The Department of Lost & Found (19 page)

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ple (or so Sally told me), Lila and Zach weren’t options to keep me company, and my parents were in fucking Australia. I considered hitting the self-help section at Barnes and Noble or surfing the Web for some rabbinical spiritual enlightenment, but the thought just depressed me more. So instead I pressed the “on” button and heard my computer whirl its motors alive. I needed to write my mother.

I plunked down in my chair and ran my fingers over the keyboard. Surprisingly, it had been over forty-eight hours since I’d stared at the screen, which had to be some sort of record since high school. My monitor flashed on, and I ran my mouse over the icons that hovered over the backdrop of a photo of Dupris and me, just after we’d pushed a social security bill through Congress. I craned my neck forward to examine the picture on the screen a bit closer: Neither of our smiles quite met our eyes—hers almost always looked that way, but I suspect that my frozen facade had more to do with the fact that I was certain this bill would do nothing to actually improve the lives of senior citizens and less with the fact that I should have gotten used to hollow victories by then. Most of them were, it seemed. I pressed my index finger down on my mouse. Click. And pulled open my e-mail.

From: Miller, Natalie

To: Mom

Re:

Surgery

Dear Mom and Dad—

I hope you’re having fun on your trip. I had my checkup and things look so good that Dr. Chin is performing the mastectomy in two days. Mom—it looks like you don’t know
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everything after all because it turns out that it would have been nice for you to have been here. Maybe you should consider marking this day in history.

I guess it’s too much for me to ask for you to come back, but since I am losing my breasts and all, I’ll ask anyway. As I said, it would be nice to have you here.

Natalie

I reread the note. I tried not to make it sound too angry, too spiteful, because the truth of the matter was that though I
was
angry and I
was
spiteful and part of me just wanted to shout, “I fucking told you so,” at my always-right, always-stoic mother, the other part of me knew that it wasn’t worth it. That I could choose to rise above it and accept that my mother was who she was, and that no matter how angry I was, how fucking furious I was, and, ultimately, how betrayed I was that they could fly ten thousand miles away while I was in the midst of a literal life or death battle, at a certain point, you make a choice. And I’m not talking about the choice to accept my mother as is, which, I suppose, is also a very valiant, noble choice. No, the choice I’m talking about is whether to ask for help, whether to let someone in and say, “You know, you fucked up, and I’m hurting, but I still need you to come stand beside me, despite all of that.”
There is no “we” in Natalie.

Maybe there wasn’t, and maybe there still isn’t, but that didn’t mean that I couldn’t ask. That I couldn’t make the
choice
to put aside my ire and ask my parents to come join me as I faced down the most horrifying moment of my life.

I pressed Send and went into my in-box. There was only one new lonesome message, and given the address, I might rather that there had been none.

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From: Taylor, Susanna

To: Miller,

Natalie

Re:

Meeting next week

Hi Natalie—

I hope you don’t mind that I got your e-mail from Blair. It was nice meeting you a few weeks back . . . obviously, the circumstances could have been better, but it was nice all the same.

I hope that your treatments are going well, and that you’re finding the energy to fight a good fight while still taking some time to pamper yourself. That was the hardest part for me, I think—remembering to be gentle both to and for myself.

I’m writing because I wanted to let you know that the support group is meeting tomorrow, and I’d hoped that you might have changed your mind and would want to join.

Don’t worry—we don’t sit around and sing “Kumbaya.” In fact, I think we might go see a movie. Not sure yet.

I do hope you’ll come.

All my best,

Susanna

Well, I thought, rubbing my foot over Manny’s stomach, at least I have a good excuse. I mean, losing your breasts had to be a

“get out of jail free” card for at least a month or so. True, I was trying to be more open, but this I wasn’t yet ready for. I hit Reply and kindly declined her offer.

t u e s day n i g h t, t h e night before they stole both of my breasts, I sunk into the bathtub and tried not to drown in my own
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fear. First, I called the senator to tell her that I wouldn’t be back in the office by the fifth of January as planned. That I needed a few more weeks, but that I was well briefed in everything I needed to be on the stem cell situation, and that she could count on me for whatever she required. As soon as I hung up, the phone rang again. It was my parents from Australia: They’d changed their flight, but given the time it takes to fly back from halfway around the world, they wouldn’t be back by tomorrow morning. They’d see me in recovery on Thursday. My mom hung on the line and told me not to worry, and she said that just because they were slicing away
part
of me didn’t mean that they, in fact, were slicing away
all
of me. Because I detected more than just regret in her voice, because I detected love and fear and genuine compassion, I chose to believe her. That cutting off your breasts doesn’t cut out your soul, but certainly, it cut deeply somewhere.

