Barefoot: A Novel

“Are you planning on writing today?” Vicki asked.

“I’m real y behind,” Brenda said.

“You know, you don’t have to stay at the hospital with me,” Vicki said. “In fact, the more I think about it, the more I think it’s a waste of your time. I know the ropes now, and the team takes good care of me. They’ve never needed you for any reason. Why don’t you just drop me off at the door and

—oh, I don’t know—go get a cup of coffee and sit and write at the Even Keel? You’d probably get a lot of work done.”

“You’re probably right.”

“You should do it.”

“I should.”

“I mean it, Bren. It’s two free hours. Come back and get me at eleven.”

Brenda bit her bottom lip and said nothing further on the topic, but Vicki knew her sister. There was no chance that Brenda, after so many years devoted to quiet work—graduate school, dissertation, lecture prep, research— would be able to turn down this offer. Vicki’s heart gal oped at the thought of sweet escape. It would be just this once, like a single day of school skipped. There would be no needles, no poison, no Ben or Amelia or Mamie, no ESPN, no antiseptic hospital smel , and—for one summer weekend—no side effects. By next Tuesday, Vicki’s resolve would return; she would store up strength and courage and she would walk back into the Oncology Unit, cheerful y even—if only she could get away with today.

Brenda pul ed into the parking lot. She was stil gnawing her lower lip, debating maybe, if it would seem selfish to . . .

“Just drop me off,” Vicki said.

Brenda sighed. “Oh, Vick, are you sure? ”

“Sure I’m sure. Go write. I’l be fine.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“You’re worried about missing your update on Britney Spears?”

Brenda laughed. “No.”

“Come back at eleven,” Vicki said.

Brenda pul ed up to the hospital entrance and Vicki hopped out. She caught a glimpse of Brenda’s face as she drove away; Brenda looked like she felt as happy and as free as Vicki now did.

Vicki had spent her two stolen hours lounging in the shade of the Old Mil . Although it was a short walk from the hospital—a good arm could hit it with a basebal —it was as far as Vicki could get, and by the time she made it to the top of the hil , she was close to hyperventilating. She lay in the grass, hidden from passing traffic, and stared up at the sky, at the arms of the windmil slicing the sky into pieces of pie. For two hours she did nothing—and how long had it been since she did nothing? Even the hours spent in bed in the cottage felt like work; she was busy recovering, wil ing her body to fight, and she always kept one eye on the activity in the house—Brenda and Melanie, Josh and the kids. She was always trying to summon the energy to read a page of her book or a section of the newspaper so that her day wasn’t a complete waste. But here, on Prospect Hil , in the shadow of what was stil a functioning windmil , Vicki was set free from the rigors of recovery. No one knew where she was, and hence, it was as if she had ceased to exist. This was hooky, plain and simple. She harbored the singular delight of getting away with something. Mamie might cal the house, but no one would be home to answer the phone. On Tuesday, Vicki would say she forgot (forgot chemotherapy?) or the car broke down or one of the kids got sick. Or maybe she would admit that she just didn’t want to come. She needed a break. A personal day. You know what they say about hitting yourself over the head with a hammer, she would tel Mamie. It feels good when you stop.

It was only when Brenda swung back by to pick her up—Brenda getting out of the car to hold Vicki’s arm and help her into the passenger seat because this was what Vicki normal y required—that the guilt set in.

“How was it?” Brenda asked. “How are you feeling?”

These were the standard questions, but Vicki was at a loss for how to respond. What to say? What did she normal y say?

She shrugged.

“The team had a game last night, right?” Brenda asked. “Did they win or lose?”

Again, Vicki shrugged. Did a shrug count as a lie?

On the way back to ’Sconset, Vicki opened her window and hung her elbow out; she tried to absorb the sunshine and the summer air. The bike path was crowded with people walking and cycling, people with dogs and children in strol ers. I skipped chemo, Vicki thought. Suddenly, she felt monstrous. She recal ed Dr. Garcia’s words about the value of neoadjuvant chemo, hitting the cel s hard, in succession. Kil them, clean them out of there, make it that much harder for the cel s to metastasize. The tumor was impinging on her chest wal ; it had to recede in order for the surgeons to operate. Chemo was a cumulative process. The most important thing was consistency. So . . . what was going on here? Did she not want to get better? Could she not endure the pain, the hair loss, and the confusion for the sake of her children?

And what about Dr. Alcott? How had she managed to fly in the face of his reaction? He would be al ready with his usual pep talk— How do you feel? Are you hanging in there? You’re a trouper, a star patient. . . . He would wonder where Vicki was, he would cal the house himself, maybe, and what if Melanie was home, what if she rushed in from the garden to answer the phone? She went to chemo, Melanie would say. I saw her leave. There would be no reason for any further pep talks because Vicki was not a trouper. She was not a star patient at al .

By the time they reached Shel Street, Vicki’s guilt was paralyzing. She could barely breathe—but maybe this was a result of the missed chemo, maybe the cancer cel s were strengthening, multiplying. She was no better than Josh’s mother, hanging herself while Josh was at school. Vicki was committing her own murder.