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one away.”
    “Mom, I love Dunkin. I’m not going to drive him away.” How did we circle back to the subject of me and my failed relationship history? The woman is diabolical.
    “We’ll see, dear,” she says. “That reminds me…Bring him over to the house on Sunday for brunch. I won’t take no for an answer.”
    And, before I can respond, she hangs up leaving the looming spectre of cancer in the air without even a thought about the fact that that might be an upsetting revelation for me, her daughter. That’s classic Vanity Ross.

Chapter Nineteen

    “Wow, hon. That’s terrible!”
    I am in the living room ironing Dunkin’s shirts as he listens to me vent about my mother. The worst part about her dropping the c-bomb is that now I can’t yell at her. I can’t shake her and demand that she get quality medical care or tell her to stop being so superficial and deal with what may be a serious, life-threatening issue. What if she dies? I have to be nice to her. I have to pocket my pride and become the daughter she’s always wanted. I take a deep breath. I am trying not to catastrophize. Dunkin is a godsend, calming me down not only with his boyfriend conciliation but, also, his doctor expertise. He’s the only person I’ve told about what’s happening with my mom. When I called back to talk to her about it, she told me not to tell anyone.
    “Your dad and your brothers don’t need to know about this. They love me too much and they’ll worry.”
    “I love you too, Mom,” I pointed out. “I worry too.”
    “Nonsense. We’re women. We can handle these things. I only told you because, you know, it’s important for you to know about my medical history. Breast cancer has a genetic component to it, in addition to all the other risk factors.”
    “What about the boob job? Won’t Dad notice if they cut your boobs off and replace them with silicone ones?”
    She laughs. “I doubt it. No. I’m just kidding. If I do have cancer, I’ll tell your father. I just don’t want to worry him unnecessarily.”
    I tell her that I’ll drive her to her appointment in two weeks. I can’t believe they make a person wait two whole weeks for a biopsy! She thanks me and we disconnect.
    “What does your father say about all this?” Dunkin asks.
    “She hasn’t told him.”
    “How could she not tell him?”
    “Because she’s my mother and she thinks that a woman’s role is to protect her man from any possible knowledge about her that might make her any less attractive to him.”
    “That’s insane.”
    “She’s insane.” As I say this, I sniff the air. Is something burning? It smells like singed fabric. Dunkin and I look down at the same time as a cloud of smoke fills the air. It is emanating from the iron board where I have been ironing one of his favorite work shirts. The shirt is now—don’t be alarmed—slightly on fire. Shit! I throw some water on it then a towel over that and douse the iron-shaped burn mark on the back of my boyfriend’s shirt.
    “I’m late,” he says. “I’ll just throw a jacket on over it.”
    So I send my man off to work with a giant iron-shaped brown patch on his back and hope he doesn’t forget and take off his jacket at all during the day today. Clearly, Vanity and I are very different when it comes to our ideals around protecting our men.

Chapter Twenty

    The Friday night before my family’s dreaded Sunday brunch, I agree to accompany Dunkin to a work party. We’ve had a seemingly endless stream of social engagements lately. I never realized that doctors were so in-demand. Most aren’t, I don’t think, but Dunkin’s practice is a lucrative one and his business partner is the king of all schmoozers which means that he gets invited to a lot of parties. Consequently, we get invited to a lot of parties. I’m not always the most adept at hobnobbing with the glitterati, as is evidenced by my earlier swinging faux pas, but I try.
    Tonight, Dunkin and I have agreed to play it