Thea emerges from the bathroom with a strange look on her face.
My first thought is that there is something wrong with the showerhead. I have promised my wife that I would fix it, but it really needs replacing, along with a dozen other fixtures and appliances and pieces of furniture in the house. We can afford new things, if we are judicious about our purchases. It is simply that I am not and have never been a competent homeowner, and rather than dealing with household repairs I would rather postpone them. Is everything OK? I ask anxiously. Is it the showerhead?
I was doing a self-exam. I felt a lump.
A lump. It is such a small, inconsequential word, but it terrifies me. As far as I know, there is no history of cancer in either of our families, going back at least two generations. We do have friends who have either died from or survived cancer, so I cannot say that I have not thought about it. If I can say something to convince Thea that the lump is probably nothing to worry about, maybe I can also convince myself. I’ll drive you to the doctor’s office. I’m sure it’s just a cyst. It’s usually nothing, right? But it’s good to have it looked at.
Thea nods and touches her nightgown over her right breast. I can see that I have not assuaged her worries.
Thea turns sixty-three this year. In June, we will have been married forty-three years. That sounds like a long time, but I had imagined that our sixties and seventies would be our best years – that we could hand over the restaurant to Leander, do a little bit of traveling, spend time with Tessa and the girls. I have not yet thought about retiring altogether, but there are things beyond the Atheneum, beyond Sheboygan, that Thea and I both want to do. Greece is the only country in Europe we have ever visited, and even there we saw the Athens airport and Farsala and the narrow pathway between the two, and nothing more. Thea has always wanted to ride the cable cars and eat Chinese food in San Francisco. During the winter, we have talked about renting an apartment in Puerto Rico or Cancun. The idea that we might get cheated out of doing any of this is infuriating. Of course, Thea has simply discovered what she believes is a lump in one of her breasts, which is certainly not a death sentence. I know almost nothing about breast cancer, but I know that much. But as long as we have been married, and even before, my mind has always steered itself to the worst possibilities, the darkest corners. That is just who I am.
I think that every marriage has its own personality, its own story. From what I was told, Mama and Papa realized from an early age that they were destined to be husband and wife. When they married, they were already as familiar with each other as most couples ever are. They loved one another fiercely, but love was something that evolved over the years, that forced its way into empty spaces in their lives, rather than something that blanketed them. I know others for whom love apparently struck like a bolt of lightning out of a clear sky. For them, marriage was almost preordained. The relationship that Thea and I have is different. We were young coworkers at the Atheneum, indifferent at first to one another. I cannot say why Thea was eventually attracted to me, but my attraction to her was earned over months, against some initial resistance. What I saw, once I allowed my eyes to open, was Thea’s passion and compassion, her curiosity, her acute perceptiveness, her sense of honor and her loyalty to family. Her substance, as Papa would say. And Papa knew something about substance. If strong marriages are built on solid foundations, no one can say that mine is not as strong as any.
Doctor Powers examines Thea and then ushers her off for what he tells me is a diagnostic mammogram, nodding significantly as if I understand what this means.
Despite it being a diagnostic mammogram, he declines, after studying the results, to make a diagnosis. Your wife has particularly dense breast tissue, says the doctor. Thea is sitting next to me, so I presume he is addressing me because he has already explained all this to Thea, or that she is familiar with her breast tissue in a way that I am not. So we’ll need to schedule an ultrasound and possibly an MRI, so we can be sure what we’re seeing. The diagnostic center at the hospital will be able to see her this afternoon. And we’ll want to do a biopsy. If this is aggressive, we want to get ahead of it. I’m not saying it is aggressive. But it’s important that we stay on top of this. I note that Doctor Powers has never uttered the word cancer, and of course he has not offered even a conditional prognosis. I had expected this, but I try anyway to extract some reassurance. Doctor Powers is an older man, roughly my age, and apparently he knows all the tricks. We’ll have the results in four or five days, he says, shrugging.
The weather in Sheboygan is usually quite pleasant in early summer, with moderate short-sleeve temperatures and breezes blowing softly across Lake Michigan. I drive home with the windows down, but when we stop for traffic the air feels stale. We drive on in silence.
At least outwardly, Thea exhibits more patience than I do. Over the years, she has had routine mammograms, and it seems unlikely to her that these regular screenings would not have detected cancer cells. I am reassured, somewhat, by her confidence. The week ends without a word from Doctor Powers. Thea suggests that we invite Leander and Sarah to the house for Sunday supper. Sarah usually likes to stay home on Sunday evenings. But if Thea wants to ask, I will not be the one to discourage it.
