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  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.

  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.

  TUESDAY NIGHT, THE night before they stole both of my breasts, I sunk into the bathtub and tried not to drown in my own 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 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 OPTED FOR 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.

  “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 toughest 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 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.

  SALLY WAS MY 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 ne
w rage out in Hollywood.”

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

  “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 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.

  I woke up to a light knock on my door.

  “Carol, come in,” I muttered under my breath. But the knocking continued. I mustered some more strength and reached for the pack of gum on my nightstand to beat back my dry mouth. “It’s open. I’m awake. Come in.”

  I heard the hinges on the door creak, and without looking up, held out my arm for her to take my blood pressure and draw whatever blood she felt like drawing this time. I was practically a human pincushion, why stop now?

  “Natalie,” a voice said, a voice that shot my nerves clear to the sky.

  I looked up, and it wasn’t Carol at all.

  It was Jake. And he was back.

  ROUND FIVE

  January

  FOURTEEN

  Dear Diary,

  I’m so glad that I threw you into my bag at the last minute when packing for surgery. Who’d have known that a stupid diary—and I mean no disrespect by that, but really, when I started out with this writing project, I sort of figured that diaries are for eight-year-olds and women who watch too much Oprah—but who’d have thought that a diary would become such a security blanket?

  It turns out that I didn’t have to track down Jake, the next one on my list. Maybe the only one who mattered. He found me.

  You know how it’s every girl’s nightmare to run into an ex when she’s just heading back from kickboxing class or on her way home from a facial when her face resembles the pepperoni pizza from Famous Ray’s? Well, clearly, I can one-up them. Imagine running into your ex—and clearly, that’s a very loose phrase, since I was quite obviously running nowhere—after just having lost both breasts and enduring surgery that left you with breath no better than a fish’s and skin as pasty as raw dough. Except that I didn’t have to imagine it because that’s exactly what happened.

  Diary, I don’t have much energy to write—in fact, things that have never throbbed before in my life are presently throbbing as if they’re dancing to an electronic orchestra—but just wanted to update you.

  So I’ll just say this: I hoped and I wished and I would have done just about anything to bring Jake back to me. Funny that I had to go and get cancer to bring him home.

  THANK GOD I’M wearing my wig. That was literally my first thought. Thank God I’m wearing my wig because if Jake saw me bald, I don’t know what the hell I would do. When you’ve just undergone surgery, surgery that both saved your life and took something from it, and your ex-boyfriend, feasibly the only man you’ve ever truly, organically loved, walks back into the room, into your life, one would think that your first thought would not be about your hair covering. And yet, there it was.

  “Natalie,” he had said, and I looked up, expecting Carol with her various needles and gauze.

  “Jake,” I said back, my hand instinctively rising to my hair, as if I were holding it in place. I opened my mouth to speak again but found myself entirely out of words.

  “Oh my God,” he said, moving toward my bed. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  I looked away. “How did you find out?”

  “Your mom. She e-mailed me from Australia. She found an Internet café and wrote with the news. I think she didn’t want you to be alone.”

  Figures, I thought. There goes my mom again, alpha dog to the rescue. My parents, needless to say (and I say that this is needless because when you’re diagnosed with Stage III breast cancer and your mother takes the time to track down your ex, it’s pretty obvious how she feels about him), adored Jake. He was, as my mother once put it after he and I had spent a weekend in Bryn Mawr, “the perfect antidote to you.” I sulked for an hour after her comment, but when I told her I was more than a bit insulted, she just shushed me and said that I misunderstood. “What I mean, darling, is that you are each other’s perfect complements. He knows how to handle you. No one else has ever done that,” and then she breezed into the dining room to offer him a scotch.

  “I came straight from the airport,” Jake said, as he hovered near the wall and stared at me in the hospital bed. Then I noticed his suitcase by the small foyer that led to the door.

  “You shouldn’t have. I certainly didn’t mean to inconvenience you.” After all this time, it was still the same thing: Jake’s life was always in flight; I needed him on the ground.

  He shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous. It worked out well: We’d just finished opening for Dave Matthews, and I’d planned to head back anyway.” He paused and his voice grew soft. “But I would have come here regardless, whenever, if you’d just called me. I would have left the tour, done whatever you needed. But I didn’t know.”

  “I didn’t expect you to know,” I said flatly.

  “But I would have liked to.” He dug his hands into the pockets of his perfectly worn jeans.

  “That stopped being your concern approximately two years ago.”

  After we’d been together for seven months, the Misbees got their big break. He called me at the office on a Tuesday, his voice at a near fever pitch. “They’re gonna sign us!” he screamed. “They’re fucking going to sign us!”

  The “they” in question was Sony records. Their scouts had been following the band for a few months, and that weekend, when Jake crawled into bed with me, waking me up after he got home from a Saturday late show, he told me, “I think we nailed it. I think that this is it.” I had rubbed the sleep from my eyes and gotten up to crack open a bott
le of champagne.

  And it was it. But nothing was ever the same. Now, before you start judging me, telling me that I wasn’t supportive of my boyfriend’s career or didn’t cheerlead his fame, let me clarify. There was no one, I repeat, no one, who was more proud of him. From our first date, Jake inhabited me. He swept me up so completely that there were days when it ached just to be apart. When I’d find myself staring into my computer monitor and wish that time would speed up so that I’d be back home with him. I coveted him more than anything else that had ever come into my life. So before you suspect that I didn’t wish him raging success and multiple Grammy nominations, know that. Know that of everything I’d seen and felt and breathed in my twenty-five years, Jake was what I loved most.

  And now, he was back.

  “How did this happen?” he asked, as he pulled a chair over to my bedside. Its legs squeaked against the linoleum floor like chalk on a blackboard. “I don’t understand. How can you—I mean, you were so healthy—how do you go from that to this?”

  I told him about how Ned found a lump. And I reminded him about my grandmother. “Bad luck.” I shrugged. “You can’t outrun bad luck.”

  “So where is he? Ned? Why wasn’t your mom e-mailing him, not me?”

  “He dumped me,” I said matter-of-factly. “Just when I found out about the cancer. Dumped me for some bitch he met in his office in Chicago.” I reached up for the four-leaf clover that lay around my neck and caught myself, so I tried not to sound so bitter.

  “And to think,” Jake said with a smile. “I was always the one who you hated going out on the road.”

  “Yeah.” I sighed. “Go figure. I’d never pegged Ned for that…he was just so…” I paused, choosing my words carefully. “Different from you.”

  I looked right at him. The same floppy blond hair that would curl into ringlets if he didn’t get it cut in time. The same penetrating blue eyes. The same desire rising inside of me.