“I can't understand how you could do this.” Sam stared at him in uncomprehending horror, and Peter Herman realized that it was just too soon for him to absorb it.
“Your wife has cancer, Mr. Parker. We want to cure her.” That said it all, and there were tears in Sam's eyes as he nodded.
“How good do you think her chances are for survival?” It was a question Dr. Herman hated to answer. He wasn't God. He was a man. He didn't know. He wished he could give them all guarantees of long life, but he couldn't.
“That's hard to know right now. The tumor was deep and large, but the whole purpose of radical surgeries, and aggressive treatment afterwards, is to wipe out the entire cancer. If we even leave point zero one percent, it could eventually do her grave harm. That's why we can't afford to leave the breast once it's diseased to the extent that hers was. And sometimes finding it early enough, and attacking it radically, can mean the difference between success and failure. We hope that we got all of hers, that it was contained, that it has not infiltrated, and that her nodes are not too excessively involved. We hope that, for her, radical surgery was the answer, and chemotherapy will be the additional guarantee she needs. But only time will tell us if we've been truly successful. You're both going to have to be very strong, and very patient.” She was going to die then, Sam decided as he listened. They were going to butcher her piece by piece, cut off one breast, then the other, scoop her insides out, and boil her guts with the poisons in the chemo, and then she'd die anyway. He was going to lose her. He couldn't stand it. And he was not going to hang around and watch her die, just as he had his mother.
“I don't suppose I should bother asking what your success rate is with these kinds of cancers?”
“Sometimes excellent. We just have to be as aggressive as your wife can tolerate. But she's in good health, which is in her favor, and she's a strong woman.” But not a lucky one. At forty-two, she was going to have to fight for her life. And there was a good chance that she wouldn't win it. He just couldn't believe it. It was like one of those bad movies where the heroine dies, and the husband is left alone with the children. Just like his father, and it had killed him. But Sam already knew he wasn't going to let this kill him. He couldn't let her do that to him. His eyes filled with tears as he forced himself not to think of her body the way it had been, and the way it would look now. The words were all so ugly …reconstructive surgery …prosthesis … he didn't even want to see it.
“Your wife will be in the recovery room for the rest of the afternoon, I'd say. I think she should be back here by about six or seven. I think she might do well with private nurses for the first few days. Would you like me to arrange that?”
“That would be fine.” Sam looked at him coldly. The man had destroyed his life in a single moment. It was impossible for Sam to accept the fact that the doctor hadn't given her the cancer, he had tried to cure it. “How long will she have to be here?”
“I'd say until Friday. Possibly sooner, if she does well. A lot will depend on her attitude, and her recovery. It's actually a fairly simple operation, and there's less pain than one would expect, especially in a case like hers where the involvement was mainly ductal. That's more the ‘plumbing' of the breast, and there aren't a great many nerves there.” Sam felt sick hearing about it. He'd already heard a lot more than he wanted.
“Get her round-the-clock nurses, please. When can I see her?”
“Not until she comes back from the recovery room, early this evening.”
“I'll be back then.” He stood looking at the doctor for a long moment, unable to thank him for what he'd done. He might as well have killed her. “Will you be seeing Alex again today?”
“This evening, when she's a little more awake. If there's any problem before that, we'll call you. But I don't anticipate any complications. The operation went remarkably smoothly.” Sam's stomach turned over as he heard the words. To him, the only thing that was remarkable was that they had butchered Alex.
The doctor left the room then, well aware of Sam's hostility, and Sam left his office number and the number at La Grenouille at the nursing desk, and then he hurried out of the hospital, feeling frantic. He needed air, he needed room, he needed to see people who hadn't lost anything, who weren't sick, or dying of cancer. He couldn't stand being there for one more moment. He felt like a drowning man as he gulped the cool October air, and by the time he found a cab, he felt slightly more human.
He gave the driver the address of La Grenouille, and tried not to think of anything Peter Herman had said about Alex, about how little they knew, and how much they hoped, and nodes, and tumors, and tests and biopsies, and metastasis, and chemo. He didn't want to hear another word about it. Ever.
The lunch crowd at La Grenouille was in full swing, and it was almost two o'clock when he got there. He felt as though he had just returned from another planet.
“Sam, my boy, where have you been? We got drunk as skunks waiting for you, and finally, just so we didn't fall out of our chairs, we had to order.” Generally, their Arab clients didn't drink, but there were a few less religious, more sophisticated Moslems who did when they weren't in Arab countries. The men Simon had brought with him today were all dramatic-looking, handsome men, who had lived in Paris and London for years, and had enormous oil fortunes they'd invested in the world markets. Simon himself was roughly Sam's age, though heavier built, with wavy blond hair, blue eyes, and if you were tall enough you could see that he was slightly balding. But he had a very aristocratic British air, he was given to tweeds, handmade shoes, and impeccably starched shirts, and remarkably important clients. Sam had finally even decided that he liked him. He had a great sense of humor, and he was anxious to become friends. He had a wife he'd left “at home,” they were separated, though they vacationed together frequently and seemed to have an interestingly open arrangement. And he had three kids, all boys, at Eton.
And sitting next to him was the young woman he had mentioned to Sam. The Oxford graduate in economics. Her name was Daphne. She was a striking-looking young woman in her late twenties. She had long, straight dark hair almost the color of Sam's, and it shone as it hung almost to her waist. She was tall and lithe, with creamy English skin, and dark eyes that danced as she looked at Sam. She seemed always about to crack a joke, or to say something unbearably funny. And he saw when she went to the ladies' room after a little while that she was not only very tall, but she had an incredibly good figure, and her skirt barely covered her bottom. She had an Hermes Kelly bag slung over one arm, and she was wearing a short black wool dress, silky black stockings, and a string of pearls. She reeked of sex and class and youth, and it was obvious that every man at La Grenouille thought she was gorgeous.
“Pretty girl, eh?” Simon smiled at him after he saw Sam watch her cross the room with a look of admiration.
“I'll say. You certainly know how to hire your assistants,” Sam teased him, wondering briefly if he had slept with her.
“Smart too,” Simon added softly as she returned. “You should see her in a bathing suit, and she's dynamite on the dance floor.” Sam saw a glance pass between Daphne and Simon and wasn't quite sure what it was, camaraderie or cohabitation, or maybe just desire on Simon's part. Daphne seemed very cool in the company of half a dozen men, and he overheard her having a very intelligent conversation about oil prices with one of the Arabs.