After six years, Sarah Volker and I have what I would call a cordial relationship. After she and Leander were married, I made the mistake of introducing her to friends as Sarah Pappas. She was quick to correct me, and we have not discussed it since. Leander is her second husband. He told us that, when Sarah married her first husband, she actually adopted his last name, but she changed it back when they divorced and decided that she would use her maiden name for the remainder of her life.
It makes sense, Leander had explained, when Thea and I were trying to understand it all. Before her first marriage, she was starting to develop a following. When she changed it, I’m sure it caused confusion. So now she’s Sarah Volker again, personally and professionally. No confusion.
Sarah is a photographer. I do not know what kind of following she actually has, but her black-and-white photographs, mostly facial portraits of old people gazing directly into the camera, are considered good enough to be shown at art galleries in Chicago and across the Midwest. There is one small gallery in Sheboygan, which according to Leander has a reputation for displaying the kind of artwork you might find in hotel hallways. After declining several invitations, Sarah consented to having her works shown at that local gallery for a month, although she does not consider it much of a distinction.
Sarah is known to keep the social calendar in their household, so there is no reason for Thea to consult with Leander. If Sarah agrees, they will both come. If she declines, they will stay home. To my surprise, Sarah accepts Thea’s offer to come to the house for supper. I cannot imagine that it is Thea’s intention to use the occasion to tell Leander and Sarah about the lump in her breast and the biopsy, but I will take my cues from Thea.
Sarah is having a one-person show of her work in Indianapolis, Leander tells us within the first minute of their arrival at the house. It’s her first one-person show. Other than Sheboygan, I mean. It’s very exciting.
Thea hugs our daughter-in-law, who looks strangely distracted. Sarah, that’s wonderful news. When does the show open? Maybe Julian and I can come to the opening?
Sarah smiles faintly. It’s not really all that grand. It’s a little gallery in the downtown area. I’ve never actually seen it. Leander’s sweet, but it’s not really a big deal.
If it’s a one-person show, I’m sure it’s somewhat of a big deal, dear. Let’s get you and Leander a drink and you can tell us about it.
The four of us sit in the living room drinking red wine and talking. It becomes clear to me that Leander would like to accompany his wife to Indianapolis, but either Sarah is discouraging it or he has not been able to work out the logistics. A trip to Indianapolis would mean being away for at least three or four days, at a time when Leander has been effectively running the Atheneum – and doing it well. I am perfectly capable of stepping back into the job if he asks me, but I sense that Leander is reluctant to ask.
Thea, as always, is the first to diagnose the problem and to offer a solution. You should both go. Leander, I know you’ve been putting in long hours at the restaurant. You’ve earned a break. Julian can keep things running while you’re away. She nods and smiles at me. And I can help out if your father needs me.
Sarah does not seem thrilled at the suggestion. She maintains an air of indifference, insisting that the show is nothing to get excited about and that she is not sure that she will make the trip herself. But Leander clearly sees the importance of the show, and the trip itself – perhaps beyond its professional significance for Sarah – and he quickly accepts the offer. The show opens in two weeks, which gives everyone time to make plans, and gives Thea and me something to distract ourselves from the impending call from Doctor Powers.
The phone call comes on Wednesday morning. Rather than the doctor himself, it is the woman who does his scheduling. If the news were bad, I tell myself, the doctor would have phoned. But I know that I am grasping. The woman asks if Thea and I can come in at two o’clock. I call Leander to let him know that I will not be in until dinner service.
I want to get right to it, says Doctor Powers, as soon as we are seated. He looks at the door and takes a deep breath, as if he would rather avoid getting right to it. Then he shifts his focus to Thea. The results of the screenings and the biopsy were positive. What you have is ductal carcinoma. Which is a medical term for a particular and common type of breast cancer. He enunciates and speaks very slowly, as if he is addressing small children. He takes a pen out of his pocket, looks at it as if trying to understand its function, clicks it twice and puts it back into his pocket. He looks very tired. I understand that this isn’t a word you both want to hear, and it’s not a diagnosis I like to deliver. But understand that breast cancer is very treatable. We’ll know soon what stage the cancer has advanced to, and we’ll be able to develop a treatment plan that is appropriate and effective. Unfortunately, breast cancer in middle aged and older women is quite common, but fortunately, it is entirely survivable.
