Barefoot: A Novel

Suddenly, Melanie screamed.

Up ahead, Blaine was running through the parking lot toward the sandy entrance of the beach. A car, a behemoth green Suburban with a Thule car carrier and tinted windows, was backing up. There was no way the driver could see Blaine.

Josh yel ed, “Blaine!” He dropped his load and handed Porter to Melanie.

Blaine stopped, turned around. The Suburban was stil backing up. Josh ran, yel ing, “Stop! Get out of the way! Stop! Stop!”

The Suburban bucked to a stop a few feet shy of mowing Blaine over. Josh raced to Blaine, scooped him up. The window of the Suburban went down, and a woman who looked sort of like Vicki poked her head out, her hand to her chest.

“I didn’t see him,” she said. “Thank God you yel ed. I just didn’t see him at al .”

Josh was too keyed up to speak. He clung to Blaine for a second, while the vision of Blaine struck in the head by the Suburban’s bumper and Blaine crumpling to the ground before being flattened under the Suburban’s crushing weight played its course, then evaporated with a shudder.

Thank God, he thought. Thank God. There was bad like he was going through with Melanie, and then there was really bad.

“You have to be careful, buddy,” Josh said. Relief flowed through him so fast, it made him dizzy. “Jesus God, Lord Almighty, thank you. Holy shit.

Oh, man, you have to watch. You could have been kil ed. Geez.”

Melanie hurried over to them; Porter’s legs were straddling her. “Thank God you’re okay,” she said. “Thank God you didn’t get hit.”

Blaine looked like he was about to dissolve into tears. He grabbed Josh around the waist. “I was trying to save a spot at the beach, like you told me to.”

“Right,” Josh said. “I know. It’s not your fault. But you have to watch.”

“I’m sorry,” Blaine said.

“I shouldn’t have told you to run ahead.” Josh took Porter out of Melanie’s arms. He’d been lucky, this time. He felt like that was some kind of sign.

“Okay.” He corral ed Blaine into the space beside him. “Stay with me.”

Melanie touched Josh’s arm. “We’l talk about things . . . later?” she said.

“No,” Josh said. “I don’t think so.”

“What?”

“Good-bye, Melanie.” And without turning back, he headed up over the sand dune with the kids, to the beach.

Vicki’s last dose of chemo should have been cause for celebration. She had seen other patients show up on the day of their final treatment with roses for Mamie or banana bread for Dr. Alcott. But Vicki was too anxious to feel relief about the end of her regimen, and hence, she did nothing to mark it. She was used to doing things correctly, completely, and in a timely fashion—however, in regard to her chemo, she had failed. There was the day she’d skipped, fol owed by the five days of fever, and the subsequent lower dosage. The most important protocol of her thirty-two years, short of giving birth, and she’d gone at it half-assed. If she went for her CT scan and they found cancer al through her lungs, she shouldn’t be surprised. She would deserve it.

The CT scan was scheduled for Tuesday, and Ted would be there. He had arrived on Friday, as usual, but this time with greater fanfare because he was staying. He was staying for the rest of the summer, until it was time to pack up the Yukon and drive it back home to Connecticut. He seemed different—happier, giddy even, at times. He was in vacation mode. Vicki could only guess how good it felt to leave the pressure of the market and Wal Street behind, along with the concrete blocks of Manhattan baking in the sun, the drudgery of the commute on the train, the confines of summer-weight suits, and, in Ted’s case, the big, empty house. He reveled in being cut loose from al of that; he would final y be able to enjoy summer without the pal of Sunday evening hanging over his head. He walked around the cottage in his bathing trunks and a polo shirt and his flip-flops. He sang in the outdoor shower, he roughhoused with the boys, he suggested they go for ice cream every night after dinner. Vicki enjoyed his good mood, but she was worried by it, too. Because it was evident that part of Ted’s gleeful demeanor was due to his unflagging belief that Vicki was getting better.

You look great, he kept saying. God, you look wonderful. You’ve beat it, Vick. You’ve beat it.

Ever since Vicki was diagnosed, she’d been hearing about the power of visualization and positive thinking. But Vicki’s mind had never worked that way. She was afraid to imagine herself clean of cancer—because what if she tempted fate? Jinxed herself? What if the CT scan showed her lungs riddled with diseased cel s, worse than ever? Or what if the tumor was exactly as it had been back in the spring— stubborn, immovable, straddling the line of surgical feasibility?

Ted’s good mood would not be deterred. He kissed Vicki’s scalp where her hair was slowly but surely growing back in—though the color was darker than Vicki’s original blond, and it was tinged with gray. Ted’s sexual appetite had returned with a vengeance; he basical y bribed Brenda with cash to take the kids on Saturday and Sunday mornings so he could lounge in bed with Vicki. You look great, he said. You look beautiful.

You’re yourself again. You’ve beat it.

“I haven’t beat it,” Vicki said angrily to Ted on Monday. In fact, when she woke up that morning, her breathing was labored, her chest was tight; she had to suck air in and squeeze it out. The mere fact that she had to think about her breathing was a very bad indicator. “Even if the tumor has shrunk, they stil have to operate.”

Ted looked at her like she’d insulted him. “I know,” he said. “Baby, I know.”

As the hour of her appointment on Tuesday approached, Vicki grew more and more tense. Her hands shook as