The Book of Someday Part 2

A hand has gone up in the back of the room: Livvi turns her attention to one of the teenage girls, who's asking: "Where did you get the t.i.tle, The Book of Someday?"

"It's been in my head a long time," Livvi tells her. "It seemed like a perfect fit for the character in my book-somebody who doesn't realize, until it's almost too late, that she can go out and-"

Livvi is being interrupted by a female voice: "And when you find the thing you want, all you have to do is claim it and not let other people derail you-that's the key to a really fulfilled life, right?" It's a mousey young woman wearing large, blue-framed gla.s.ses who has said this. Behind the blue frames, her eyes are br.i.m.m.i.n.g with neediness.

Livvi, instinctively wanting to give the woman what she needs, responds with an instantaneous "Yes." But as soon as the yes has been uttered, Livvi is thinking about taking it back-worried that she's setting the woman up for disappointment.

Livvi's impulse is to explain that she, Livvi, doesn't have the easy quick-fix answer to happiness and that the one lie she told in The Book of Someday (its only real fiction) was the unshakably upbeat ending. The ma.n.u.script's original ending was much truer to what Livvi knows. It was far more ambiguous.

But it's too late. The young woman has already hurried away with a group of people rushing downstairs to the display area, in search of Livvi's book. And someone has put a hand on Livvi's shoulder, saying: "I'm in awe. You were a star tonight-radiant."

It's David. Livvi's literary agent-her best friend.

David who, three years ago, had been a stranger seated beside her on a flight from Los Angeles to New York. When Livvi was on her way to the funeral of the first person to encourage her talent as a writer: the chairman of her college English department. Someone who, when Livvi graduated, sensed how unready she was to face the world and arranged a job for her in the university's research library. A woman of ageless elegance named Gwyneth Holly who had retired and moved east-and died a short time later.

Gwyneth Holly had been what David became on that flight to New York, a hero in Livvi's life.

It was David who had gathered up the scattered pages of Livvi's ma.n.u.script and read them after she'd fallen asleep, after they'd slipped off her lap onto the floor of the plane.

David with his quiet smile and watercolor-blue eyes.

David, the intelligent, soft-spoken man who, as they were landing, had gently woken Livvi to tell her she'd written a remarkable book and that he intended to see it was published.

Livvi adores David.

She's also a little intimidated by him. He belongs to a life very different from hers. He comes from people of privilege. Who, in summer, roam the beaches of New England. In loose cotton shirts and sun-bleached shorts. And in winter, command the streets of Manhattan. Armored in Armani and black limousines.

Now David is leaning close to Livvi, telling her: "Later, after you've finished signing the books all those eager readers are rushing downstairs to buy, I want to take you to dinner, to celebrate."

Livvi is thrilled. And excited. And grateful.

"We'll go someplace special, Livvi, someplace that..."

David is continuing to speak, but Livvi is having trouble hearing his voice. It suddenly seems garbled and distant. Her focus is being moved away from David and shifted-entirely-to what she's seeing over his shoulder.

A man. At the top of the stairway.

His eyes are locked on Livvi's. He's loudly calling her name. A name no one has called her in years. "Olivia!"

Micah.

New York City ~ 2012.

"I think my name's being called. I'll email you the stuff about the new exhibit later." Micah drops her mobile phone into her purse. It's an expensive phone and an equally expensive purse.

The nurse who's just coming out from behind the reception desk, a tiny Filipina woman in hot pink scrubs, is saying: "Meeka? Is Meeka here?"

"It's Micah...like 'Mike' with an 'ah' at the end of it." Micah is rising from her chair, conscious of the subtle shift that's taking place-the attention of the other patients in the waiting room moving from the pages of their magazines and coming to rest on her.

Micah is accustomed to this; she likes it, people looking at her. She knows they look because she's six-foot-one, and because her legs are long and her b.r.e.a.s.t.s are full. Because she has sea-green eyes, hair the color of black cherries, and skin like fresh cream. And because her lips, and ears, and nose are every bit as breathtaking as the rest of her.

The nurse is now ushering Micah into a corridor, leading her past a wall where there are several large, framed photographs. One of them, a Venetian ca.n.a.l scene, dominates the others. It's an image that's completely devoid of life. No people, no dogs, no birds, not even a potted plant-nothing but a gondola, a bridge, and the facade of a timeworn palazzo overlooking the water. The photo, taken from an extremely forced perspective, has a cutting-edge style that borders on the bizarre.

While she's pa.s.sing the photograph Micah is giving it a quick, critical glance. The nurse notices and says: "Big-name photographer. Very expensive picture-very famous."

"Yeah. I know," Micah tells her. "I'm the one who took it."

"Wow." The nurse is impressed. And then she asks: "Is it true you never have people in any of your pictures?"

Micah nods.

"Why?" There's interested eagerness in the nurse's voice.

"Because I erase them," Micah explains. The statement is made quietly-almost reluctantly.

