Free Good Harbor by Anita Diamant Page A

It’s
     just that . . . I, umm, I’m facing radiation treatments, and I don’t feel like very
     good company.”
    “Oh my God. I’m so sorry. What is it? I mean, why are you having radiation?”
    “Breast cancer.”
    “Oh, shit.” Joyce flinched, afraid Kathleen would think she was crude.
    “It’s not that I don’t want to get together again. I’m just . . . I don’t want to
     talk about it anymore and I don’t want to be treated like a patient,” Kathleen said,
     a little louder than she’d intended. “They’re all as sweet as can be — my family,
     neighbors, people at school — but ever since the diagnosis, it’s all anyone can talk
     about. Any room I’m in just fills up with cancer. My cancer. Their best friend’s cancer.
     Their dog’s cancer! Honest to goodness! One woman cornered me and told me about her
     twelve-year-old dog’s liver-cancer treatment, like I was an expert on the subject.
    “Oh, dear. I sound furious, don’t I?”
    “Well, why the hell shouldn’t you be furious?” Joyce said softly.
    They smiled at each other. They were going to be okay.
    The next day, Joyce called to say that she had found the Olsen poem about Gloucester,
     and they chatted about the weather for a minute. Then Kathleen said, “I’m getting
     measured for the radiation in a couple of days. They’re going to make some kind of
     a plastic form for me to lie in so the ray goes to the right place. And then they
     are going to” — she took a deep breath and tried to sound casual — “put tattoos on
     me. So they zap me in the right spot, I guess. Or maybe so they don’t shoot the wrong
     one by mistake.”
    “That sounds hideous!”
    “I think so, too,” Kathleen agreed. “They say it’s not going to hurt, and I’m usually
     pretty good at putting things like this into perspective, but I’m dreading this tattooing
     thing so much, I can hardly stand it. Is that silly?”
    “Nothing about how rotten you feel is silly. You’re not going to a day spa, for God’s
     sake. The whole thing sucks.”
    Kathleen giggled.
    “Excuse my language,” Joyce said. “But even the littlest part of this sucks. And don’t
     let anyone try to tell you different.”
    Kathleen felt better after she hung up. She hadn’t told anyone else how upset she
     was about the tattoos. Thank goodness Joyce hadn’t tried to cheer her up.
    Joyce knew she’d said the right thing — or at least that she hadn’t said the wrong
     thing. After her first miscarriage, people had said nothing but the wrong thing to
     her. One ex-friend patted her hand and said she should be glad “Mother Nature was
     taking care of her mistake.”
    The doctor who did the D&C said, “Don’t worry, hon. We’ll get you past this and within
     a year you’ll have a healthy baby and forget this ever happened.” After he left, the
     nurse snorted in disgust. “What a crock of horse manure,” she’d said, crossing her
     large arms. “Losing a baby is a heartbreak that you never forget.” Nurse Phyllis Burkey
     was a woman Joyce remembered with fierce affection. “It sucks,” Phyllis Burkey said,
     “and don’t let anyone try to tell you different.”

 

JUNE

     
    T HIS IS ridiculous,” Kathleen said when Buddy insisted they leave two hours before her first
     appointment. “I don’t want to sit there any longer than I have to.” But when he crossed
     his arms and lowered his head, she knew he wasn’t going to back down.
    She slammed the car door too hard, and they drove through the morning fog and over
     the bridge without speaking. Just past the Ipswich exit they ran into traffic, and
     the radio announced a four-car accident a mile ahead. Buddy glanced over, but Kathleen
     refused to meet his eyes and admit he was right.
    She looked out her window and tried not to think of the crash as an omen. Buddy wiped
     his palms on his pants.
    Once they passed the backup, the silent breach between them closed. “The trees are