blocks from her apartment, but it ran a number of amateur sports leagues that drew lots of young, professional types.

It made her feel like a traitor to feminism, all this strategizing. She enjoyed how good it felt to do the very opposite for once. Even if only in the virtual world, she was proud to take herself out of the path of men for a change.

Chapter 7.

The nameplate on the door read EDWARD GOLD, M.D., PH.D., AMA, ASA, CDC, MPH. He certainly seemed qualified alphabetically. Evie tapped gently on the door to announce her arrival.

The tall, sandy-haired doctor rose to greet her. His tan skin was dusted with light freckles, the kind that looked gifted from a recent vacation. Blue eyes framed by a noticeably thick spread of dark lashes punctuated his face. She estimated he was about forty. She had been expecting to see a much older man, and definitely not someone so good-looking. He wore a white coat with his name st.i.tched on the pocket in red. It was b.u.t.toned up so that all she could see of his outfit was the knot of his orange tie and the bottoms of his brown trousers. She despised her own outfit, a pilled knee-length cashmere cardigan draped over a mismatched tank and cropped yoga pants. If the appointment hadn't been set for 8:00 A.M., she might have had a prayer.

When they shook hands, Evie felt comforted by his grasp. His handshake was firm and steady, like a surgeon's should be, but his hands were larger than she expected. She would have thought a surgeon would have thin and delicate fingers.

"Where's my grandmother?" Evie asked, surprised not to find her in one of the two chairs opposite his paper-strewn desk, which Evie immediately wanted to organize. Besides the voluminous stacks of files, his office was spa.r.s.ely decorated save for basic office furniture, numerous diplomas and certificates, and a single baseball encased on a shelf. She found two picture frames-one in his bookcase housing a picture of a cherubic little girl, probably about four years old, in a white dress with alligators on the smocking and an oversize headband. She was in a swing, laughing. Evie a.s.sumed it was his daughter. The other picture, framed on the desk, was turned toward the doctor so that Evie couldn't see it. Probably his wife.

"Bette said her stomach is out of sorts so she and I spoke over the phone early this morning to discuss the surgery in more detail. How she should prepare and what she can expect in terms of recovery," Dr. Gold said.

"Oh, so should I go?" Evie asked, taking a few steps back toward the door, where she noticed one of the framed certificates said Dr. Gold was a lecturer at Mount Sinai Hospital, the same hospital where Stasia's husband, Rick, did his residency.

"No, no. Please stay," Dr. Gold said. "Let me fill you in."

"Okay, thank you," Evie said, taking a seat. She self-consciously tucked her hair behind her ears.

"Your grandmother is a very admirable woman. She's certainly not led an easy life. I heard about your father. That's not the way things are supposed to happen, though in medicine we see it more than most. And she seems to be taking this latest challenge in stride."

"She's incredible," Evie agreed.

"She told me about you. You two are obviously extremely close."

Dr. Gold gave her a half-smile, revealing laugh lines shaped like commas and a dimple in his left cheek big enough to store an acorn. His expression made Evie wonder just what Bette had shared with him about her. If anyone else was going to sum her up in a nutsh.e.l.l, they'd probably say she was attractive, smart, neurotic, maybe even funny. But if Grandma Bette had thirty seconds to describe her, well that was a whole other story. Evie feared the conversation went something like: "Dr. Gold, I know I have cancer, but if you really vant to help me, can you please find someone for my granddaughter? You must know some single doctors looking to settle down. Ideally, no children or previous marriages, but I'm flexible."

"Well, hopefully she didn't say anything too embarra.s.sing."

"All good things, I promise," Dr. Gold said, this time offering a fuller grin. Evie must not have looked convinced, because he went on. "She told me how smart, witty, and sweet you are. You know-typical Jewish grandmother stuff. My grandma told everyone I was the valedictorian at Princeton, which was not remotely true."

"I guess they're all the same," Evie said with a laugh. "What can you tell me about the surgery and the treatment plan? Will she get through this?" She noticed her knee shaking and tried to steady it.

"Like I said, Bette has been incredibly brave. Frankly, she's more concerned with burdening all of you."

"Sounds about right," Evie said ruefully.

"I reviewed the ultrasound-guided core biopsy that Bette had done in Florida, and your grandmother has something called infiltrating duct carcinoma. It's the most common type of breast cancer, but you probably already know that from doing research on your own."

Evie was ashamed to have done no research, though it wasn't for lack of concern. The breast cancer websites would have her reeling from information overload and all she would have seen were the potential complications and mortality statistics.

"She definitely needs to have the tumor removed surgically. I offered Bette the choice of having a lumpectomy, where I would remove the tumor and surrounding tissue, or a mastectomy, where the entire breast would be removed," Dr. Gold explained. "The adjuvant treatments postsurgery are different, and many patients opt for the mastectomy so they can be a.s.sured that all affected cells are gone."

"Bette chose the lumpectomy," Evie said. "I'm right, aren't I?"

Gold laughed, and when he did, the skin around his eyes crinkled in an endearing way. Evie liked that he laughed with his whole face.

"You are. I was surprised. Most women her age opt for the mastectomy, which historically has been considered a more effective treatment for preventing recurrence. Fortunately, there is new research showing that a lumpectomy plus radiation can be just as effective, with possibly even greater survival rates, than a mastectomy. I'm actually heading up a follow-up study that we hope will confirm these findings. Anyway, Bette was pretty adamant regardless."

"Well, she does have a boyfriend. I just found out."

"Sam?"