After a quick check of her weight and blood pressure, Micah has been brought to the doctor's office, not into an examining room. All the complicated stuff, the tests and scans, were completed days ago-no more need for fluorescent lighting and paper gowns. It's time for the Persian carpets and diploma-lined walls.

Micah is in a stylish low-backed chair upholstered in tobacco-brown suede, and the doctor is seated behind an imposing Park Avenue desk. He's studying the contents of a file folder and hasn't spoken, or looked up, since giving Micah a brief nod when she first arrived. This is confusing her-she rarely enters a room without creating a microsecond of intense concentration. A moment in which her exquisite face and body capture everyone's attention.

Her confusion is now rapidly being replaced by irritation. Micah doesn't like people wasting her time, and this doctor has left her sitting for several minutes with nothing to do but map the bald spot on the top of his head.

She lets out an annoyed cough and glares at him.

The doctor continues slowly flipping through the doc.u.ments in the folder.

Without looking up, he says: "I see that it's been quite a while-back in 2004, eight years ago-since you had your last medical check-up, Ms.-" He stops and riffles through the paperwork, scanning for her name.

"Lesser." There is a deliberate edge in Micah's tone. She wants him to know he's getting on her nerves.

"Lesser. Right." He remains impa.s.sive, intent on the data in her medical reports.

Micah is making no attempt to conceal her irritation as she tells him: "How about we skip the doctor-patient chat and go straight to you signing whatever piece of paper it is that says I qualify for the big fat insurance policy I'm about to take out. I have things to do."

The doctor remains focused on the paperwork. "It says here you're forty-one. Unmarried. No children."

"Not that it's any of your concern, but this has nothing to do with my personal life. My new business partner and I are both increasing our life insurance-it's a standard corporate practice." Micah looks from the doctor to the Mont Blanc pen that's lying a few inches away from her file. When he makes no move to reach for it, Micah grabs the pen and slaps it down on top of the open folder. "I don't know what you think you're doing, but this is a monumental waste of time. You don't need to sit there memorizing my medical history; trust me, we're never going to see each other again. I don't go to doctors-I'm too busy. So just mail me the d.a.m.n papers. Or ship them to the insurance company. Do whatever it is you're supposed to do and send me the bill."

Micah has already left the tobacco-colored suede chair. Heading out of the office. Not noticing that the doctor has looked up-and is finally giving her his full attention.

She's almost at the door when she realizes that he has begun to speak. In a flat, detached monotone.

This is when she knows she will need to hold on to the doorframe.

To keep from falling down.

While he's delivering this murderous blow.

"In all likelihood you have an aggressive breast cancer, Ms. Lesser. It appears you may have had it for a significant amount of time."

Micah is afraid to inhale-as if the air is rapidly filling with thorns. The doctor's drone is coming at her in disjointed bits and pieces. "Oncologist." "Biopsy." "Possible complete removal of-" "Surgery." "Chemo." "Radiation."

When Micah is finally able to let go of the doorframe, when she has the strength to turn and look at him, the doctor is consulting a calendar on his computer, mumbling: "...set up an appointment for the day after tomorrow, but no later than the end of the week..."

There's sudden, uncontrollable fury. And Micah's response is a rasping scream. "No!"

"No? To what...?" The doctor seems genuinely at a loss.

"To hacking my b.r.e.a.s.t.s off, you son of a b.i.t.c.h."

There is terror-everywhere-in Micah.

The doctor is coolly telling her: "I don't think you're taking quite the right att.i.tude, Ms. Lesser."

And Micah says: "What att.i.tude would you take if we were talking about doing away with your d.i.c.k?"

He pauses for a moment. Then clears his computer screen. "Is there someone we can call? A family member? Someone you're close to?"

A cynical, bewildered voice in Micah's head is wondering, Who do other people, regular people, call at a time like this? Their commuter-train husbands? Their c.r.a.ppy mothers, their bulls.h.i.t fathers? Maybe the chatty best friend they go to the mall with? Somebody who just f.u.c.king loves the s.h.i.t out of them?

The doctor has closed the file folder, and is pushing it aside. "Ms. Lesser, is there anyone we can call?"

"No. There's no one."

Micah's response is coming from a place of undiluted emptiness. She can hear very little of what the doctor is explaining to her-because, for a fleeting moment, she isn't in his office. For some reason she's in a place that doesn't exist anymore. Hasn't existed for a long time. A late-summer garden surrounded by an expanse of soft green gra.s.s, and a sea of coral-colored lilies. She's being held in a heartfelt embrace-listening to a voice that's light and lilting, like music, saying, "Believe that I love you...won't you please?"

And then Micah is back with the doctor, in his office-hearing him ask where she's going-and unable to give him an answer.

She is leaving the room, moving toward the corridor. Stumbling toward the elevator. Believing this dreadful thing that has happened to her is retribution, her punishment. For the evil she has done. The terrible trespa.s.s she once committed in a moment of unforgivable weakness.

"So how was your month in New York?"

