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  “I . . . I really couldn’t say,” the receptionist replied, stumbling over her words. “Is two o’clock OK with you, then?”

  “Do you have anything earlier?” Suddenly that drive to Hoboken for the volunteer luncheon didn’t seem so important. It didn’t matter if they were finalizing the holiday fund-raiser and were already planning next year’s Spring Fling. With her doctor insisting that she see this Dr. Graham right away, Frances knew that there was no way she could accomplish much of anything, not on a day that started like this one had. A morning that suddenly forced her to deal with panicking thoughts of breast cancer. Two o’clock sounded like far too long to wait. She immediately decided to send her regrets to the luncheon ladies because, without a doubt, she wanted to see Dr. Graham ASAP. No dillydallying. No delays. No wondering all morning what he would say to her. She needed to strive for efficiency. That’s what Nicholas kept saying to her. Simply put, she did not have six hours to waste worrying about what she hoped was nothing.

  But it seemed that this was just one more thing she could not control.

  “Two o’clock is the earliest appointment that we have, I’m afraid,” the still-nameless woman on the phone said in an apologetic tone.

  When Frances hung up, she felt as if her entire future was being held hostage. She stole a quick glance at the clock on the microwave: 7:51 a.m. Over six hours. How could she possibly make the commute to and from Hoboken with this dangling over her head? She began to mentally reorganize her day, mapping out the logistics involved, despite the nagging suspicion that nothing would go right, regardless of how much planning and rearranging she did.

  “Coffee ready?” Nicholas asked as he walked down the steps, heading through the hallway toward the kitchen. “What a day I have ahead of me,” he complained. “Back-to-back meetings. Again.”

  Frances peered up. As usual, her husband looked especially polished in his custom-made gray suit and freshly ironed white shirt. He walked over to the back door and opened it for the patiently waiting dogs. “Who was on the phone?”

  She didn’t answer at first. Instead, she focused on getting his coffee. It would give her time to control her trembling hands.

  When she turned around, the mug in hand, she noticed that he was struggling with his new red silk tie, trying to straighten the knot.

  “Here.” She handed him the coffee, and then without being asked, he lifted his chin and Frances took over the task of straightening his tie so that it lay perfectly flat and straight against his shirt, just the way he liked it.

  “Dr. Steele’s office,” she responded at last. She hoped he wouldn’t see through her calm exterior. The last thing she wanted was for him to witness her unravel. Stay calm. Her mind raced with the possibilities of what, exactly, could have triggered that early phone call.

  Apparently, Nicholas thought the same thing as he looked at his wristwatch. “So early?” He raised the mug to his lips and carefully took a large swallow. “It’s not even eight o’clock yet.”

  Frances didn’t respond, focusing her attention on the tie.

  “It’s that lump, isn’t it?” He reached up and grabbed her hands, stopping her from perfecting his tie. His face suddenly took on a more serious and concerned expression. “Frances, what did he say?”

  For a few seconds Frances considered her options.

  Nicholas hated it when she hid things from him. Still, he also hated it when she overreacted, always accusing her of blowing things out of proportion.

  There are just some things that are better left unsaid, her mother had always proclaimed, usually when she was out shopping and buying, yet again, another dress that would hang in her closet, hidden from Frances’s father. A woman keeps the marriage together. That’s our job. We have to reward ourselves with a little treat from time to time. You’ll understand when you get married.

  Frances was sure that telling Nicholas would only irritate both of them. He’d ask dozens of annoying questions and begin badgering her for the answers, answers that she simply did not have. Yet. And that would irritate her.