I am hearing all this, but I am only comprehending half of what Doctor Powers is saying. After avoiding the word cancer in our first meeting, he seems now to be using it with unnecessary excessiveness. In my head, I am trying to turn the clock back to the morning when Thea stepped out of the shower with her left hand covering her right breast, looking distractedly at me. That was the moment when the world decided to threaten us, to turn against us, to pull the rug out. Now Thea is staring at me, almost expressionless but pleading with her eyes. I am her husband. I need to save her. I need to save our family. I need to not be helpless. I need, first of all, to steer myself away from the dark corners.
As Thea and I are leaving, the doctor tells me, confidentially, that I will need to be there for my wife, that I need to step up, to use his exact words. Dr. Powers knows nothing about our marriage, and this is ordinarily the kind of unneeded and imprudent scolding that would make me angry. But I understand what he is saying and I recognize that there are no small number of ways in which I am deficient as a husband. So I tell him, and I promise myself, that I will step up, in a manner that will be meaningful to Thea. Since Leander has assumed greater responsibilities at the restaurant, I will have time – when he returns from Indianapolis – to do more of the housework, and more of the home cooking, and attend to some of the repair projects which I have neglected for years. Thea seems to feel perfectly fine, and she still has energy, so I will have to do these things in a way that does not seem unusually and suspiciously attentive. Start slowly, I tell myself. Small, incremental steps.
Over the next week and a half, Thea and I meet twice more with Doctor Powers to talk about a treatment plan. The significance of the doctor’s name has not escaped me. Under even normal circumstances, physicians wield tremendous authority over their patients. And when patients are at their most vulnerable, as is my wife, the doctor feels almost omnipotent. Thea’s disease is at Stage 2, which means that the cancer is mostly confined to her right breast and that the prognosis for a full recovery and a long life is quite good. I have trouble understanding how a relatively large tumor could grow unobserved for years, with all the detection tools available to physicians in the 1990s. But Thea seems to accept that this has to do with the density of her breast tissue, which discourages me from asking pointed and perhaps foolish questions. Also, people of our generation simply do not challenge medical professionals. The tumor is apparently large enough that either a mastectomy or a lumpectomy is advised – although Doctor Powers counsels that we will need to meet with a surgeon before making any final decision. I feel a strange relief knowing that Doctor Powers will not be performing the surgery himself, even if we have yet to meet the surgeon. After the procedure, whatever it is, Thea may have to undergo reconstructive surgery to repair and rebuild from the surgical damage, and radiation to kill any residual cancer cells, and chemotherapy to destroy whatever the radiation missed, and God knows what other tortures cancer has to inflict. It has been more than thirty-five years since Thea endured pregnancy. I was as empathetic as you would expect a young husband to be at that time, but I am ashamed to say that I had little appreciation for what suffering really means, what procreation demands of a woman. I think that maybe I am about to learn about suffering, and I am afraid that all the stepping up I can do will make very little difference.
We decide not to say anything to Leander at least until he and Sarah return from Indianapolis, and to wait before saying anything to Maggie and Tessa. Thea will want to tell Tessa first, and she will swear her to secrecy until her siblings are informed. She will also insist on breaking the news face-to-face, which will mean either a trip to Elmhurst – which I would think is inadvisable, given Thea’s condition – or conjuring up some pretext for Tessa to make the trip north to Sheboygan. Thea will downplay the diagnosis, of course. And of course Tessa will look into her mother’s eyes and try to extrapolate the real truth, and she will then go directly home and call every medical expert she can think of to learn everything there is to learn. If the choice were mine, I would wait a few weeks before saying anything to anyone. At least until Thea and I have met with the surgeon and set a date for the mastectomy or the lumpectomy – whatever turns out to be the plan. But there is so much now that is out of my hands.
I have promised Leander and Sarah that I will take over kitchen duties at the Atheneum during the week they are gone. I wish now that I had made some other arrangements, or that Sarah had insisted on Leander staying home. But when they leave, Thea reminds me that our son is depending on me to keep the restaurant running smoothly. So I report for Monday lunch service, just as I did several thousand Mondays before. When I return home after closing that evening, dinner is waiting.
This is going to have to end, I tell Thea, shaking my head at the banquet she has prepared. When Leander is back, he’ll be at the restaurant and I’ll be here, doing the cooking.
Thea carries our dinner plates to the table, sets them down and nods for me to sit. We’ll see. If I want to make a meal, you’re not going to tell me I can’t. Are you?
We’ll see. I wonder how many times she employed these two words on the children, to good effect.
