Barefoot: A Novel

Gingerly, Vicki touched her port. A surgeon had instal ed it, and Vicki’s new oncologist, Dr. Alcott, decided to administer the first dose of chemo right away. Why not? Dr. Alcott said (cavalierly, Vicki thought, as though he were deciding to have a piece of Key lime pie for dessert). She had to admit that physical y she felt no better or worse than she had al along. She kept waiting for a change—was the chemo working? Was it gobbling up the cancer cel s like a Pac-Man with those stupid dots?—but the only thing the doctors could guarantee was that her breast milk would be poisoned. Her breasts grew warm and buzzed with pain every three hours like an alarm, but Vicki couldn’t feed the baby. Porter had screamed through the first night. He refused to take a bottle, though Brenda had gotten him to drink a little bit of water from the bathroom cup. Stil , Vicki told herself, things could have been a whole lot worse. She wasn’t nauseous and her hair wasn’t fal ing out in clumps the way she had feared. Brenda had hired the ramp attendant from the airport to babysit starting next week, and the sun was shining. As soon as Ted arrived, they could go to the beach as a family, proceed with the summer as though everything were al right. What Vicki realized during the phone cal , however, was that she had pinned al her hopes on today, Friday, the day of Ted’s arrival; he might as wel have been riding in on a white horse. Now he wasn’t coming.

He couldn’t leave the car ful of stuff. Vicki waited for devastation to set in, but instead, al she experienced was a scary nothing. She didn’t care.

Ted’s arriving one day late was just one more item on her List of Things That No Longer Matter.

She hung up the phone. Blaine and Brenda were sitting out on the front step, tossing pebbles into a paper cup. Porter sat on the tiny lawn in just his diaper, eating dandelions. Melanie was taking her third outdoor shower of the day. For some reason, the outdoor shower made Melanie feel better. She claimed it took her mind off Peter.

I’m sorry about all the hot water, she said.

Shower away, Vicki said.

Now, Vicki watched her children. They were happy, blissful, unaware. She wanted to be happy. What was going to make her happy? Anything?

What would make her happier than she was now? She heard the voices of the people in her cancer support group chanting in her mind like a Greek chorus. You have to make yourself fight. You cannot, under any circumstances, give up.

Vicki tapped Brenda on the shoulder just as she sank the first pebble of the game.

“Yes!” Brenda said with a raised fist. “Two points for Auntie Brenda.”

“Bren?” Vicki said.

Brenda looked up. “What?”

Vicki motioned for Brenda to step inside, though first she checked that the gate was latched—it would be just like her kids to take off on their own down Shel Street.

“Don’t move a muscle,” Vicki said to Blaine.

“And don’t cheat,” Brenda said. “I’l know if you cheated.”

Blaine threw a pebble in anger and knocked the cup over.

“What is it?” Brenda said.

“Ted’s not coming until tomorrow.”

“Oh, shit.”

“He got stuck in traffic, and I guess the Yukon overheated or something. He’l come in the morning.”

“You’re okay with that?”

“I want you to cal the sitter.”

“The sitter?”

“The boy. The guy. Josh. See if you can get him over here.”

“Right now?”

“In an hour. I want to go out.”

“You want to go out? ” Brenda said. “Are you sure you feel . . .”

“I want to go out,” Vicki said. “You, me, and Mel. I want to go into town and have a glass of wine. I want dinner. I want to go to the Club Car.”

“You want to go to the Club Car?”

“Cal the sitter. Cal the taxi. Cal the restaurant.” Vicki took a breath. She was spewing out orders, but her desires were singular. Go out with the girls. Feel like a person again.

Josh pul ed up in front of the house at seven o’clock. The gate was latched, the door was shut, there was a paper cup ful of rocks sitting in the middle of the flagstone walk. Josh got out of the Jeep. He had showered and put on aftershave, but then, because he felt like he was going to too much trouble for a simple babysitting job, he put on jeans and a Red Sox jersey.

He’d had to cal his father at work. “I’l leave dinner in the fridge,” he’d said.

“You’re going to Zach’s party?” his father said.

“No,” Josh said. “I’m babysitting.”

Predictably, there was silence. Just as there had been silence on Tuesday night when, over fried chicken and deli potato salad, Josh announced that he had quit his job at the airport.

That night, after a longer-than-usual swil of Sam Adams, Tom Flynn had asked, “What wil you do for