  Besides, with the merger on the table, Nicholas was much busier at work. This phone call with the little cryptic information that the woman provided would certainly distract him and stress him out even more than he already was. Even worse, he’d probably feel obligated to go with her to Dr. Graham’s office at two o’clock. That, too, would turn into a problem since he always resented sitting around waiting for doctors that wasted his time. During her first pregnancy with Andy, Nicholas had grumbled and complained during every office visit, staring at his watch or tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair. It had been even worse when she had Carrie. Everyone had thought Nicholas was so adorable, pacing the floors and staring at the clock. Only Frances knew the truth: he wasn’t worried about her. Rather, he was worried about being cut off from his clients and office when the nurse had made him turn off his BlackBerry.

  All of this went through her mind as he stared at her, waiting for a response. His expression began to change from concern to irritation. “Frances?”

  Snapping out of her internal debate, she shook her head and forced a smile. “He said nothing, Nicholas.” She tried to reassure herself that it wasn’t a lie. In truth, it wasn’t. After all, she hadn’t even talked to the doctor. “Everything’s fine.”

  “You shouldn’t have waited so long to get it checked,” he scolded. He finished the coffee and set the mug on the counter. He grabbed his cell phone and began scrolling through his messages. “Any more coffee?”

  The sandwiches forgotten, Frances walked over to the counter and poured him another cup of coffee. She always put the timer on the night before so that it would be ready and waiting when they both came down in the morning. When she handed him the piping-hot mug, he took it without thanking her.

  “Don’t forget that I have that meeting in New York later today.”

  His company’s headquarters were in midtown Manhattan. However, they had a satellite office in Newark where he often worked. He usually had to commute into New York only to meet with clients when they were in town.

  “Got it,” she said. “So I shouldn’t expect you until late, yes?”

  He reached up and tugged at the knot of his tie, undoing what Frances had just done. He didn’t answer her as he glanced down at his phone and then began answering early-morning e-mails.

  “Come on, Rick!” he groaned.

  “Something wrong?”

  He shook his head as if her question was an inconvenience. “I told Rick to get the files ready for my meeting and have them couriered to the New York office. He’s just now sending me a message asking me how many copies I need.” A few choice words mumbled under his breath warned Frances not to ask any more questions.

  “Mom!” Carrie called out as she and Andy began running down the stairs. The sound of four feet pounding on the hardwood steps interrupted any further conversation between Nicholas and Frances. It was always the same thing in the morning: silence, followed by an eruption of noise and energy as the children burst downstairs. When Andy reached the bottom of the staircase, he jumped over the last three steps and landed on the floor with a loud thud. Before Frances could say anything, Carrie tried to imitate her older brother, but instead of landing on the floor, she banged against the wall. Immediately, the three barking dogs joined in.

  No matter how routine it was, the morning commotion always irritated Frances almost as much as the incessant telephone ringing. She leaned to the side and glared over Nicholas’s shoulder at the children.

  “Come on, guys! Let’s go easy today!”

  “Sorry, Mom!” Carrie said without any remorse in her voice as she darted past her mother and headed toward the pantry. As a tween, she was straddling the fence between child and teenager.

  “Sorry, Momma!” Andy yelled. If Carrie did not sound remorseful, Andy sounded even less so. In fact, Frances fought the urge to cringe when Andy spoke: the more she had asked her son not to call her “Momma,�
�� the more he did so. To Frances, it sounded rednecky, as if they were living in the hollows of Pike County, Kentucky, and not in an upscale neighborhood in Morristown, New Jersey.

  “Guess what?” Carrie asked as she slipped past her father. “Margot’s having a party at the ice-skating rink, and she’s not inviting Jade.” She gave her mother a smug smile.

  “I thought you were friends with Jade?”

  Carrie scoffed. “Oh please! Like last year maybe!”

  Andy pushed his way past his sister. “I seem to remember you crying last year when you didn’t get invited to Jade’s for a sleepover.”

  She raised her eyebrows and reached up to push back her shiny long hair. “Well, it’s not me crying this year, is it?”

  Over his sister’s head, Andy glanced at his mother and rolled his eyes.

  As if suddenly realizing that his children had entered the room, Nicholas looked up. “Hey, slugger. What’s the good word?”