Thea has always managed her life – our lives – with lists, written on yellow legal pads, and this is an occasion for a lengthy and detailed list. I find it one morning on the kitchen counter – evidence that she did not sleep well, that her mind has begun racing through scenarios. Thea has never tried to hide her listmaking from me, and I am sure that she sees no reason to start now. This is what her latest list looks like:
· Talk to Tessa (how to explain to the girls?)
· Talk to Leander (and Sarah)
· Talk to Maggie (phone call?)
· Meet with surgeon. Questions:
o Surgery options (mastectomy vs. lumpectomy) – risks, cure rates, etc.
o Followup treatment options (radiation, chemo, etc.)
o Schedule surgery date (when? where?)
o Preparations (special diet? exercises? yoga?)
o Other ??s
· Research “Stage 2 Breast Cancer” – library
· Date of Surgery (overnight bag?) Talk to Julian
· Schedule followup with surgeon/Dr. Powers (results…prognosis…questions)
· Reconstructive surgery? (necessary? risks?) Talk to Julian
· Radiology? (How long? Risks/side effects? Cure rates?)
· Chemotherapy? (Necessary? Side effects?)
· Breast cancer support groups?
· Door County getaway? (After treatment) Talk to Julian
· Christmas celebration! Talk to Julian and kids
· Greece in the spring? Or Italy? Talk to Julian
Thea gets promptly to work on the plan. Even before Leander and Sarah return from Indianapolis, she phones Tessa and asks her to come home for the weekend.
I told her that you and I want to talk to her about our retirement ideas, Thea informs me over dinner. Which isn’t a lie, exactly. I told her that she could bring Becky and Kat. Or the girls could stay home with Robert. But we want to talk to her privately.
I note that having Tessa bring her husband along is not one of the options Thea offered. She and I have both more or less given up on trying to develop a warm relationship with our son-in-law – although, to be honest, we both know that Robert would likely find a reason to not accompany his wife to Sheboygan if asked. He has not been to the house in over a year, and on the occasions when Thea and I have driven down to Elmhurst we are rarely afforded more than a passing glimpse of Robert, as if he were hired help or a deliveryman.
Thea’s list seems to grow every few days. When one task is completed, she notes this with a checkmark and a date and a few scribbled summary words. Our face-to-face with Tessa, who came to the house alone: Robert – will tell ASAP. Girls – not yet. Our meeting with Leander and Sarah: Both OK to help with appointments. Our phone call with Maggie: Will research surgeons. And after meeting with Thea’s surgeon – a young, pleasant Chinese woman named Doctor Geng, who speaks in a very quiet voice and who apparently survived Maggie’s rigorous investigation – my wife adds yet another page of medical questions and answers and data. Dr. Geng advises lumpectomy rather than mastectomy. Less invasive, quicker recovery, simpler reconstruction. She is able to perform the surgery at Sheboygan Memorial on the morning of June 25. Morning surgeries are better than afternoon surgeries. Thea can expect to spend no more than one night in the hospital. Followup treatment options will depend on the pathology report after surgery, but radiation is likely.
If breast cancer can be defeated through sheer focus and management, it stands very little chance against my wife and her meticulous lists.
On a Saturday morning, about three weeks before the scheduled surgery, Thea asks me to drive her to the library so she can spend the day studying, learning, planning. After I drop her off, I return home and get to work on my priority chores, starting with the closet door that does not close properly and the kitchen window that does not open.
Over the years, our kids have carved out lives of their own that do not intersect much with each other. After a long stint at the Defender, Maggie took a job as a political reporter at the Denver Post. She told Thea that the move was precipitated in part by an obsessive neighbor in Chicago who spent months trying to court Maggie, then months more stalking and threatening her, without repercussions. One of her female colleagues had taken a job in Denver, and when a good job offer came, it was enough to entice Maggie to move west. Tessa took a long break from teaching so she could properly raise her daughters, returning to the classroom when Kat turned eight. She is, as she has always been, a popular and respected instructor in her daughter’s school. To the extent that she is happy, it is motherhood, first, that has provided this happiness. Teaching ranks second. Marriage is a distant third, at best. As for our son, I am reminded that I had once given up any hope of passing the Atheneum on to Leander. But he has settled into the business at least as easily as I did when Mama and Papa retired. He and Sarah live in a tidy little one-bedroom apartment within walking distance of the restaurant. They have what seems to be a fragile marriage. But it has worked so far, and what marriage is not fragile when you stop to examine its structure? I consider my marriage with Thea as solid as any relationship on earth, but her diagnosis is there to remind me that either God or cancer can expose its frail skeleton whenever they choose.