I sat up in the soapy waters of my tub and held them both, my breasts. I wanted to mourn them, to kiss them good-bye and say that I’d miss them, but really, I was too angry. Take them off, I’d practically spat at Dr. Chin when I called to tell him my decision.

Take them off before they do any more damage. These
things,
these symbols of my womanhood, these swollen mounds that were supposed to feed my children and display my ripeness to the world had done just the opposite. They’d sucked me dry. And as I looked down at them that night, covered in frothy bubbles and hot water, I despised both them and what they’d done to me.

After drying my tears, I climbed out, dropped my towel, and crawled naked into bed. My last night when I was still whole. “It’s just you and me, Manny,” I whispered after he hopped into bed with me and as I ran my fingers behind his ears. Ned was gone. Jake was gone. My parents were literally gone. Zach, well, I’m not sure if I ever had him to begin with. If Sally hadn’t been able to put aside her 174

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story and come with me tomorrow, I probably would have checked myself into the hospital by myself. I curled up against Manny and wondered if there was anything more depressing than that.

i ’ d o p t e d f o r B-cups, same as before. Dr. Chin created a graphics program on his computer to show me what I would have looked like with Cs, but it was all a little too porn star. They’d never take me seriously in Washington if my breasts entered the room before the rest of me.

I don’t remember the surgery. Of course, I shouldn’t. They give you enough drugs to knock you out like a rock star in need of rehab. I’m sure it’s to dull the pain, but I also figured it was because if you were awake and in your right mind, they’d have to forcibly put you in restraints when they began to lop off your chest.

I woke up in a beige room with a view of the East River. It had started to snow, and the water was blanketed in a sheet of white. A TV hovered on the wall in front of me, and a crimson armchair from the ’80s sat to my left. I tried to move, to reach for my bag on the faux-wood table next to my bed, but was met with excruciating pain. I looked down under my gown and saw my upper body taped down with a compression belt of sorts: a girdle for my breasts. Before I could press for the aid button, a heavy-bottomed, blond-bobbed nurse ushered in.

“Natalie. I’m Carol. I’ll be looking after you during the day shifts. How are you feeling?” She said it in a warm tone that would work small wonders on kindergartners and felt pretty all right to me, too.

“Okay, I guess. Sore. Sad. But okay.” I tried not to look down at my chest.

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“All of this is normal, my dear. I need to check your fluids and take a few vitals. Don’t mind me.” She scampered around the room, talking quietly to herself, making notes in her chart, moving around me as if she’d done this a thousand times. Which she probably had.

“Do you see a lot of patients my age?” I asked her, though I wasn’t sure why.

“I do,” she said, then reconsidered. “Well, not a lot. Not the norm. But certainly enough. Young women are always the tough-est to watch, but they’re also the most inspiring. You guys are almost always the fighters, the ones who won’t let cancer get the best of them.”

I nodded. “That’s nice to hear. I hope I have it in me to be like that. I’m trying, I mean, God knows I am. But half of me is just so tired.” My voice faltered. “Everyone tells you to keep your head up, but they don’t even realize that you’re just trying to stay afloat.”

“The worst part of it is over, darling. From here, it’s only sunny skies.” She dropped my chart into the slot at the front of my bed, handed me my bag when I asked for it, and gently closed the door.

I had three missed calls, but my phone wasn’t what I searched for like a prize at the bottom of a Cracker Jack box. I gently dug past my toiletries and the magazines Sally had dumped in, swearing that they’d ward off the boredom, until my fingers caught hold. My wig. I know, it seemed silly that after all this, I’d brought my wig with me. After all, I’d barely had time to break it in: I’d shown it off only to myself in front of my mirror. Well, and to Manny, but he didn’t care if I were bald or looked like Carrot Top, as long as I fed him and scratched his tummy before he went to sleep.

