Barefoot: A Novel

For the first week, then two, Vicki thought, This is okay. I can do this. It wasn’t great—of al the places on Nantucket that Vicki wanted to be, this was a notch above the island’s one jail cel and the Lewis Funeral Home—however, it was better than the horror stories she had heard from people in her support group about the units at bigger hospitals where chemo was unscheduled and a person might sit around for three or four hours waiting for a chair to open up. Vicki looked forward to her time with Dr. Alcott, she listened to Mamie tel Ben about her sons’ escapades and mishaps (her fourteen-year-old got caught at three o’clock in the morning driving a car he had “borrowed” from the Grand Union parking lot), she listened to Ben tel Amelia about the crazy, drunk girls that he encountered in his second job as a bouncer at the Chicken Box. There was a lot of animated chatter on mornings after their softbal games. In short, the Oncology Unit was its own universe where Vicki was a visitor. She could contribute as much or as little as she liked; nobody asked her about her cancer. Why would they? It was a matter of fact, a given, her cel s were like rotten teeth the team had to extract. No judgments were made; it was just business.

Vicki was almost embarrassed when the side effects kicked in. It happened gradual y; there was a noticeable decline during the second week, and each day things got a little worse. Vicki’s appetite died; she had to make herself eat the way other people made themselves exercise. Her skin dried out and started to flake, she became confused (she repeated herself, she thought she was talking to Brenda but it was Melanie, she lost her train of thought in the middle of a sentence). She dropped ten pounds despite the fact that she was eating diligently, she became too weak to walk to the beach or even the market, she spent whole afternoons and then whole days— beautiful, sunny, perfect days—in bed. Brenda brought home sand from the beach and sprinkled it in every pair of Vicki’s shoes. Melanie bought Vicki al the books on the paperback bestsel er list, but Vicki couldn’t concentrate for more than a few pages. The only good times of the day were the mornings, when she had enough energy to make breakfast, and at one o’clock, when Porter snuggled in next to her for his nap. She inhaled the scent of his hair, she stroked his satiny cheek, she watched his mouth work the pacifier. When Porter woke up, Blaine often came in with a jar of freshly cut flowers and a pile of picture books for Vicki to read to him. Vicki usual y made it through one or two before her attention gave out.

That’s enough for now, Vicki would say. Auntie Brenda will finish. Mommy’s tired.

Vicki tried to store up her energy for the weekends, when Ted was around. When he appeared on Friday afternoons, she was always sitting up in bed, pretending to read, pretending everything was fine, she was okay— but the expression on his face told her that he knew otherwise. He would sit on the edge of the bed, his face an inch away from raw fear. What are they doing to you? he whispered.

I don’t know, Vicki thought. Dr. Garcia had said the chemo would be brutal, but Vicki hadn’t understood what that meant at the time. Now, of course, she did. She was weak, her finger bones as crushable as pieces of chalk, her lungs as brittle as honeycomb. Her breasts, because of the chemo and the normal shrinkage after nursing, didn’t even fil a training bra. Her nipples were like two old raisins. Gone were her curves, her smooth skin, her silky blond hair. Now her body was twigs and leaves. Her hair was frayed thread. She was ugly, hideous, a carcass. Her sex drive had vanished, and yet in her mind, she didn’t want to let that part of her life go. She was terrified Ted would seek out sex elsewhere—there were mil ions of women in the city, there were prostitutes, escort services, expensive ones that men on Wal Street knew about and utilized for clients.

There were women in Ted’s office, in his building; there might be a woman wearing a certain perfume on the elevator. It happened al the time, cheating. It had happened to Vicki’s best friend! And so, Vicki pursued sex with Ted like she hadn’t in al the years they’d been married, and he, clearly, thought she was nuts.

“I want this,” she said, pul ing him into bed. It was Sunday afternoon, and Brenda had agreed to keep the kids at the beach for an extra hour.

“Let’s take a shower together.”

“Outside?”

“I want to be close to you.”

“Vicki, Vicki, Vicki. You don’t have to do this for me.”

“For us,” she said. “It wil make me feel better.”

“Okay,” Ted said, and he kissed her hair. “Okay.”

Vicki got up and pul ed the shades; she wanted it dark. She went to her husband and slid his bathing trunks off his body. She took him in her mouth. Nothing. Ted lay back, pale, sweating, flaccid, his eyes squeezed shut, a pained look on his face. He was trying to block her out, probably.

He was trying to remember the woman she’d been before, or he was thinking of some other woman.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“You’re not attracted to me,” Vicki said. She slumped on the floor. “You think I’m ugly.”

“You’re not ugly, Vick. You could never be ugly.”

“What is it, then?”

“I don’t know. It’s a mind game. The cancer. I’m afraid I’m going to hurt you.”

“I’l tel you what hurts,” she said. “And that is not being able to excite my husband. Do you get an erection at home? When you wake up in the morning? Does it work then?”

“Vicki, please don’t.”

“Do you jerk off when I’m not there?”

“Stop it, Vick.”

“I want to know.”

“No.”

“You don’t? I don’t believe you.”

“Yeah? Wel , why don’t you come home and find out for yourself.”

“Ohhhh,” she said. “Okay, I see.” There was going to be a fight, which was the last thing she wanted, but she was powerless to stop herself.