Sara had gone on and on about William at lunch, and about fate and how seeing him again after so long meant that it was. Fate. Irene said she preferred to make her own fate, but secretly she was glad that, in this case, the forces of fate, via Sara, would certainly throw her back into his path again soon. So she got the scarf and had them wrap it. Heart beating heavier then, she went to the back where they had a lot of old books and found an illustrated book of Italian fairy tales for Jacob. They’d first met in an Italian class that she’d been sitting in on and that he’d failed spectacularly.
It was just after this, having wandered into a pet shop down the street, that the woman called from Dr. Atoosa Zarrani’s office at Mount Sinai Hospital to say that the results were in and the doctor could see her that afternoon to go over them.
“Unless you’re busy? Are you at the zoo? In this cold?”
“Oh no,” Irene had answered. “I’m in a pet shop. I was thinking about buying a bird.”
The woman had laughed. “Birds can be a lot of work. I have two sulfur-crested cockatoos at home.”
“Is that a good kind?”
“I wouldn’t recommend them to a beginner.”
“It’s just that I have this beautiful bird cage,” Irene confessed. “It was there when I moved into my apartment. I guess the last tenant left it behind. Anyway I just keep my jewelry and things in it, but sometimes I think to myself — I don’t know, maybe I’d like having a pet.”
“Well,” the woman had said, “you think about it. And if you need some time, I’m sure we can find you an appointment tomorrow.”
Irene had taken this as a good sign. Surely if there was something wrong, the woman would have orders to get her there pronto. Plus, the woman wouldn’t be telling her to buy a bird if she thought she was dying. That’d be irresponsible. So nothing to worry about.
And that was how Irene came to find herself, a few hours later, sitting in a little room at Mount Sinai Hospital with bare walls and a table bolted to the floor. Her shopping bags were at her feet, and she tried to keep the one with the purple silhouette of a dominatrix with a cracking whip facing the wall. To kill time, she flipped through the book of Italian fairy tales and thought happily about what type of bird she might get, until she looked up to see a tall Persian woman in a lab coat coming into the room.
“Richmond? Irene?”
They shook hands, and the doctor sat down and began leafing through the report she was carrying. Irene recognized the jagged, illegible signature of Dr. Von Hatter at Park Avenue Pathology, where she’d gone for the biopsy. Irene noticed the clear, commanding letters beneath it: DR. ATOOSA ZARRANI. Not. Messing. Around.
“You came by yourself?” the doctor said, looking around as if someone were hiding.
Irene looked around too, as if she couldn’t remember, then shrugged. Why didn’t the doctor just get on with it? She felt sick. That couldn’t be a good sign.
“Usually people bring a friend, or a family member.”
Irene nodded as if taking this under advisement for next time. She searched the doctor’s large dark eyes for some clue as to what she knew that Irene did not.
Dr. Zarrani smiled and then laughed a little to herself. “This morning a woman brought her doorman — a little Hungarian gentleman with red epaulets and a hat.”
Irene smiled, feeling almost at ease, just as Dr. Zarrani cleared her throat and said, “Ms. Richmond, you have cancer.”
Irene looked down quietly. She reached across herself and adjusted the sleeve of her shirt. Her first complete thought was that she shouldn’t get a bird after all.
Eventually she said, “Well, shit.”
Dr. Zarrani continued in a calm and even tone. “The biopsy revealed that the lump under your eye is a malignant osteosarcoma, which is the most common form of primary bone cancer. Tumors in the arm are most likely, but they can also present in the legs and skull. We’ll have to do a more thorough scan to be sure that this is the only tumor, but it’s small, and we’re optimistic that this hasn’t metastasized yet. Of course we’ll need to do more testing to be sure. Very likely a CT and a bone scan, probably an MRI of your head and neck.”
Irene felt dizzy. “Where did it come from?” she asked. Then she rolled her eyes and said, “Wow, sorry. That’s a pretty stupid question, right?”
Dr. Zarrani shook her head, a little dark hair falling in front of her eyes before she quickly brushed it back. “Not at all. Some cancers do have known causes, although you’re correct that we don’t know for sure what causes this type. There have been a lot of studies. We don’t know if it has a genetic component. Environmental causes are possible. We’ve looked at fluoridation in the water, dietary factors, dyes, preservatives, too much red meat, exposure to radiation, pesticides, BPA in plastics, artificial sweeteners, certain types of viruses, high tension wires, using cell phones…”
“And nothing?”
“Nothing conclusive.”
Irene looked away at the blank wall. She wanted to just climb into it and disappear.
“The long-term survival rate for osteosarcoma is fairly high. Sixty-eight percent.”
“Sixty-eight percent doesn’t sound fairly high.”
“Sixty-eight percent isn’t bad. And you’re lucky in a sense. Because you’re so young.”
Irene took a deep breath and shifted her gaze to the floor now. It, too, offered nothing. “See, now to me that seems distinctly unlucky.”
Dr. Zarrani smiled a little. “Sixty-eight percent is taken across the board, over all cases. Including very young children whose immune systems aren’t anywhere near strong enough to handle the treatment. Osteosarcoma affects children quite often, actually. Again, we don’t know why. And then there are the elderly, who generally don’t have the strength to pull through either. What I’m saying is, because you’re young and otherwise healthy, if we take this thing head on and act quickly, your chances are going to be very good.”
A weight that Irene hadn’t quite noticed suddenly seemed to lift from her shoulders, even as the knotting in her stomach got worse. She leaned forward as if she were at a board meeting — arms bent at the elbows, fingers pressed together.
“So what do we do?”
“A team of specialists will review your case.”
“Oh, but I like you,” Irene said, smiling crookedly. Was she really flirting with this woman who was telling her that she was maybe dying? Used to being confused, Irene was completely bewildered now.
Dr. Zarrani seemed about to say something but stopped herself before it came out. “I’ll be head of your team, but you’ll need a plastic surgeon, a chemotherapist, a radiologist—”
“Radiation?” Irene said, touching her eye.
“It helps to kill the tumor. Though this is delicate because radiation will likely permanently affect your vision in the eye, because the tumor is so close.”