As the date of surgery approaches, I continue to extract myself from the day-to-day business in the kitchen of the Atheneum. Leander makes small adjustments to the menu, and I manage to keep my opinions to myself. The restaurant’s customers will let him know that they approve or disapprove of his alterations, and Leander will respond accordingly. I am impressed by his lack of ego and his willingness to learn, which was never a particular strength of mine. And while Leander toils away at the restaurant, Thea and I work through our respective checklists.
On the morning of Thursday, June 25, Thea and I are both out of bed before the alarm can wake us. Dr. Geng has told us that Thea should expect to spend one night in the hospital, so she has packed an overnight bag that includes a change of clothes along with her toothbrush and makeup kit, a private journal that she has begun keeping, and two books – one about the road to recovery and one about a pioneer girl who is captured and raised by Indians. Tessa has offered to drive up with the girls, but Thea suggested they come later, when she is back at the house and when I might need their help.
We arrive at the hospital at eight o’clock. Thea’s is the first scheduled surgery of the day, which I hope means that everything will proceed without delays. We are able to spend about thirty minutes together in one of the exam rooms before I am directed out to the hospital’s main waiting area. I had not thought to bring something to read, but as nervous and distracted as I am, I would probably not have been able to concentrate. I spend the morning watching talk shows on the waiting room television, pacing around the room and occasionally changing seats, looking at magazines about fishing and childrearing and good nutrition. Leander stops by on his way to work, and all I can report is that his mother is still in surgery and that no one has come out to give me an update. I promise to call him at the restaurant when there is news. I have promised Tessa and Maggie the same.
Just after eleven o’clock, the door to the surgical suite opens. A nurse emerges and catches my eye. Your wife is in recovery, she says. Everything went fine. Dr. Geng will be out in a few minutes to talk to you. If you have any questions…
Of course, I want to know when I will be able to see Thea. Otherwise, the only questions I have are ones that Dr. Geng, I know, will not be able to answer.
Later, I phone the kids, in the same order as they were informed of their mother’s diagnosis: Tessa, then Leander, then Maggie. The calls are all brief. There is not much to say other than surgery is over and Thea is recovering, and I will be able to see her soon. Tessa listens quietly and then breaks down, which makes me feel like crying. I do not know if the feeling in me is relief that the surgery is over, or resentment that the operation was necessary in the first place, or simple anxiety from not knowing what the future has in store for us.
When I am finally able to see Thea, she has been moved from a recovery area into a private hospital room, where she will spend the night. The room has its own bathroom, a window that looks out at the parking lot, two chairs for visitors and a couch that is large enough to function as a bed if someone wanted to spend the night. Thea and I have talked about this, and she has said that she would sleep better knowing that I was home in our own bed. I suspect that she might have been saying this to give me permission to leave at the end of the day, but this is the agreement.
Thea smiles when she sees me. She opens her mouth but nothing emerges. I pull one of the chairs over to her bedside and take her hand. For a long time, neither of us speaks.
Dr. Geng said you did great, I say finally. How are you feeling?
She smiles again but does not attempt to speak. She points to a water glass on the bedside table and I pick it up and hold the straw to her lips.
I pass the afternoon in Thea’s hospital room. Nurses come and go, checking her vitals, making notes on her bed chart, asking if she is comfortable and if she needs to use the bathroom. Dr. Geng drops in once – between surgeries, she says. She stands over Thea, takes her pulse, seems satisfied. Between the visits, Thea mostly sleeps. I leave the room once to call the kids again, and once to buy a sandwich at the vending machine in the hallway. Around three-thirty, Leander drops by. I know the routine at the Atheneum, the lull between lunch and dinner service, so I am not surprised to see him here. I know it will be a short visit. Thea is awake, and she straightens herself in the bed when she sees Leander.
One of the nurses is watching from the doorway. If you want to take your mom for a little walk down the hallway, she’s due for a little exercise, she says.
So I help Thea out of bed, and Leander and I walk her slowly to the door and down the hall. Thea’s slippered feet make a soft scuffling sound on the tiles that for some reason remind me of summer mornings at the house when the kids were young and just out of bed, making their way into the kitchen for a bowl of cereal to fortify them for a day of mischief and adventure.
