TWENTY-THREE
AT EIGHT-THIRTY ON A FRIDAY MORNING IN FEBRUARY, Candy Sullivan awakens in her condo and sees quarter-size flakes of snow drifting down. She moves to the window to look down at the Charles River, as she does every morning, to take comfort from its graceful progression forward. Today she has another checkup and she supposes it’s natural for her to be nervous, yet there is a calmness at her center that makes her believe she will once again test negative.
“It happens, this kind of cure,” Dr. Johnston told her. “It’s rare, but it happens.” And she knows it does; she knows she’s not the only one. Still.
She’ll shower and go to see her doctor, and then she’ll meet with a group of women who have been diagnosed with ovarian cancer. She does this every Friday, goes to a small room the hospital has provided and that she, with permission, had repainted. Rather than a bile-yellow color, it is now a soothing blue; and there is an oil painting on the wall of a field of lavender in late afternoon sun—Candy decided it would be better here than in her bedroom. She sits in a circle of women holding Styrofoam cups of coffee, their purses on their laps, their coats over the backs of their chairs, everything that belongs to them kept close to them, because familiarity is comfort.
Usually, at first, the women are full of fear, or they display a false bravado. Sometimes they cry together; more often, they laugh. Candy’s favorite story is one that a woman named Carolyn told: “So about an hour after I get home from being diagnosed, my best friend calls and says, ‘Well, I am constipated as hell. I probably have cancer of the poop shoot, so I guess this is goodbye.’ We used to joke around like that all the time. I take in a big breath and I look at the clock—I have no idea why, but I look at the clock, it says four forty-three—and I say, ‘Ginny? I just found out I have ovarian cancer.’ My mouth feels like I’m a puppet and someone else is making me talk, and I laugh. She says, ‘That’s not funny,’ and I say, ‘You’re telling me?’ She gets real quiet and then she says, ‘For real?’ and I say yes. And she bursts out crying and says all jerky, ‘Boy. I guess that beats the hell out of c-c-constipation.’”
When a new person comes, Candy tells the story of how it was this disease that brought her to herself, that let her find the kind of peace and happiness she’d craved and despaired of ever finding. She says that the diagnosis let her recalculate the meaning of time and of relationships. Mostly, though, she listens. She understands the relief in being heard, the cure there is in that, at least.
After the group, she’ll go to work at her part-time job at Winston Flowers; and then she’ll join Don for dinner. She met Don Seaver a couple of months ago in the waiting room of Dr. Johnston’s office. He’s the exuberant Man Who Will Not Die, although he would be the first to admit he’s getting closer, now. But, as he says, so is everyone else.
They enjoy each other, she and Don. She’s so glad to be with someone so deeply appreciative of everything, such a cornball. He makes her laugh. He makes her cry, in the good way. They watch old movies together under his grandmother’s quilt, they have long, searching conversations about everything from politics to the various meanings of the color red in art. They go to the Children’s Museum to watch children; they go to flea markets and buy; they go to the Huntington Theatre to see plays or to the ballet or to the symphony and then to Rosie’s bakery for dessert. Don’s partner, Michael, died of AIDS many years ago, but Don loves him still, and so sometimes they go to Michael’s grave and Candy sits a fair distance away on a bench while Don kneels at the headstone, his hand pressed against it.
Candy pulls her gloves on and steps out into the hall of her building. It’s overly warm out there, as it always is, and she likes this. She likes almost everything, lately. The last time she talked to Mary Alice Mayhew, who has become a close friend, she remarked on her own optimism, and said it felt kind of silly admitting to it, almost embarrassing.
“It’s not silly,” Mary Alice said. “It feels great, doesn’t it?”
And Candy said, “Yes. Yes, it does. It feels like I was wearing a big belt that was way too tight, and it has finally loosened. Loosened and fallen off! And I’ve looked down and said, ‘Oh. I had a belt on.’” She laughed and said, “If that makes any sense.”
And Mary Alice said, “Of course it does.”
Candy asked how Lester was, and Mary Alice said, “Well, I moved in with him last week.”
“Oh, my God,” Candy said, and Mary Alice said, “I know.”
“Oh, my God!” Candy said, and Mary Alice said, “I know.”
“Will you come and visit soon?” Mary Alice asked, and Candy said, “Turn back the covers on the guest bed. I’ll be there before you know it.”
“Come for Valentine’s Day,” Mary Alice said. “And bring Don.” Candy hesitated for just the briefest moment before she said okay.
It’s cold outside, and a bit icy. Candy turns her collar up and walks slowly down the sidewalk. In every window she passes, there is so much to see.
Pete Decker hurries in the shower. He’s late for dinner at his ex-wife’s house. The whole family will be there, and it’s been a while since he saw his children. He chooses a blue sweater to bring out his eyes, a nice pair of gray woolen slacks, loafers. He wouldn’t be caught dead in galoshes. He applies some cologne Nora was always crazy about and races out the door.
When he arrives, he looks through the window and sees them all gathered at the dining room table: Nora, his sons and daughter, and Fred with his new wedding ring flashing like a semaphore. His chest starts to hurt in that familiar way and he reminds himself to do what his therapist, Suzanne Collins, always tells him to do: take a breath, then look to see if there isn’t another side. And so he looks at the table and sees the place that’s been left for him. She’s right, there is always another way to look at things. She’s good, Suzanne. Beautiful, too, a smoky brunette with legs from here to oh-my there. He told her that once, how beautiful she was, and she said, “Thank you. That’s not what we’re here for.”
