“You want to see a movie?” she suggested, and for some reason, that sounded perfect to him.
“Something violent,” he said.
“A war movie.”
“Horror,” he countered.
“Whatever you want, pal. You just talked with your dead wife. You get popcorn and soda.” She smiled at him, and he felt himself smiling back.
“Thanks, Sarah,” he said. “You’re a good friend.”
Almost to his surprise, he realized it was true.
The psychic had mentioned a woman in his life who would be his second wife. Someone he already knew.
He wasn’t ready to think about that, though. Not today. Maybe not for a long, long time.
But it was there just the same.
22
Lauren
Twenty-five months left
January
Dear Daddy,
Help me. Oh, Daddy, please help me. Please don’t let this be true. I’m so scared. Please help me, Dad. Please let this be wrong.
Lauren had had three appointments with Dr. Bennett, the pulmonologist. Three appointments in three months, with a few reschedulings because of snow and the holidays and the thrill of making new traditions. They had had the Kims and Stephanie over for Pepero Day, a sweet Korean holiday that seemed to exist solely to celebrate friendship. Then there was Thanksgiving—the big meal at Jen’s, including Stephanie, then dessert at the Kims’, because all four of their kids had been home and had wanted to see Josh and meet her. They had a brunch that weekend with all their local friends, and Lauren had felt so happy and grown up, cooking and cleaning for her former classmates and colleagues, showing them their beautiful home.
Then it was Christmastime, and they had their first major fight over Josh not going to her office party. They made up, of course, went on the holiday stroll and celebrated Jen’s birthday. On New Year’s Eve, they hosted a party—Sarah and her date (who passed out on the couch before nine p.m.), Louise, Santino, Bruce and Tom, Mara, Asmaa and her honey, Jen and Darius. Even with the drunk guy, it had been a blast, and they’d gone up to the rooftop to watch the fireworks. The Kims had had them over for lunar New Year, another big celebration, and had invited Lauren’s mom, too, which was awfully nice.
In other words, it had been easy to forget that she was a little out of breath for no apparent reason.
But now the holidays were over, and Lauren had no more excuses. She kept telling herself not to be nervous. They’d already said it wasn’t cancer. No sign of a tumor on her chest X-ray, thank God. But they wanted an MRI now, too.
She was fine, she reminded herself. Young. Healthy. Blissfully happy. Sex at least three times a week, usually more. Yoga classes and the gym on the first floor. Did she get out of breath? Of course! That was the point.
She was just . . . tired. She had asthma, and maybe chronic bronchitis. If she felt weary and heavy sometimes, wasn’t that just because she worked out? It was a good sign, damn it.
It was that intern in the ER who’d first given her that tremor of fear. That pause. No one wants a doctor to pause before reassuring you.
But she’d been tested for a lung infection. A virus, though she tested negative for everything they could test for. Low-grade pneumonia on top of asthma? Chronic sinus infection with postnasal drip and acid reflux?
They couldn’t quite pin it down.
“Just a few more tests,” Dr. Bennett said, and Lauren felt a flare of fear and anger. Diagnose me or tell me I’m healthy, for God’s sake, she thought, her face reddening. “This is a tricky case,” the doctor continued. “I want to be sure we get it right.”
Not super reassuring. “I’m really fine,” Lauren replied. I could like you. Give me a clean bill of health, and we’ll be great friends, I promise.
“Outpatient Testing will call to schedule you in the next day or so,” Dr. Bennett said. “If you feel worse, call me right away.”
“I’m fine. I feel great.”
“We’ll talk soon.”
Shit. No martinis with Dr. B., then.
And then there was Josh, hovering, glancing at her when she coughed. “Honey, I’m fine,” she snapped one night. “Can you please not bury me yet?” He didn’t answer. She huffed and went to bed, and he came in a half hour later and took her in his arms and said he loved her. It was impossible to stay mad.
Two more X-rays, two CAT scans, one high-resolution CAT scan, a pulmonary function test, a second pulmonary function test, one bronchoscopy (even with sedation, that was nasty). The questions were endless and irritatingly repetitive: Was she a smoker? History of asthma? Pneumonia? Tell us again how your father died. When did you go to Hawaii? Where did you stay? Swim? Eat? Were you exposed to asbestos, silicone dust, heavy metals, contaminated air-conditioning systems, moldy foliage, pigeon droppings?
“Of course I’ve been exposed to pigeon poop!” Lauren yelled the umpteenth time she was asked. “And moldy leaves! Hasn’t everyone? Just give me some damn cough medicine that actually works!”
So when Dr. Bennett called her and asked her to come in “with your husband,” Lauren was almost relieved. Finally, they’d figured it out. Some weird pneumonia she’d caught on the plane to Hawaii, probably.
“Have a seat,” Dr. Bennett said when they arrived at her office. “And please, call me Kwana.”
A good sign or a bad sign, to be on a first-name basis with your doctor? Lauren felt cold, suddenly.
“Hi, Kwana!” she said, as if being cheery would make everything okay. “I love your hair.” Over the holidays, Dr. Bennett had gone from shiny, straight hair to multiple braids twisted into a bun. And hey. If she wanted to be called Kwana, that was fine. They’d get out of this appointment, Kwana would apologize for being so aggressive, when gosh, it was just this one thing, here was the cure, and absolutely, she’d love to come out for drinks one night!
Except Lauren’s heart was beating too hard. She took a slow, deliberate breath. All good. No cough, not right now, see?
“Does it take forever, those braids?” she asked. Talking about hair was much, much better than anything Lauren could think of at this moment.
“It takes a while, yes.” Kwana seemed to be very still. Josh took Lauren’s hand. His was sweaty.
“Okay,” said Kwana. “We’ve done every test we can, and we did a couple twice. It looks like idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis.” Lots of syllables in that one. “We had a tough time diagnosing it because we wanted to be sure. It’s not a common disease in someone so young.”