Micah's a.s.sistant Jillian is asking this as she's bringing Micah her morning coffee. She and Micah are in the bedroom of Micah's row house in south Boston-a room that's both unyielding and fanciful. Two of its walls are surfaced in rough, exposed brick; the other two are swirled in plaster as light and smooth as the frosting on a wedding cake. The planked floor is dark mahogany. The tall windows are hung with billowing lengths of crimson Chinese silk. The bed is wide and plush, draped in layers of orange-hued cashmere and snowy Egyptian cotton.

Micah is in the center of the bed. Sitting cross-legged, leaning over her laptop. She's wearing a black camisole and loose, satin pajama pants. Her hair is in disarray and her fingers are flying over the computer keys, pursuing a frantic Internet search. She's startlingly pale and seems diminished, as if she has been struck by a force so violent it has left her less tall, less present; somehow, less real.

Jillian has put Micah's coffee on the table beside the bed. And now she's saying: "Other than taking a lot of pictures and getting the new gallery s.p.a.ce finished...how was your month in New York?"

Micah can hear that Jillian doesn't intend to let this question go. She glances up, keeping her tone neutral. "New York is New York." Micah isn't in the mood to talk. She wants to get back to her web search and finish it while she still has the courage. The simple act of entering the query information has begun to make her tremble.

Jillian is gathering up Micah's scattered clothes from the floor. Keeping her eyes on Micah. "So. No problems in New York?"

Micah takes a careful breath. "What makes you think there might have been problems?"

"There were phone messages this morning. A whole lot of them." Jillian is street-smart. Cagey-tough. A born and bred Boston southie. The rasp in her voice has steel in it. The sound of that steel is putting acid into Micah's stomach as Jillian is explaining: "The messages are from a doctor's office. They said it's important not to lose any time and that you really need to call them back."

Jillian walks to the side of Micah's bed and gives Micah a determined stare. "Why would they be saying that?"

Micah doesn't respond; she isn't ready. The situation is too complicated. There are scores that need to be settled before she can know what to do about her cancer. Before she can decide whether she deserves to live. Or to die.

"Miss Lesser, I need you to tell me what's going on." Jillian's statement isn't a request-it's a demand.

In spite of that, Micah shakes her head. The answer is no.

"Look," Jillian tells her. "This is the thing...me and you both know you get off on making your own rules-going over the top. Seeing what you want and taking it. You're pretty much roaring h.e.l.l-on-wheels. I'm not asking you to do anything about that. I know you can't. It's just who you are. All I'm saying is...I care about you."

For the briefest fragment of time, Micah is again in that long-ago, late-summer garden surrounded by coral-colored lilies-experiencing the feel of that heartfelt embrace.

While Jillian is insisting: "Miss Lesser, you're gonna tell me what the doctor wants with you. 'Cause I'm owed that and you know it."

Micah does know it. And knowing it has made her look away, look down. And in looking down, she has seen the black camisole. The lovely curve of its neckline along the top of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Her eyes are suddenly hot with the threat of tears.

After the threat has pa.s.sed, when Micah turns back toward Jillian, the look they exchange holds a defiant kind of respect and admiration. But very little, if any, tenderness.

Jillian continues to stubbornly stand beside Micah's bed. "I'm not leaving till we get this done, Miss Lesser."

Hearing the words "Miss Lesser" in the context of this conversation is putting Micah on edge, highlighting the awkwardness that exists between herself and Jillian. Jillian is Micah's most trusted employee; she has either seen or spoken to Micah every day for five years, and is quite possibly the closest thing to a friend that Micah has. Yet Jillian has never called Micah anything but "Miss Lesser," and Micah has never made any attempt to change that. She has never taken the time to say, "Call me Micah." Now, it seems too late. Too difficult.

"I'm waiting for you to give me what I'm owed," Jillian is insisting. "I'm waiting for you to tell me what's going on with you, Miss Lesser."

Micah braces herself. And then in a manner that's calm to the point of being cold, she says: "Breast cancer."

Jillian is equally calm: "You gonna die?"

"I don't know. I haven't decided yet."

"What're you gonna need? What can I do for you?" No sweetness from Jillian, no sentimentality-simply rock-solid loyalty.

It's by sheer force of will that Micah is managing to sound unemotional as she tells Jillian: "I'll need you to keep an eye on things for a while. At the gallery here in Boston. And the one in New York. You know how to handle all the day-to-day stuff."

"Okay," Jillian says. Then she asks: "Does your new partner, the guy who's gonna run the New York gallery, does he know about the cancer?"

"No. I don't want anyone to know."

"That's fair." Jillian shifts her weight from one foot to the other but doesn't move from the side of the bed. "So what happens now?"

Micah has returned to the laptop: the results of her search. She feels as if she's going to pa.s.s out. There-on the screen-are the first small clues. The beginning of the trail that will eventually lead her to people she's terribly afraid of. People to whom she needs to make rest.i.tution. And the people from whom she needs to hear the truth about who she really is.

There is a rising sense of apprehension in Micah as she's telling Jillian: "I'll be going on the road. To settle some debts."