comes to that? ”
Almost as a reflex, he checked with Alice, meeting her eyes, anticipating unhappiness with his flippancy.
“We’re not letting them do that to you,” he said.
She emanated gratefulness, relief.
“We’ll try with what we have,” Eisenstatt answered, “if it comes to that.” The doctor leveled a gaze at Bhakti, his irritation obvious. “And you’re still taking the Coumadin shots every day?”
“Mmm. Oliver—my husband—gives them to me.”
“Cancer in your family history?”
Alice’s hands joined and webbed; she flexed them in her lap, pursed her lips. “My father died from pancreatic cancer when I was eleven.” Be calm. Release. “And his mother as well—she was older by then, and two packs a day her whole life, a fiend. So I’m not sure how that affects the family tree, if you include…”
Closing her eyes, keeping them shut, she did a short breathing thing, unlocking her hands, putting them back on her knees, feeling the pointed jags beneath the denim. “Doctor, this whole day, being back in this…it’s already—I feel very…”
“Take your time.”
She held off her emotions. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better. Keep going.”
“There’s no solid reason why people get leukemia. I wish I had something more definitive to tell you.”
“What about heredity?” She jerked forward. “It’s not genetic?”
“Very few cases of acute myeloid leukemia are passed down,” Eisenstatt said. “If I had to guess—and it would only be a guess—I’d say chances are rare.”
Alice grimaced, snorted, gasped for air, “She’s safe?” Her chin crumpled. “My baby’s going to be all right? She can’t get this?”
The nurse-practitioner was at her side with tissues. Alice blew her nose, became aware of a disturbance. Her daughter’s eyes, huge white saucers; Doe’s little face uncertain, turning flush, light orange, now a deep crimson. Infant features scrunched around the meeting point of her nose; her mouth widened. That juncture, intimately familiar to a parent, right before the screaming starts. Horrible as your child’s misery might be, when you’d been through it enough, the building process toward eruption could actually be endearing. Through her tears Alice made eye contact with an equally entertained Oliver. She motioned for him to bring over Doe.
The baby was inches from her mother’s bosom when the inevitable finally took place, those tonsorial sirens blaring, their noise resonant, inclusive, the royal and imperial we: We are all going to plummet to the depths of my unhappiness .
Alice bounced Doe, made placating noises, grimaced.
Next to her, Dr. Eisenstatt pinched the bridge of his nose with his right hand. Bereft of a wedding band, an adult single childless male doctor, with how many patients waiting for him, he looked as if he’d gotten a wedgie in his ears.
“It runs in the family,” Alice said. “We’re criers.”
She smiled at her girl, made more cuddly sounds. The nurse-practitioner came over and added a soft “It’s all right.”
Once Doe calmed, Alice began. “It’s why we started early. One of the reasons anyway. I knew the disease was part of my family history. When you’re a child, that absence defines you. You form around it, you know? Then, you get older, you don’t know how long you have. Every friend—everyone we know, is busy trying to establish themselves, get their professional life going. I have ambition, too, I’m not Miss Merry Homemaker.” She sniffed, motioned with her hand, an absent gesture. “I wanted to make sure I had the chance. To—to be a mommy. I wanted kids while I’m young and can care for them and chase them. I get colds, all the time, but nothing of consequence, my entire life I’ve been healthy. So I thought, Okay, honeysuckle —”
Her voice cracked. “And now, this.”
She stared at the rack next to the door, cardboard boxes of light blue plastic gloves, surgical masks, hand sanitizer.
Almost as a reflex, he checked with Alice, meeting her eyes, anticipating unhappiness with his flippancy.
“We’re not letting them do that to you,” he said.
She emanated gratefulness, relief.
“We’ll try with what we have,” Eisenstatt answered, “if it comes to that.” The doctor leveled a gaze at Bhakti, his irritation obvious. “And you’re still taking the Coumadin shots every day?”
“Mmm. Oliver—my husband—gives them to me.”
“Cancer in your family history?”
Alice’s hands joined and webbed; she flexed them in her lap, pursed her lips. “My father died from pancreatic cancer when I was eleven.” Be calm. Release. “And his mother as well—she was older by then, and two packs a day her whole life, a fiend. So I’m not sure how that affects the family tree, if you include…”
Closing her eyes, keeping them shut, she did a short breathing thing, unlocking her hands, putting them back on her knees, feeling the pointed jags beneath the denim. “Doctor, this whole day, being back in this…it’s already—I feel very…”
“Take your time.”
She held off her emotions. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better. Keep going.”
“There’s no solid reason why people get leukemia. I wish I had something more definitive to tell you.”
“What about heredity?” She jerked forward. “It’s not genetic?”
“Very few cases of acute myeloid leukemia are passed down,” Eisenstatt said. “If I had to guess—and it would only be a guess—I’d say chances are rare.”
Alice grimaced, snorted, gasped for air, “She’s safe?” Her chin crumpled. “My baby’s going to be all right? She can’t get this?”
The nurse-practitioner was at her side with tissues. Alice blew her nose, became aware of a disturbance. Her daughter’s eyes, huge white saucers; Doe’s little face uncertain, turning flush, light orange, now a deep crimson. Infant features scrunched around the meeting point of her nose; her mouth widened. That juncture, intimately familiar to a parent, right before the screaming starts. Horrible as your child’s misery might be, when you’d been through it enough, the building process toward eruption could actually be endearing. Through her tears Alice made eye contact with an equally entertained Oliver. She motioned for him to bring over Doe.
The baby was inches from her mother’s bosom when the inevitable finally took place, those tonsorial sirens blaring, their noise resonant, inclusive, the royal and imperial we: We are all going to plummet to the depths of my unhappiness .
Alice bounced Doe, made placating noises, grimaced.
Next to her, Dr. Eisenstatt pinched the bridge of his nose with his right hand. Bereft of a wedding band, an adult single childless male doctor, with how many patients waiting for him, he looked as if he’d gotten a wedgie in his ears.
“It runs in the family,” Alice said. “We’re criers.”
She smiled at her girl, made more cuddly sounds. The nurse-practitioner came over and added a soft “It’s all right.”
Once Doe calmed, Alice began. “It’s why we started early. One of the reasons anyway. I knew the disease was part of my family history. When you’re a child, that absence defines you. You form around it, you know? Then, you get older, you don’t know how long you have. Every friend—everyone we know, is busy trying to establish themselves, get their professional life going. I have ambition, too, I’m not Miss Merry Homemaker.” She sniffed, motioned with her hand, an absent gesture. “I wanted to make sure I had the chance. To—to be a mommy. I wanted kids while I’m young and can care for them and chase them. I get colds, all the time, but nothing of consequence, my entire life I’ve been healthy. So I thought, Okay, honeysuckle —”
Her voice cracked. “And now, this.”
She stared at the rack next to the door, cardboard boxes of light blue plastic gloves, surgical masks, hand sanitizer.
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