Tessa and the girls spend the last half of July and the first week of August at the house. I had been concerned that having a 14-year old and an 11-year old living with us for several weeks would be stressful on Thea. But the girls are not only well-behaved, they are surprisingly helpful, and their presence in the house seems to invigorate my wife. Becky in particular knows how to make herself useful, running the vacuum through the house when everyone is up, chopping vegetables at my direction, washing pots and pans and cutlery as they accumulate. She tells me, as we work together in the kitchen, about her friends, her classes, her interests. She was a striker on her middle school soccer team, which was undefeated until the last game of the season. She likes the Red Hot Chili Peppers, which is apparently a rock band. She wants to work at Pizza Hut when she is old enough because of how much she loves pizza. She likes reading about the American West, and math is her least favorite subject. Becky is an evolving, almost fully-formed adult in a slightly smaller package. I realize, as the summer weeks drain away, that Thea and I will both miss having Tessa and the girls in the house.
A week after they depart, Maggie arrives. She has taken two weeks off work so she can be here during Thea’s first sessions of radiation. It seems to me that, in a way I cannot precisely describe, our older daughter has changed more since moving to Colorado than she did in all the years she was living in Chicago. She seems more content with herself. Patient in a way that did not really characterize her before. We do not engage each other in political talk. I know from Tessa that Maggie’s politics have not changed much, maybe changed not at all. But it feels as if her views are not the weapons they once were. Or at least she has decided to sheathe them around her mother and me. Although I concede that it may be my own politics that have moderated at least as much as Maggie’s. I voted for Ronald Reagan twice, and I was happy when the Soviet Union collapsed. I voted for Bush when he ran for president the first time. But I do not understand why the quarreling in the Middle East, which seems mostly to involve unresolvable religious arguments, requires America to send its own young men and women into battle. It feels like a page in a history book that I have read before. I know that Thea has given up on the Republicans, and it is possible that this is the year I do the same. But I will talk about none of this with Maggie.
After reviewing the pathology results with Dr. Geng, Thea decided that a round of radiation should be enough. No chemotherapy. So I am optimistic that my wife is in the final stretch of her battle. Maggie and I take turns driving Thea to the hospital. When it is my turn, I sit in the waiting area watching Donahue on television. I am told that the actual delivery of radiation takes only a few minutes, but the whole business consumes close to an hour. When she emerges, Thea looks tired, but she walks erect and shows no signs of pain or physical damage. She makes an effort to smile. Conversation on the drive home is my responsibility. It is something in which I am not practiced, and not particularly competent.
On the alternating days when Maggie drives her mother to radiology, I busy myself at the house: doing the breakfast dishes, changing the bedding and washing sheets, vacuuming, sweeping the porch, preparing lunch. The work is numbingly dull, but it helps to keep my mind off of what Thea is going through, and what is yet to come.
On the first Sunday in September, Leander drives Maggie to Chicago where she will meet up with some old friends before flying back to Denver. There have been no incidents, no arguments during the two weeks our older daughter was staying with us. This would once have been as much as I could have hoped for. But I have to say that there was more to the visit than accommodation and tolerance. My last words to Maggie, as she was tossing her bags into the trunk of Leander’s car, were to say that her mother and I loved her and were proud of her and that we wished she lived closer. She had looked at me with unaccustomed tenderness, given me a hug and said that she wished the same thing but that, really, she has never felt closer.
Thea still has six weeks of radiation to endure. That means that, in another two weeks, she will be only halfway through the treatment schedule. Leander offers to drive his mother to her treatments once or twice a week, but he is working long hours at the restaurant and I tell him that Thea and I can manage.
A week passes. Two weeks. The radiation treatments are now leaving Thea so fatigued that I have to taxi her from the hospital to the parking lot in a wheelchair. For the rest of the day, she sleeps, shuffles into the bathroom, shuffles into the kitchen, sips tea, sits and nibbles crackers and listens to my attempts at conversation. If there is such a thing as a routine when it comes to post-surgery radiation treatment, our lives slide into a kind of routine. Thea and I go to bed around ten every night. She usually falls asleep first, after thirty or forty minutes of tossing and repositioning. I often wake around one or two and I often discover that the other side of the bed is vacant. If Thea is not in the bathroom, I often find her in the kitchen, drinking tea, her yellow legal pad in front of her.
After her eight weeks of radiation, we meet with Doctor Powers and Doctor Geng. They agree that, at least for the time being, chemotherapy is not necessary. The only thing required now is that Thea be monitored closely for the next few months. We call the kids with the good news and make plans for a week in Door County. Thea’s reward. Mr. Stavridis, our friend and longtime patron, no longer has the cabin in Sturgeon Bay, but we have discovered a nice little collection of cottages in Egg Harbor with views of the bay. The trip has been on the list she made when we first heard the diagnosis, and I know that the thought of it has helped keep her spirits up. One more item to check off the list.
