with other women while you’re gone?”
“Yes!” No, not really, Kathleen thought, an ache settling in the pit of her stomach. Was the risk worth it? Sleep with them, Mark, she thought, but don’t fall in love with them. Learn how special we really are.
“This is ridiculous.”
Kathleen shrugged. “When was the last time you slept with someone other than me or Janet?”
“Never.”
“Oh no. I’ll see you in a year. Or two.”
“Kathleen, you are reducing me to a nonthinking, unfeeling animal with irrepressible, insatiable urges. It’s only a little bit flattering. It’s mostly insulting.”
“Mark,” she began. I love you, she thought. I want you. Forever. This is the only way it can happen. She said, “Four months is a short time.”
“A lot can happen in four months,” Mark said grimly, recalling the last four months of his own life. He had lost the woman with whom he had planned to spend his life. And he had fallen in . . . cared deeply about another woman. That happened so quickly that he hadn’t had time to think.
Kathleen is right, he realized. Four months is a short time, but it could make a big difference. It could give him, give them, time to be certain.
Mark held out his arms to her. Kathleen fell into them gratefully.
“Where will you be?” He pressed his lips against her shiny black hair.
“Lots of places. Incommunicado.” Kathleen planned to be in Atherton between short trips like the one to Hawaii, but it was better if Mark didn’t know that.
“Ah, Communicado. Lovely spot,” he teased. Then he said seriously, “So the rules of this trial separation are that we don’t communicate? And I make love with every woman I meet?”
“Something like that.”
“When do you rematerialize?”
“After Wimbledon.”
“Wimbledon? The tennis championships? You’re going?”
“Of course,” Kathleen said lightly in her best Carlton Club voice that implied, Isn’t everyone? “I always do. My parents and I go. CEOs get wonderful center court seats.” “So you’ll be back when?” “A day or two after the finals. July eighth or ninth, I think.”
“In time to be with me on my birthday?”
“Which is when?”
“July eleventh.”
“If you want me to.”
“I want you to.”
“What if you don’t, by then?”
“Then I’ll let you know.”
Chapter Eight
Jean Watson—Mrs. Watson—was admitted to Leslie’s service at University Hospital on April fifteenth. Before Leslie saw her new patient, she learned the details of her complicated medical history from Mrs. Watson’s physician. Dr. Jack Samuels, a hematology-oncology specialist.
“She’s the nicest woman in the world, Leslie. With a lethal disease. This hospitalization will probably be her last. We diagnosed breast cancer a year ago, positive nodes, negative estrogen receptors. We gave her aggressive chemo and haven’t documented mets. Anyway, she was doing very well until a month ago when she presented with fatigue and bleeding from her gums. I did a bone marrow. She’s aplastic.”
“Not a marrow full of tumor?” Leslie asked.
“No. An aplastic marrow. Completely empty.”
“Maybe it will come back.”
“Leslie, she has no cells. Her marrow is completely wiped out. We’ve been supporting her with red cells, white cells and platelets all month.”
“How about a marrow transplant? Maybe you could kill her tumor at the same time. Cure everything.”
“I would love to transplant her, but we’re already almost unable to cross-match her for blood transfusions. She consumes platelets as quickly as we infuse them. Immunologically, she’d be a nightmare to transplant. She would never survive.”
“So she has an autoimmune process going on as well? Breast cancer, an aplastic marrow, and an autoimmune syndrome?”
“That’s right.”
“Maybe the tumor is making something, secreting some substance that is suppressing her marrow and making the autoantibodies,” Leslie mused.
Dr. Samuels looked
“Yes!” No, not really, Kathleen thought, an ache settling in the pit of her stomach. Was the risk worth it? Sleep with them, Mark, she thought, but don’t fall in love with them. Learn how special we really are.
“This is ridiculous.”
Kathleen shrugged. “When was the last time you slept with someone other than me or Janet?”
“Never.”
“Oh no. I’ll see you in a year. Or two.”
“Kathleen, you are reducing me to a nonthinking, unfeeling animal with irrepressible, insatiable urges. It’s only a little bit flattering. It’s mostly insulting.”
“Mark,” she began. I love you, she thought. I want you. Forever. This is the only way it can happen. She said, “Four months is a short time.”
“A lot can happen in four months,” Mark said grimly, recalling the last four months of his own life. He had lost the woman with whom he had planned to spend his life. And he had fallen in . . . cared deeply about another woman. That happened so quickly that he hadn’t had time to think.
Kathleen is right, he realized. Four months is a short time, but it could make a big difference. It could give him, give them, time to be certain.
Mark held out his arms to her. Kathleen fell into them gratefully.
“Where will you be?” He pressed his lips against her shiny black hair.
“Lots of places. Incommunicado.” Kathleen planned to be in Atherton between short trips like the one to Hawaii, but it was better if Mark didn’t know that.
“Ah, Communicado. Lovely spot,” he teased. Then he said seriously, “So the rules of this trial separation are that we don’t communicate? And I make love with every woman I meet?”
“Something like that.”
“When do you rematerialize?”
“After Wimbledon.”
“Wimbledon? The tennis championships? You’re going?”
“Of course,” Kathleen said lightly in her best Carlton Club voice that implied, Isn’t everyone? “I always do. My parents and I go. CEOs get wonderful center court seats.” “So you’ll be back when?” “A day or two after the finals. July eighth or ninth, I think.”
“In time to be with me on my birthday?”
“Which is when?”
“July eleventh.”
“If you want me to.”
“I want you to.”
“What if you don’t, by then?”
“Then I’ll let you know.”
Chapter Eight
Jean Watson—Mrs. Watson—was admitted to Leslie’s service at University Hospital on April fifteenth. Before Leslie saw her new patient, she learned the details of her complicated medical history from Mrs. Watson’s physician. Dr. Jack Samuels, a hematology-oncology specialist.
“She’s the nicest woman in the world, Leslie. With a lethal disease. This hospitalization will probably be her last. We diagnosed breast cancer a year ago, positive nodes, negative estrogen receptors. We gave her aggressive chemo and haven’t documented mets. Anyway, she was doing very well until a month ago when she presented with fatigue and bleeding from her gums. I did a bone marrow. She’s aplastic.”
“Not a marrow full of tumor?” Leslie asked.
“No. An aplastic marrow. Completely empty.”
“Maybe it will come back.”
“Leslie, she has no cells. Her marrow is completely wiped out. We’ve been supporting her with red cells, white cells and platelets all month.”
“How about a marrow transplant? Maybe you could kill her tumor at the same time. Cure everything.”
“I would love to transplant her, but we’re already almost unable to cross-match her for blood transfusions. She consumes platelets as quickly as we infuse them. Immunologically, she’d be a nightmare to transplant. She would never survive.”
“So she has an autoimmune process going on as well? Breast cancer, an aplastic marrow, and an autoimmune syndrome?”
“That’s right.”
“Maybe the tumor is making something, secreting some substance that is suppressing her marrow and making the autoantibodies,” Leslie mused.
Dr. Samuels looked
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