  Andy grinned and puffed up his chest. “Starting quarterback this weekend at the away game. You gonna make it?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  Andy looked at his mom again, and she knew that he was going to ask her the same question. But he hesitated too long. Carrie dove for the refrigerator and accidentally bumped into Frances.

  “Easy, Carrie!” Andy snapped.

  Instead of apologizing to her mother, Carrie yanked open the refrigerator door and pulled out the milk. Upon seeing it empty, she held it up.

  “We’re almost out, Mom,” she said, waving the carton in the air. “Again.”

  Frances didn’t need the reminder. “I know, I know.”

  “Did you remember to sign that field trip form?” Carrie slid the container of milk onto the counter and reached back into the refrigerator for the orange juice. “What the . . . ?” She looked at her mom and simultaneously shook the carton and her head. “Don’t we have anything to drink around here?”

  “I’m going food shopping today, Carrie.”

  “That doesn’t help for now!” She slammed the refrigerator door and stomped to the other side of the counter. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day!”

  Andy reached out and pinched her.

  “Ow!”

  “Mom! What’s up with the sandwiches?” he asked as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket to check the time. “You didn’t finish them, and we have to catch the bus!”

  She counted to ten. Twice.

  “I’m finishing them now.”

  “Way to go, Mom.” Carrie leaned against the counter and watched as Frances hurried to finish making their lunches. “It’s your one job in the morning, Mom. Epic. Failure!”

  Rather than get into a fight with her daughter, Frances bit her tongue at Carrie’s irreverent and self-righteous statement. She reached into a drawer and pulled out the sandwich bags. Andy had already grabbed two bottles of water and set them on the counter, a small gesture of help, or perhaps an apology for his sister’s attitude. So far, it was turning into a crappy Wednesday morning.

  She needed the kids out of the house so that she could get ready for the day. Between cleaning and the ever-increasing pile of laundry, she had enough housework to keep her occupied all morning. At noon, she would meet with the fund-raising committee in Hoboken. Her afternoon would consist of food shopping (Thank you for the kind reminder, Carrie), and then she would have to make dinner, a dinner that would be hastily swallowed by her two children without any consideration whatsoever for the amount of time she had put into cooking it. It would then be followed by a “Thank you, Mom” uttered out of habit rather than genuine appreciation.

  And, of course, now she had that appointment with the surgeon. But she’d rather not think about that. It would distract her from her other tasks. The tasks that involved keeping her home in order and running smoothly, or, at least, attempting to achieve that lofty goal.

  Home should be peaceful and calm, a haven of retreat and relaxation, her mother had always said. Unless you want to work full-time and be away from your family, that’s the job of the wife, Frances. Don’t forget it.

  After so many years of listening to her mother and watching her cater to her husband and children, it had become the goal that Frances strived for on a daily basis. She was, after all, just a housewife, and just like her mother had told her, it was her job.

  But no matter how hard she worked at it, she never quite achieved the ideal.

  Nicholas glanced at his watch and lifted an eyebrow. “I’ve got to run. Traffic,” he said. “You got these two?” He barely waited for an answer as he set his now-empty mug on the counter and walked out of the kitchen.

  “Sure. Don’t worry. I got it,” she said to his back, not expecting an answer.

  It was her standard reply to everything these days.

  CHAPTER 2

  She had managed to get into Hoboken and attend the luncheon, hoping that making small talk with five other women about the upcoming MoMA fund-raiser would distract her from thinking about her early-morning phone call from Dr. Steele’s office. At a quarter to one, she had feigned a text message and excused herself from the table as if to make a phone call. When she returned, she apologized as she told them that she had to leave early to return to Morristown. All of this without demonstrating one ounce of the panic that had been building inside of her throughout the day.

  A successful man needs a strong woman behind him, her mother had told Frances just before she had married Nicholas. No one wants to be married to a hot mess. It just reflects badly on the entire family.