Thea and Tessa start planning for Christmas in the middle of November. Robert’s parents are flying out from New York to spend Thanksgiving with their son and his family, so our Thanksgiving will be a quiet one, with Leander and Sarah to the house for dinner.
Tessa and Robert and the girls are driving up the day before Christmas, Thea informs me one morning, after one of her standing phone calls with Tessa. They’ll be here until the 27th. I hoped they might stay to celebrate New Year’s Eve, but Robert has to get back for work.
Robert’s coming? I ask.
Robert? Of course. Why wouldn’t he be with his family on Christmas?
I shrug. If Robert is staying with us for three nights, it will be the longest period we have ever hosted our son-in-law. I do not know how to feel about this. If he needs to be back for work, and Tessa and the girls don’t have to, maybe he can drive back to Elmhurst and we can drive Tessa and the girls home after New Year’s.
Thea looks at me as if I have just solved the world’s most perplexing problem. Julian, that’s a wonderful idea! Would you do that? You’ve been so wonderful during all this. Driving me around, making the meals, running little errands. Putting up with all my moods. Driving to Elmhurst and back…it’s a lot. Are you sure?
Of course. It would be nice to have Tessa and the girls for a few more days. And to help us ring in the new year.
So Thea phones Tessa, and they talk for another ten or fifteen minutes. Seeing how animated my wife is, after all that she has endured this year, makes me happy.
Robert and Tessa and the girls arrive with a trunkful of presents. I had thought that 1992 might be the year that Thea and I finally invest in an artificial tree, giving up the chronic headache of hauling a tree home from the lot, arranging it so the inevitable bare spots are against the wall, watering the thing every morning and watching the daily dropping of the needles onto the carpet. But Thea and I have decided to continue the tradition for another year. So the girls have a real Christmas tree beneath which to arrange the gifts – most of which, I am happy to see, are tagged to Becky and Kat.
Robert and Tessa are behaving as if they had an argument in the car, but the girls seem joyfully oblivious. Robert shakes my hand, kisses Thea on the cheek, and totes the suitcases away. He is gone for a few minutes. I ask Tessa how the drive was, but her response is merely a tired smile.
Leander is closing the restaurant after lunch service, so he and Sarah will be joining us all for Christmas Eve dinner at the house. When they arrive, Thea and I are dumbfounded to see Maggie trailing along behind them.
It was a grand conspiracy, Tessa acknowledges. We picked up Maggie at O’Hare and dropped her off at the restaurant before we got here. It’s been forever since all of us celebrated Christmas together.
Our dining table has never accommodated nine people, but we crowd around elbow to elbow, talking and laughing, drinking wine and sparkling cider, enjoying the food that everyone has had a hand in preparing. Knowing that Maggie and Robert were together for the drive from Chicago to Sheboygan explains a lot about Tessa’s melancholy mood when they arrived. But the gloom has lifted, and even Robert seems relaxed and actually engaging. He and Maggie chat pleasantly about how the restaurant scene in Chicago has changed in the years since Maggie left for Denver. Watching Becky and Kat whispering with their heads together, I have a fleeting thought about the possibility of this being the last holiday we will share together, this whole extended and far-flung family of ours. But I put the thought out of my mind and scold myself for retreating, momentarily, into that familiar dark corner. Thea flashes me a look as if she has read my thoughts, but then her face brightens and the moment passes.
So I firmly do not believe that Christmas 1992 will be our last intact family holiday, and I most certainly do not believe that it will be my last Christmas with Thea. I have lost a twin, have lost Mama and Papa. Thea has lost her mother. We are owed a reprieve. We were frightened by Thea’s discovery of a lump in her breast, but the lump was removed and the tissue was thoroughly radiated. Cancer has been banished, obliterated, disinvited.
Later, Maggie leaves with Leander and Sarah, promising the girls that they will be back no later than seven in the morning for the opening of gifts. Becky and Kat trot off to bed at nine, promptly and obediently, leaving their parents and Thea and me to talk.
I’m not used to seeing Leander like this, Tessa starts.
Like…what? I ask.
Grown-up, like. Not my kid brother. Like someone who has focus and who knows what he wants. And knows what he needs to do to get it. I don’t know Sarah that well, but I think she’s been good for Leander.
