“I’ll come by at lunch.”
“Call me,” I say, and we hang up.
I sit back down in my chair. “There’s a free latte,” Aaron says, handing me a Starbucks. “I forgot to make Jill’s nonfat.”
“How could you,” I say in mock horror, and Aaron chuckles. It feels wrong here, that sound of joy.
“I guess I was a little focused on my girlfriend’s cancer.” He gives me an exaggerated headshake. “How dare I.”
Now I’m the one to laugh.
“Do you think this counts as blowing it with her parents?”
“There’s always the chemo,” I say. And now we’re both in hysterics. A woman knitting a few chairs over from us looks up, annoyed. I can’t help it, though. It feels nearly impossible to get any air, that’s how hard we’re laughing.
“Radiation,” he says, gasping.
“Third time’s a charm.”
It’s Frederick’s stern look that sends us up and out of our seats, sprinting toward the door.
When we’re in the hallway, I take big, gulping breathes. It feels like I haven’t had air in a week.
“We’re going outside,” he says. “You have your cell phone?”
I nod.
“Good. Yours is the update phone. I made sure on the chart.”
We head down the elevators and the double doors spit us out onto the street. There’s a park across the way. Small children dangle from swings, surrounded by planted trees. Nannies and parents bark into their cell phones.
We’re on the sidewalk, the length of Fifth Avenue splayed out before us. Cars push one another forward, egging the others on. The city inhales and inhales and inhales.
“Where are we going?” I ask him. My bones feel tired. I lift my leg up, testing.
“It’s a surprise,” he says.
“I don’t like those.”
Aaron laughs. “You’re gonna be fine,” he says.
He grabs my hand, and we’re turning down Fifth Avenue.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“We can’t go far,” I say. I’m practically running to keep up, he’s moving so quickly.
“We’re not,” he tells me. “Just up. Here.”
We’re at the back entrance of a doorman building on One Hundred First Street. He takes an ID out of his wallet and swipes the key fob. The door opens.
“Are we breaking and entering?”
He laughs. “Just entering.”
We’re in what appears to be a basement storage unit, and I follow Aaron through rows of bikes and giant Tupperware containers with out-of-season items into an elevator in the back.
I check my phone to make sure I still have service. Four bars.
It’s a freight elevator, old and lumbering, and we shuffle our way to the rooftop. When we step off, we’re greeted by a tiny stretch of grass surrounded by a concrete terrace and beyond that, the city splayed out before us. There’s a glass dome behind us, some kind of party venue.
“I just thought you could probably use a little bit of space,” he says.
I walk tentatively toward the terrace, run my hand along the marbled concrete. “How do you have access to this place?”
“It’s a building I’m working on,” he says. He comes to stand beside me. “I like it because it’s so high. Usually buildings on the East Side are pretty squat.”
I look at the hospital, dwarfed below us, imagining Bella lying on a table, her body splayed open somewhere inside. My grip on the concrete tightens.
“I’ve screamed up here before,” Aaron tells me. “I wouldn’t judge if you wanted to.”
I hiccup. “That’s okay,” I say.
I turn to him. His eyes are focused below us. I wonder what he’s thinking, if he sees Bella the way I do.
“What do you love about her?” I ask him. “Will you tell me?”
He smiles immediately. He doesn’t lift his eyes. “Her warmth,” he says. “She’s so damn warm. Do you know what I mean?”
“I do,” I say.
“She’s beautiful, obviously.”
“Boring,” I say.
He smiles. “Stubborn, too. I think you guys have that in common.”
I laugh. “You’re probably not wrong.”
“And she’s spontaneous in the way people aren’t anymore. She lives for now.”
A ping of recognition in my chest. I look to Aaron. His eyebrows are knit. He looks, all at once, like it’s just occurred to him, what that really means. The possibility ahead. Ding ding ding. And then I realize it’s my cell phone that’s ringing. It’s been in my hand, vibrating and tolling.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Kohan, it’s Dr. Shaw’s associate, Dr. Jeffries. He wanted me to call and give you an update.”
My breath holds. The air stills. From somewhere in the distance, Aaron takes my hand.
“We’re going to take a biopsy of her colon and abdominal tissue. But everything is going according to plan. We still have a few hours ahead of us, but he wanted you to know so far so good.”
“Thank you,” I manage. “Thank you.”
“I’m going to get back now,” he says, and hangs up.
I look to Aaron. I see it there, the love in his eyes. It mirrors mine.
“He said it’s going according to plan.”
He exhales, drops my hand. “We should get back,” he says.
“Yeah.”
We reverse the process. Elevator, door, street. When we get to the lobby of the hospital, someone calls my name: “Dannie!”
I turn to see David jogging toward us.
“Hey,” he says. “I was just trying to check in. How’s it going? Hey man.” He extends his hand to Aaron, who shakes it.
“I’m going to head back up,” Aaron says. He touches my arm and leaves.
“You doing okay?” David folds me into a hug. I reach up and embrace him.
“They said it’s going well,” I said, although that’s not entirely the truth. They said it’s going. “I don’t think they need to get into her stomach.”
David’s eyebrows knit. “Good,” he says. “That’s good, right? How are you?”
“Hanging in.”
“Have you eaten?”
I shake my head.
David produces a paper bag with a Sarge’s logo, my bagel with whitefish salad.
“This is my winner’s breakfast,” I say sadly.
“She’s got this, Dannie.”
“I should head back up,” I say. “Shouldn’t you be at the office?”
“I should be here,” he says.
He puts a hand on my back, and we go upstairs. When we get to the waiting room, Jill and Frederick are still on their cell phones. A pile of Scarpetta’s takeout sits upright in a chair next to them. I don’t even know how they got them to deliver this early — I don’t even think they’re open for lunch.
I brought my computer and I take it out now. The one good thing about the hospitaclass="underline" free and strong Wi-Fi.
Bella has told very few people. Morgan and Ariel, who I email now, and the gallery girls, for logistical reasons. I update them, too. I imagine these tiny, waiflike women contending with their beautiful boss having cancer. Does thirty-three seem ancient to them? They haven’t even crossed twenty-five.
I work for two hours. Answer emails, punt calls, and research. My brain is a haze of focus and paranoia and fear and noise. At some point, David forces the sandwich on me. I’m surprised by my appetite. I finish it. David leaves, promising to come back later. I tell him I’ll meet him at home. Jill steps out and comes back. Frederick goes in search of a charger. Aaron sits — sometimes reading, sometimes doing nothing but staring at the clock, at the big board where they list where patients are. Patient 487B, still in surgery.
It’s creeping toward late afternoon when I see Dr. Shaw walking through the double doors. My heart leaps up into my ears. I hear the pounding, like gongs.