the balance of events from one outcome to another—and every action alters molecules in tiny but profound ways. This cancer—because she was certain that no matter what Danny said, that that’s what it was—had been shaped by everything she’d done and wished for over the past many years. It was the product of her life: an evolving enemy living in the pocket under her left arm.
“Look, if you want me to, I’ll call in sick and take you. Maybe there’s a clinic in Frederick where we could go.”
“No.” Her voice came out calm, almost ghostly. “That would be stupid.” What she meant was that Baltimore had one of the best medical facilities in the civilized world—it hadn’t helped Jobe, but still, one did not leave the Johns Hopkins system to be examined by country doctors with flickering, outdated X-ray machines. Danny, however, took it another way.
“Okay,” he said. “I suppose you’re right. There’s no need to take the risk, because you’re probably just fine. They’ll do a little minor surgery and take out this … cyst.” He made a hand gesture she took to mean the swipe of a knife. “I’ll be careful of the stitches next time and spend a lot of time helping you relax and recover.” He’d been caressing her thigh but Carmen saw Danny turn his hand so he could look at his watch, as he bit the inside of his cheek.
“Listen, I hate to do this, but I have a dinner thing …” he said finally.
“Go.” Carmen was still holding her socks in one hand. It was possible she might go barefoot, she decided. The weather was warm. May. Things were growing; if you were very still, you could feel it in the air. “I have a couple phone calls I want to make and the room is paid for.”
Danny shot her a look, but she hadn’t meant anything by the comment—or if she had, it wasn’t worth going into. “Okay,” he said after a moment. “Call me at work tomorrow, will you? Tell me what you find out?”
“Of course.” She lifted her face, prompting him to rise from the bed and kiss her. Then he took ahold of her shoulders and tipped her chin up farther, so she was looking into his eyes, where the Irish blood shone through Indian skin with two gleams of ocean green. “Carmen, I love you. Maybe not in the traditional way, but I do. And if you need something, you can call. I’ll find a way to explain it to Mega.”
She nodded and blinked, wishing there were tears there. Why, if she could cry for the man she’d disdained couldn’t she cry for this man, whom she’d dreamed of since she saw him sitting behind his desk decorated with leather and turquoise two years before? But rather than returning his feelings, she felt only a vague, unfair anger toward Danny, who had changed everything in a single afternoon: first by diagnosing her with his busy hands and then by proclaiming his love.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Carmen lied. “But I’ll let you know.”
The attendant brought her tea, in a cup with a saucer and a linen napkin and a tiny spoon. This was like being at Olive’s house, Carmen thought, only in an ugly pink fleece robe and jeans, waiting for her turn to have her breasts smashed between the plates of a huge machine.
“So you’ve had … one mammogram? Is that right?” The woman sitting next to her had a clipboard and a springy braceletaround her wrist with a key that she used to open the dressing room doors.
“Yes. I had a baseline at thirty-nine. My mother died of breast cancer, so I wanted to be careful.”
The interviewer grimaced. “But nothing since?” Carmen turned to the woman, who had drawn on eyebrows with what must have been a felt-tip marker. They were weird and furry-looking but perfectly flat. “We recommend mammograms every year after forty,
especially
for first-degree relatives. For you it’s been”—she flipped back to a previous page—“more than two.”
There was a pause. No point in reviewing the fact that she’d been told something completely
“Look, if you want me to, I’ll call in sick and take you. Maybe there’s a clinic in Frederick where we could go.”
“No.” Her voice came out calm, almost ghostly. “That would be stupid.” What she meant was that Baltimore had one of the best medical facilities in the civilized world—it hadn’t helped Jobe, but still, one did not leave the Johns Hopkins system to be examined by country doctors with flickering, outdated X-ray machines. Danny, however, took it another way.
“Okay,” he said. “I suppose you’re right. There’s no need to take the risk, because you’re probably just fine. They’ll do a little minor surgery and take out this … cyst.” He made a hand gesture she took to mean the swipe of a knife. “I’ll be careful of the stitches next time and spend a lot of time helping you relax and recover.” He’d been caressing her thigh but Carmen saw Danny turn his hand so he could look at his watch, as he bit the inside of his cheek.
“Listen, I hate to do this, but I have a dinner thing …” he said finally.
“Go.” Carmen was still holding her socks in one hand. It was possible she might go barefoot, she decided. The weather was warm. May. Things were growing; if you were very still, you could feel it in the air. “I have a couple phone calls I want to make and the room is paid for.”
Danny shot her a look, but she hadn’t meant anything by the comment—or if she had, it wasn’t worth going into. “Okay,” he said after a moment. “Call me at work tomorrow, will you? Tell me what you find out?”
“Of course.” She lifted her face, prompting him to rise from the bed and kiss her. Then he took ahold of her shoulders and tipped her chin up farther, so she was looking into his eyes, where the Irish blood shone through Indian skin with two gleams of ocean green. “Carmen, I love you. Maybe not in the traditional way, but I do. And if you need something, you can call. I’ll find a way to explain it to Mega.”
She nodded and blinked, wishing there were tears there. Why, if she could cry for the man she’d disdained couldn’t she cry for this man, whom she’d dreamed of since she saw him sitting behind his desk decorated with leather and turquoise two years before? But rather than returning his feelings, she felt only a vague, unfair anger toward Danny, who had changed everything in a single afternoon: first by diagnosing her with his busy hands and then by proclaiming his love.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Carmen lied. “But I’ll let you know.”
The attendant brought her tea, in a cup with a saucer and a linen napkin and a tiny spoon. This was like being at Olive’s house, Carmen thought, only in an ugly pink fleece robe and jeans, waiting for her turn to have her breasts smashed between the plates of a huge machine.
“So you’ve had … one mammogram? Is that right?” The woman sitting next to her had a clipboard and a springy braceletaround her wrist with a key that she used to open the dressing room doors.
“Yes. I had a baseline at thirty-nine. My mother died of breast cancer, so I wanted to be careful.”
The interviewer grimaced. “But nothing since?” Carmen turned to the woman, who had drawn on eyebrows with what must have been a felt-tip marker. They were weird and furry-looking but perfectly flat. “We recommend mammograms every year after forty,
especially
for first-degree relatives. For you it’s been”—she flipped back to a previous page—“more than two.”
There was a pause. No point in reviewing the fact that she’d been told something completely
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