Isn’t that true for all the wives in the family? Thea says. She laughs lightly. I know that she could be referring to our marriage, or Tessa’s and Robert’s, or the marriage of Mama and Papa. Or she could just be tossing in an abstract and casual remark, although I do not generally know my wife to be abstract and casual in conversation.
He seems ready to take over the restaurant, Robert adds quickly. Whenever Julian decides he’s ready to hand over the reins. What about it, Julian? Tessa says that you and Thea have talked about an extended trip to Greece. Or Italy. When’s that going to happen?
Thea sets down her wine glass and leans forward. We talked about a trip in the spring. I think that’s too soon, but maybe in the fall. We need to make a trip to Farsala, of course. I’d also like to see Rome. I’d like to see St. Peter’s and the Colosseum and throw a coin in the Trevi Fountain, but mostly I’d like to sit with Julian at an outdoor café in the Piazza Navona, eating pasta and drinking wine and listening to street musicians and watching the sky turn orange. That’s how I imagine Rome.
Tessa holds up her glass as if to toast, as if the future has suddenly been written. To Rome, then! To retirement, and to the Atheneum under new management. I’m going to hold you and Dad to it. Greece and Italy in the fall!
Maggie and Tessa and Thea spend Christmas and much of the following days plotting our Europe trip. Robert departs early on the 27th. Maggie has taken off work a full two weeks, so she can spend New Year’s at the house – and with Robert now gone, she promptly moves from the sofa bed in Leander’s small apartment into our guest room with her sister.
On New Year’s Eve, we are once again a full house, minus Robert. Leander closes the restaurant after lunch. Thea and I have decided to resurrect all of the old traditions. I have made dolmades and souvlakia, with leg of lamb from a new butcher in town. Thea has made stuffed tomatoes with feta, a romaine lettuce salad with black Greek olives and tzatziki. Leander brings along a pan of spanakopita from the restaurant kitchen. And Thea has, of course, baked a loaf of her Vasilopita for later in the evening, embedding a coin in its heart.
Becky and Kat are not accustomed to such an exotic menu, but they gamely nibble at everything. The Vasilopeta sits warming on the kitchen counter, tempting their appetites and their curiosity.
What if someone swallows the coin? Kat asks. She has unwrapped her dolmades, eaten most of the rice and ground lamb out of the inside, and has made a small pile of uneaten black olives on the edge of her plate.
Someone has to be careful when they eat, Tessa advises. Someone has to eat very slowly and take small bites.
And it’s lucky if you get the coin in your piece? Becky asks.
That’s what they say, her mother answers.
Who says?
The Greeks, Maggie interjects. You’re part Greek, you know? You and your sister both.
I thought we were Irish, Kat replies.
You’re both. You’re Irish and you’re Greek and probably some other things that you don’t even know. Your mother’s grandparents were born in Greece, so your Grandma and Grandpa Pappas, and your parents, and you and Kat all have Greek blood in you. And the Greeks say it’s good luck to find a coin in your slice of bread on New Year’s Eve. And the Irish say it’s good luck to find a four-leaf clover. And people in Spain say it’s good luck to eat twelve grapes at midnight. And if you grew up in Mississippi or Alabama, it’d be good luck to eat black-eyed peas and collard greens.
I don’t know what colored greens are, Kat says, but I don’t like peas.
Then it’s good you don’t live in Mississippi or Alabama, Tessa says.
Everybody laughs, and for a moment the loaf of bread on the kitchen counter is forgotten.
It is not yet ten o’clock when everyone agrees that staying up until midnight is not in the cards. So we hastily set the mantel clock ahead two hours, pour glasses of champagne for the adults and sparkling cider for the girls, and celebrate the premature arrival of 1993.
Don’t forget the bread! Kat shrieks, as Maggie mimics her retirement for the night.
Everyone returns to the table, Thea brings out the Vasilopeta, and I sit and begin slicing it carefully. The plates are passed around. Everyone is perfectly still, waiting for some signal. Finally, Leander begins slowly tearing small pieces from his slice. The girls observe for a moment, then begin ripping, as if Christmas has come again and another gift is presenting itself. Thea watches contentedly. When she finally tears into her slice of bread, the coin drops onto her plate. She seems startled, looks suspiciously at me, then picks up the coin and holds it aloft. The Gods have spoken, I say to myself.
In Sheboygan, there are still technically two hours left of 1992. But in our house, the year is over, and I am happy to see it go.