I look him in the eye. “I said I’d let her get on with her life. And I’m gonna do that. To show up now would be unfair.”
Chapter 29
so it turnsout I have a lot more issues than simply my beef with chemotherapy. I knew that was coming. Don’t we all have “issues”? I’m still unsure how I feel about therapy, I only know that subtly—so subtly it took until I got home to work it out—the therapist is trying to open up the root cause of all my anger. The therapist did acknowledge that a huge part of me has been taken away. When I joked, “Sure, a testicle,” it was met with a raised eyebrow and a slight smile. I triumphed at the smile.
But now I need to work on getting back the part of me that’s missing mentally, the part of my life I had lined up, but had to hit pause on. I’m reminded itisjust a pause, a delay. The plans I made got put on ice. But not forever. I kinda knew that. But it’s the insecurity of the cancer returning that worries me the most, I think. That “not knowing.” The waiting, the routine checks I’ll have for the next few years. The word “remission” gets bandied around as if it’s a shiny trophy. It’s not. It’s the bare minimum of what I want out of this.
—
Now I’m about to take my life off pause. I open up two windows on my laptop. Architect jobs in London. Culinary schools in Italy. I stare at both options. I can’t choose which I want more. To go for it: Really take my career forward in a city in which I’d planned to live? Or to take a sabbatical from life? Learn to cook? Learn toenjoy my surroundings? Just to…be. I’ve taken involuntary time off from earning any money, so maybe I shouldn’t do the latter. Maybe I should stay put here, find a new job or ask for my old one back? I definitely need to get a new apartment—I can’t live with my parents for much longer.
There are only so many big decisions I can tackle in one day. But I know I have to work out what I want to do eventually. I need to make plans again. There are things I want to do. Dr. Khader tells me my records can be sent anywhere I need them to go. So if I choose to leave the US, or at least try to for a second time, then wherever I go, my records will follow me on; and Dr. Khader says he’ll make sure I don’t get lost in a system, that I’ll get the checks I need, the blood tests I require. This moving on to somewhere else…this is a real possibility. I look over at my mom, next to me on the couch, staring at the TV but not really seeing it. I can tell what she’s thinking as she glances over at my laptop screen. She almost lost me to a horrific disease. She doesn’t want to lose me to another continent. But if I don’t start again, carry on with…life, then hasn’t fighting to survive been pointless?
Chapter 30
Hannah, October
miranda and paulare engaged. It happened just as Paul said it would, under the willow tree by a stream running through the secluded back garden of a hotel in the Cotswolds. I am so happy I could burst. It was hard keeping the secret for so long. Miranda called to tell me, screaming down the phone with excitement. And then she thanked me for choosing the world’s best ring. “It’s from Tiffany, Hannah, you clever thing!”
I didn’t like to point out she’d told me over and over again that Tiffany & Co. was the direction in which I had to send Paul, the very moment it looked as if engagement was in the cards. I also suspect she’d informed Paul that he was to come straight to me for shopping advice, the very moment engagement looked to be a possibility.
And now we’re planning wedding outfits. Hen parties. The works. I’ve been made chief bridesmaid. I’ve never been chief anything before, and the last time I was a bridesmaid was at my older cousin’s wedding when I was seven years old. They’re divorced now. I jog on quickly from that thought. I was cute as hell back then, but this time I’m going to have turned twenty-eight and be sexy as hell.
“What did you wear back then?” Miranda asks as we’re sitting in the flat she shares with Paul, a half-eaten pizza in front of us. Iwon’t tell George about this, I think, as I dunk the solid crust into the garlic-and-herb dip. I’m mainly using the crust as if it’s a spoon for the dip. My God, it’s good. For so many reasons, but mainly because it’s not kale.
“Pink taffeta, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Miranda nods seriously.
“White lace gloves, like a Victorian.”
Miranda thinks. “That could work,” she jokes. “Cute on a seven-year-old. Slutty on a twentysomething.”
I nod along. Other than the taffeta, I’m all right with lace gloves making an appearance. “There was even a parasol involved,” I offer bravely.
“Oh my God, parasols,” Miranda cries excitedly and googles wedding parasols.
“If I’ve got a parasol in my hand, how do I hold my bouquet and yours at the altar?”
“Good point.” She backtracks on parasols.
“I’m so excited,” I say.
“Me too.” She stands up, brings a bunch of magazines over.
I feel my heart race, but in a good way. I’ve seen glossy wedding magazines on the shelves in the supermarket and never been brave enough to pick one up, look through, dream. And so I never have. But now Miranda has six glossy wedding magazines and I am going to devour all of them.
“Tonight we are going to tick everything off our list,” she says.
I look up and stare at her. “Everything? What do you mean, everything?”
“Dresses—mine and yours; suit for Paul and his best man and the little pageboys; color scheme; and, most important, venue.”
“Bloody hell,” I say. “What’s the rush? Are you pregnant?”
She glugs a giant mouthful of wine. “Christ, no. But we don’t want to wait. So we’re aiming for May. Abroad, obviously. Thenwe can combine our honeymoon while we’re there.” She looks smug about this, but it sounds exhausting, and then I think.
“May? That’s…” I have to use my fingers to work this out. We’re on our second bottle of wine, and our pizza was late arriving and it hasn’t soaked up enough booze yet. Drunk wedding planning should not be allowed. “Seven months away. Don’t most weddings take a year to—”