  Whether or not that was true, Frances knew better than to give anyone a reason to gossip about her. And, for the most part, she felt certain she succeeded. Long ago, she had mastered the stiff upper lip. She had, after all, learned from the best of them. The last thing she wanted was for Nicholas to hear otherwise from one of his business or golf partners via their wives.

  Traffic back to Morristown wasn’t half as cumbersome as she had expected, probably because the transition from morning rush to evening crush was yet to happen. While she waited to pay the toll on the turnpike, she listened to 105.5 on the radio, barely hearing the songs that were playing. When she realized that, her thoughts returned to the reason she was driving down the New Jersey Turnpike at one thirty in the afternoon. What were the abnormalities? Earlier in the morning she had forgone the cleaning and sat at her computer. Even though she knew she shouldn’t, she spent an hour looking up mammograms and abnormalities. She knew it could be anything from nothing to a cyst to a clogged milk duct, although she doubted that last one. And, of course, there was always the possibility of the abnormality being the Big C. But cancer didn’t run in her family, and she knew, just knew, that wasn’t the problem.

  She arrived at the doctor’s office almost ten minutes early, something she hadn’t planned on. Instead of entering the office and waiting inside, she remained in the car, her hands on the steering wheel as she stared at the front door of the building. People walked in and out, almost all of them elderly and with someone accompanying them, most likely a caregiver. No one appeared particularly happy, although there was one mother who smiled as her young son held her hand and skipped along the walkway. She wondered which one of them was the patient: mother or son.

  That particular visual stayed with Frances for a few long minutes. Most likely, one of them was sick. Yet, from the outside looking in, everything appeared perfectly normal. There was no indication that anything was out of the ordinary. Frances wondered if, maybe, the little boy had just gotten a clean bill of health. Perhaps that was why the mother smiled. Or, if the mother was the one with the medical issue, perhaps she had just learned that the test results showed no sign of cancer.

  But then why would she bring her young child with her?

  No. Frances realized that the patient was most certainly the child, and therefore, the mother either was the greatest actress in the whole world or everything was as it should be.

 
Frances finally left her car, pausing only to lock the doors and glance at her reflection in the window. She knew she looked a bit tired. She had been feeling a bit run-down recently. She ran her fingers through her blond hair and frowned. Not only did she need a haircut, but her roots were starting to show. Just one more thing on her ever-increasing long list of things to do.

  She took a deep breath and decided that she, too, would be like that mother: strong, defiant, and masked—no matter what the doctor said. After all, the odds were in her favor that it was, indeed, nothing. With a new sense of determination, she turned from the car and headed toward the building, wondering if anyone else was sitting in their car, their hands on the steering wheel, and watching her with the same questions she’d had just moments ago.

  “So, Mrs. Snyder,” Dr. Graham said as he entered the small examination room where Frances sat with a pink paper robe covering her naked chest.

  He was an elderly man with thinning gray hair and faded blue eyes. The light-pink shirt and black tie emblazoned with the pink cancer ribbon screamed out that he was most likely married; how else to explain the perfectly starched garment and matching tie? One quick glance at his left hand told her that he didn’t wear a wedding ring, but she could imagine that most surgeons wouldn’t anyway.

  He gave her a smile, a smile that was kind and compassionate as he asked, “How are you today?”

  For a moment Frances merely stared at him, amazed at the irony of his question. How am I? How should I be?

  However, she hadn’t expected him to walk into the room and greet her with the one question that she didn’t have an answer to.

  Prior to a quarter to eight that morning, when she received that abrupt phone call from Dr. Steele’s office, she’d had a full day of things to do, a schedule to follow, and a family to care for. Even though she had managed to muddle through the morning and keep her cool when Debbie Weaver remarked that Frances had missed the last two meetings—a not-too-subtle reminder that Frances was not pulling her weight on the committee—her mind had been secretly reeling with the thought that something might actually be wrong with her health.