When my mom and I bought it from Mrs. Seidel, I was instantly 176

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in love: like the “Rachel” I once aspired to, hoping it would give me something, anything, just more of a good thing. This time, it actually did: It armed me with confidence, made me feel (relatively) beautiful, and, for a second, allowed me to forget that I had Stage III breast cancer.

I pulled the wig out of my bag and gingerly glided it onto my scalp. I wasn’t sure if it was on straight or if the locks fell exactly as they should, but there, in the motorized hospital bed, robbed of my breasts and swaddled like an Egyptian mummy, it made me feel almost complete.

s a l ly wa s m y first visitor. She and Drew, who pledged to look after Manny until I got home, stopped by in the late afternoon. I’d fallen asleep with the wig still on and was just waking up for an early dinner (in the hospital, everyone gets the early bird special, even if you’re thirty, even if you’re not interested in the daily meat-loaf—they bring it anyway), when they popped in.

“Darling!” she screeched and leaned in to give me a kiss. “You look fabulous! I don’t know what they did to you in there, but if possible, can I get it done myself?”

“You like?” I said with a smile as I pushed up the ends of my hair like a ’40s pinup.

“Divine. Simply divine. Honestly, it’s like Demi Moore and Angelina Jolie all rolled into one. That wig-making gal is a genius.

Maybe I can pitch a story on it.”

“Yeah, how cancer made me beautiful. I’m sure it will be the new rage out in Hollywood.”

Sally struck a serious pose. “Don’t joke. You know those ac-tresses will do anything to lose a few pounds.
Allure
just might go for it.”

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“So, how’d it go? What did the doctors say?” Drew interrupted.

“Well, I guess— I mean, I’m waiting on tests to see if they got most of it out, but Dr. Chin said that they were very pleased. We’ll know more tomorrow.”

“Has Zach stopped in yet?” Sally asked.

“Kick me while I’m down, why don’t you.” I grinned. “No. I’m not so sure he will. I called him the other night in a slightly pot-induced haze, but really, in more of a jealous one. He didn’t seem so happy to hear from me. He said he’d drop off more pot at my apartment and that he didn’t want to leave it with my doorman, but he left it with him anyway.” I sighed. “I guess me calling up and acting like a twelve-year-old to see if he was sleeping with Lila again wasn’t as genius as it sounded like after the joint.”

“Sweetie, no worries. I’m sure it wasn’t so bad. And I’m sure he’ll stop by tomorrow.”

“It was that bad,” I said. “And I should have called him back to apologize.”

“I thought apologies weren’t your thing. Haven’t you told me that about ten dozen times over the years?” Sally laughed. “Looks like Zach has penetrated the formidable armor.” I just shrugged and wondered how many other people like Susanna Taylor, like Zach, I’d mowed down in my wake. “What’s that?” Sally asked, pointing to my neck.

Instinctively, I reached up and felt the gold weight against my collarbone. The doctors had let me wear it during surgery, just turning the charm over so it hung down the nape of my neck, rather than down the front.

“It’s silly, actually,” I said, feeling self-conscious. “It’s just a stupid necklace that Ned gave me.” I shrugged, as Sally’s eyes widened at the mention of his name. “Don’t worry. It has nothing 178

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to do with Ned. It’s just . . .” I paused and thought about it, about why I’d clasped it on after I uncovered it in my drawer while packing for the hospital. “It’s just that when he bought it, he did it because it gave him hope. Because it reminded him of better days.

And I thought that maybe I could use a bit of that now, too.”

“Makes sense to me,” Sally said, reaching over and squeezing my hand. “You have to find hope wherever you can.”

Twenty minutes later, my head was throbbing and I needed another hit of Vicodin, so when Carol brought me my meds, Sally and Drew kissed me good-bye and promised to stop in the next day and to take good care of Manny. I’d drifted off to sleep before they even made it to the elevator.