I am.’
‘I see no reason why not,’ he said. He leaned against a low cabinet, and for the first time since entering the exam room, he really looked at her: into her eyes, as if she were a whole person, not just a collection of parts to study and assess. ‘Have you asked Dr Boswell?’
‘No,’ Sarah said. ‘Should I?’ Dr Boswell was her oncologist. While she was very important to Sarah’s care, had administered two courses of chemotherapy and overseen the radiation treatment, Dr Goodacre was the One. He was the one who had identified her tumor as large-cell lymphoma, eminently less deadly than osteogenic sarcoma, offering her the possibility of long-term recovery. He was the one in whom Sarah had placed her faith, to whom she entrusted her hopes and fears.
‘I’ll have Vicky give her a call,’ Dr Goodacre said, making a note on Sarah’s chart. ‘If she has no objection, neither do I.’
‘Really?’ Sarah asked.
‘You know the road we face, Sarah. You’ve done everything we’ve asked of you, and you’ve responded well.’
‘I just don’t want a recurrence,’ she said, shivering. Did that sound dumb? Did anyone want a recurrence?
‘I know. We can’t predict … your tumor was very difficultly situated, and it is rather aggressive for a large-cell lym–’ He cut himself off. The look on his face said it all. Dr Goodacre gave Sarah credit for her intelligence and powers of intuition, and he didn’t have to spell it all out. She might survive and she might not. Sarah knew the anguish of cancer: She had watched her own mother die in bed on Elk Island. She had watched her father wither and almost disappear with grief.
‘I’d like to see my son,’ she said quietly, without emotion. ‘I’d like to go home.’
He nodded. ‘Be alert,’ he said. ‘If you have any symptoms of numbness or tingling, you should call me immediately. But I see no reason for you not to go.’
‘Thank you,’ Sarah said, glowing as if she had just won a race.
‘I’ll see you back here in a month,’ Dr Goodacre said as sternly as ever. Preparing to leave, on to the next case, his hand was on the doorknob.
‘Dr Goodacre,’ Sarah asked, needing to summon up a little courage. She had never asked him anything personal. ‘How’s your father?’ The last time she was there, she had heard Vicky saying his father had had a heart attack.
‘Better,’ Dr Goodacre said, pausing. He gave Sarah a curious look, as if he wondered how she knew to ask. ‘But he lives in Florida, and I can’t be with him. It falls to my older brother to look after him.’
‘Does your brother do a good job?’ Sarah asked.
‘He’s an angel!’ Dr Goodacre said with passion. He broke into a grin, staring straight into Sarah’s eyes. Full of intensity, he looked at the ceiling, then back at Sarah. She understood how it felt to love someone far away, to worry yourself sick about him, to trust his care to another human being. In a way, Dr Goodacre’s brother was looking out for him – Dr Goodacre – too.
‘I’m glad,’ she said. ‘That you have such a wonderful brother.’
‘I wish everyone had someone like him,’ he said.
Sarah had never seen the doctor this way, and she nodded. He lingered for a moment, then walked away. The door closed softly behind him.
Alone in the room, Sarah closed her eyes. She felt her heart beating fast. Her exercises calmed her, so she held her arms out straight in front. Then out to the side again, like before. Sarah had never had a brother like the doctor’s, had never had an angel in her life. But then she thought of Will Burke holding her at the fair, flying her home.
Taking her to see Mike.
Will drove up the long driveway. The road up Windemere Hill zigzagged through a forest of pin oaks and white pines. Snow had fallen the previous night, and the branches drooped low. At the top, the drive opened onto a wide, snow-covered lawn lined with white-capped boxwood hedges. It was late Friday afternoon, and he was there to pick up his daughter.
Julian’s imposing stone mansion lorded over the wintry scene. Two old Ferraris were parked in the turnaround, and a Porsche 356 was visible in the carriage house. Will parked his car, trying not to feel resentful that one guy should have all this, and Alice and Susan too.
Expecting Susan, he was surprised to see Alice walk out the front door. The sight of her made him catch his breath. She was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, with her creamy skin and wide, almond-shaped blue eyes, silky golden hair, a shapely, feminine figure. She walked through the snow in short black boots.
She was wearing sleek gray workout clothes, revealing her body. In the fifteen years since their daughter’s birth, she had never stopped trying to obliterate the slight roundness left in her tummy. Unable to help himself, Will checked to see if it was still there: It was.
‘She asked me to tell you she’ll be a few minutes late,’ Alice said hurriedly, her arms folded in front of her, her breath making white clouds.
‘No problem,’ Will said. He got out of the car, leaned against the door. He wore jeans and an old green sweater. The air was freezing cold, and he had to fight the urge to offer Alice the leather jacket he had thrown in the backseat.
‘Her asthma’s been terrible lately.’
‘Really?’
‘It’s completely psychosomatic. We all know that. She works herself into attacks just to interrupt whatever’s going on. I’m not blaming her, she’s been through a lot, but she needs to be the center of attention.’
‘I did when I was fifteen,’ Will said, smiling.
‘Like that ever stopped.’
Was she kidding? Will couldn’t tell. Her expression was stern, and she was staring at his boots. They were a pair of old Dunhams, the brown leather well worn and scuffed, recently resoled. He wondered if she remembered buying them for him their first winter in Fort Cromwell, five long years before.
‘I wanted to ask you about Thanksgiving,’ Will began.
Her head snapped up. ‘Thanksgiving? She stays with me. We have plans –’
‘Whoa,’ Will said, raising one hand. God, the smallest conversation became so tense, every point felt like a negotiation. He couldn’t help thinking of other years, when a conversation about Thanksgiving with Alice revolved around Fred being John Alden in the school play, Susan playing a Pilgrim girl, whose parents’ house they should go to, whether they should have mince or pumpkin pies or both for dinner.
‘You know she stays with me on holidays, Will. It was part of the agreement.’
‘Yes, I know. Relax, Alice. I was just asking.’
‘My God. Everything is such a damn battle,’ she said, folding her arms even tighter.
‘It’s no battle. I just wanted to let you know I’ll be out of town.’
‘Fine.’
‘Good.’
