At the sound of the lock, the cat, Belle, poked her head out of the kitchen. She walked lazily into the room, rubbing her side along the wall to scratch off the sleep. Then she leaped to the top of the dresser and started to wash herself.
Julia stood with her back against the door. Her arms, tired of reaching out, hung limply against her sides. A ray of sunlight streamed through the partly open window and a little pool of it snuggled on her pillow. It had been such a long ride in from Beverly Hills and on two buses. She had sat in the back where it wasn't so crowded and the smell of exhaust was still in her nostrils.
She walked over to the dresser and put her purse down beside the cat and ran her fingers caressingly through the soft fur. Belle took a swipe with a hind paw. Julia rested her head on the dresser.
"I'm going to die, Belle."
The cat sat up and lifted a front paw. She washed it with little delicate strokes from her tongue.
Julia moved over to the bed and sat down on the edge of it. She slipped her shoes off. Her feet hurt. They always hurt in heels. Why does one get dressed up to see the doctor? He could have told her she had six months to live while she was wearing flats.
He didn't actually blurt it out as I walked in the door. He fooled around under that sheet for a long time. And then he said it. No, not then either. He just looked pained and hurt and a little white around the lips and he told me to get dressed and come into his office. He had the lab reports on his desk and he pounded on them and he said you're as good as dead now!
I wish he had! Then I could hate him. I could hate instead of feeling numb all over. He didn't want to tell me anything. Just get ready for an operation. No, there really wasn't any rush. But soon. And then I dragged it out of him. I insisted I had a right to know. It was my life. No, I don't have any family here. No one ... no one! A brother in New York. Don't call him! The doctor stammered like a schoolboy who's unprepared in class.
Julia fell back on the bed. She stared at the unlighted ceiling fixture. She should cry, but she'd cried in the doctor's office and there was nothing left to cry. Six months to live. Maybe only five months. Certainly no more than seven with the operation.