“Yeah,” Amelia said in a bored response to Vicki’s excitement about seeing a familiar face. “I cover in radiology when they need me. What can I say? I’m multitalented. Now, everything above the waist comes off, including your . . . necklace.”
The necklace was a piece of blue yarn strung with dried rigatoni that had been colored with Magic Marker, a present from Blaine on Mother’s Day that he’d made in preschool. Vicki didn’t have a good luck charm like Brenda did; the necklace would have to suffice. Vicki removed her clothes, put on the paper robe that Amelia handed her, and clenched the necklace.
Amelia spoke formal y, like an operator from a catalog, the ones whose cal s were being monitored for customer service purposes. “Would you please lie on the examining table?” she said, indicating the narrow table with a Vanna White–like flourish of her hands.
Vicki complied, adjusting her paper robe. Amelia manipulated the machine into place. “I suggest you take four to five deep breaths in preparation.”
“In preparation for what?” Vicki said.
“I’m going to ask you to hold your breath for twenty seconds,” Amelia said. “Some patients find they like to exercise their lungs before commencing this process.”
“Okay,” Vicki said. She sucked air in and squeezed it out; her lungs felt like faulty bel ows.
“In those twenty seconds, this machine wil take nearly five hundred pictures of your lungs.” Now, Amelia’s voice was smug; she was obviously proud of the machine.
Could Vicki hold her breath for twenty seconds? She took one look at the ebony and silver stud protruding from Amelia’s lower lip, and closed her eyes. Last night, in bed, Vicki had promised herself that she wouldn’t think about Blaine and Porter, but as she silently counted out twenty Mississippis, they came to her anyway, only they weren’t little boys; they had transmogrified into insects with gossamer wings. They flew, they dove, they hovered over Vicki as she lay on the table. They were dragonflies.
Nothing prepared a person for this. The five hundred pictures from the CT scan were loaded onto Dr. Alcott’s computer, but he said he wouldn’t have a conclusive answer for Vicki until later in the day. He wanted to look the results over; he wanted to think about them. Dr. Garcia would be examining the scan simultaneously in Connecticut, and the two of them would confer by telephone. Discuss the next step.
“How long do you think that wil take?” Vicki asked. She had expected the answer to be clear-cut; she had expected an immediate verdict. She wasn’t sure she could wait any longer than a few minutes.
“I real y can’t say. Depending on what we see, a few hours to a day or so.”
“Another day?” Vicki said. “So we just can’t . . . go out into the waiting room?”
“I’l cal you at home,” Dr. Alcott said. His voice was serious, businesslike. He was not his usual chummy, fisherman self. Vicki’s spirit cracked and oozed like an egg.
“Thank you, Doctor,” Ted said. They shook hands.
Vicki couldn’t bring herself to say anything, not even good-bye. The delay disheartened her.
They filed out into the hal way, and Dr. Alcott closed his door. Brenda groaned.
“Here comes that girl,” she said.
Vicki was so racked with anxiety that she didn’t ask which girl Brenda was talking about. But then she saw a girl walking toward them, scowling.
She was blond and disheveled-looking. Vicki remembered her now, though only vaguely, from their first visit here. The port instal ation.
“She stopped me in the ladies’ room one day,” Brenda whispered. “And accused me of al kinds of nonsense. I guess she knows Josh.”
Vicki nodded. She could not have cared less. She sucked air in and squeezed air out. Breathing was so difficult, she thought she might flatline right there. And her hand hurt. She gazed down. Ted was squeezing her hand so hard her fingers were turning white. He sensed bad news, too.
Pal iative care. Hospice. Outside, an ambulance whined, there was a flurry of activity as they walked past emergency. In one of the waiting rooms, the TV news was on
Vicki closed her eyes. Everything around her, absolutely everything, fel on her List of Things That No Longer Matter. Everything except her life, everything except her children. Blaine and Porter would be at the beach with Josh, digging in the sand, enjoying their snack, playing with their summer friends. But when Vicki tried to picture them ensconced in this idyl ic scene, nothing came. Her mind was black. She thought about the boys as dragonflies. (To see them as dragonflies had been comforting, but why?) Again, nothing. She opened her eyes and turned to Ted. “Do you have a picture of the boys?”
Ted’s eyes were trained on the girl from admitting; she was approaching them with purpose. She wore a red cotton sundress that was too short and a pair of battered gold bal et slippers with ribbons that laced up her ankles. Vicki blinked—the girl’s bra straps were showing, she wore hastily applied makeup, her blond hair was uncombed. What did she want? Ted absentmindedly handed Vicki a snapshot of the kids from his wal et.
Brenda narrowed her eyes at the girl and shook her head. “Whatever you have to say, we don’t want to hear it.”
“I think you do want to hear it,” Didi said.
“No, we don’t,” Brenda said.
“What is it?” Ted asked.
“Josh is sleeping with your friend,” Didi said. “The one who’s pregnant.”
“Whoa-ho!” Ted said. “That’s a pretty big accusation.” He looked at Vicki first, then Brenda. His brow creased. “You’re talking about Melanie, right? Melanie? How do you know this? Did Josh