“Would you like it to be?” he asked, and she said nothing, only looked at him. He hates it when she doesn’t say anything and just looks at him like that, and meanwhile the meter’s running. She does that when he should know the answer, but couldn’t she just say that?
Though he thinks this therapy finally might be working. Which it should be; he could have bought a small country for what he’s paying her.
He rings the doorbell, rocks back and forth on his feet. And when Nora answers the door, he embraces her quickly, warmly, and then lets go.
“Who loves you?” Dorothy asks her granddaughter.
The toddler points to the exact center of Dorothy’s chest.
“That’s right!” Dorothy says. She lifts Jill from her crib and carries her down to the kitchen. “Grandma made you a sandwich,” she says. “And after you eat it, guess who’s coming over to play in the snow with us?”
“Ehwer!” the girl says, and Dorothy says quickly, “No, not Edward. Edward is all gone. Allll gone! Remember, Grandma said, BYE BYE, Edward! Remember? BYE BYE! Edward is all gone!”
The child leans around Dorothy to look at the sandwich cut into fours on her Elmo plate.
“It’s Ronnie who’s coming over,” Dorothy says. “Remember Ronnie?”
A baleful glance.
“Well, you’ll remember when you see him,” Dorothy says. And then, more to herself than to her grandchild, she shrugs and says, almost happily, “Or not.”
What a wise daughter Hilly is. She was absolutely right about getting out of your own way. As soon as Dorothy decided not to be in charge of getting a man into her life, didn’t they start showing up like crazy! And at her age! She dated a man from her French conversation class. She dated one she met in the popcorn line at the movies and another one whom she met when she was having her car serviced, and he was, too. “Come here often?” he’d said, that was his pickup line. Oh, she’d liked that one, he was very witty and he had old-fashioned manners and knew things lik
e how to help a woman out of her coat and back into it. But they sort of petered out after a couple of months. Nothing seems to last for very long, but who cares? It’s not really a man she’s looking for. Turns out it never was. When Jill was born, Dorothy was the first one to hold her. Well, the first one after Hilly. Her daughter looked up at her and said, “Here, Mom, you want to hold her?” That’s what she had been looking for, but she hadn’t known it until that moment. She looked into that baby’s eyes and made sure they had an understanding, and then she handed Jill to her grinning—and weeping—father.
“Diddle diddle dumpling!” Dorothy says to Jill, and her granddaughter slams down her sippy cup, says, “My son John!”
“Peas porridge hot!” Dorothy says, and Jill says, “My son John!”
Dorothy laughs and tucks one of Jill’s golden curls behind her ear. She thinks of the afternoon hours before them. They’ll read books. They’ll rock baby dolls. They’ll play grocery store. Also, Dorothy will offer Jill the new puzzle she bought for her the other day, she’ll spread it out on the floor and remember not to put it together herself. Hilly has pointedly reminded Dorothy of this more than once. “Mom,” she has said. “You have to let Jill do it. Let her make mistakes; let her get frustrated; that’s how she’ll learn.” So Dorothy will do that. When she puts the puzzle pieces out, she’ll remember to sit back and just watch, trusting that things will, in their own time and in their own way, come quite satisfactorily together.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to Erin Weiss at the Hartford Animal Clinic in Hartford, Wisconsin, who shared stories about animals and the practice of veterinary medicine with me, some of which were then fictionalized for use in this novel. Any mistakes are my own. Erin is a veterinarian par excellence, the one you really want when your pal is in trouble or just needs those pesky shots. If only she’d take my advice and serve as my doctor, too.
The usual gratitude is due to my longtime and beloved editor, Kate Medina, and to my agent, Suzanne Gluck, who is smart, upbeat, and really fun. Thanks also to the team at Random House, who take care of everything from cover design to copyediting to publicity to making sure I get a window seat on the airplane or a copy of the new Random House title I really need right now. I want to single out Avideh Bashirrad, Susan Brown, Gina Centrello, Sanyu Dillon, Barbara Fillon, Ashley Gratz-Collier, Kathleen McAuliffe, Beth Pearson, and Lindsey Schwoeri. And at WME Entertainment: Claudia Ballard, Sarah Ceglarski, and Caroline Donofrio—I love you guys.
I spent a lot of time looking at high school yearbooks when I was writing this novel, and I want to offer a shout-out to Ed McGraw and Bill Cocos, who in their own ways kept trying to tell me that my high school wasn’t so bad. They were right.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ELIZABETH BERG is the author of many bestselling novels, two collections of short stories, and two works of nonfiction. Open House was an Oprah’s Book Club selection, Durable Goods and Joy School were selected as ALA Best Books of the Year, and Talk Before Sleep was short-listed for an Abby Award. She is a recipient of the New England Booksellers Award for her body of work. Her bestsellers include Home Safe, The Year of Pleasures, The Day I Ate Whatever I Wanted, and Dream When You’re Feeling Blue. Berg has been honored by both the Boston Public Library and the Chicago Public Library and is a popular speaker at venues around the country. She lives in Chicago.
The Last Time I Saw You is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Elizabeth Berg
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Random House,
an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group,
a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
RANDOM HOUSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Berg, Elizabeth.
The last time I saw you: a novel / Elizabeth Berg.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-1-58836-892-8
1. Class reunions—Fiction. 2. Reminiscing—Fiction.
I. Title.
PS3552.E6996L37 2010
813’.54—dc22 2009040008
www.atrandom.com
v3.0
Table of Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
Elizabeth Berg, The Last Time I Saw You
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