The Art of Adapting (32 page)

“Lana Foster?” a voice said. Lana startled at the sound of her own name. A purple-smocked nurse, holding a chart against her hip, smiled at her. Lana rose on nervous legs and turned toward Abbot.

He stood and hugged her. “You've got this. You'll be fine,” he said.

“You really don't have to wait,” she said, trying to sound strong.

“I'm not leaving you,” he told her.

The procedure, as Dr. Tucker had promised, wasn't painful, but it was uncomfortable and terrifying in a nonspecific way. It began much like a pap smear, with Lana on her back, feet in stirrups, vulnerable and exposed and desperate for it to be over. After the pinch and burn of the anesthesia, Lana felt a strange flush come over her body. Her breathing picked up. Nothing had even happened yet, but she was on the verge of a panic attack. She didn't want to give in to it, didn't want to admit to Dr. Tucker that she was losing it. Lana focused on her breathing, using the same peaceful visuals they taught in yoga to abate the panicky feeling in her belly, each thought a mere cloud against the backdrop of a perfect blue sky. She exhaled slowly, created a little breeze to blow the clouds away, and it actually helped. After a few minutes Dr. Tucker put away her tools with a definitive cold clang of metal and helped Lana sit up.

“That's it. Great job. We're all done. I want you to take it easy for a few days. I'll call tonight to check on you. Is there someone here with you?”

“Yes,” Lana said, and there was such comfort in the simple word, in the fact that she was not alone.

Dr. Tucker hugged her, a brief embrace, more moving for its unexpectedness, and left her to get dressed and wonder,
Now what?

Lana passed the reception desk and saw Abbot through the glass doors, leaning against the concrete wall just outside, doing something on his phone. Lana got to watch him undetected for a moment. He was a genuine man. That's how she'd describe him. No gimmicks, no posturing, no aggression, nothing to prove. And he liked himself. So different from Graham and his need to shine, from Nick and his need to enforce rules, from Mitch and his mixed signals.

Lana stepped out to meet Abbot, and his face broke into such a broad smile that it gave her butterflies.

“There she is,” he said softly. He put his arm around her waist, as if she needed help walking, and although she didn't need any help whatsoever, and doubted it was good for his healing back to walk hip-to-hip with her, she let him take some of the weight off her and guide her toward his car. He helped her inside, and she noticed a bag of groceries in the backseat. He smiled and nodded toward it. “Lunch. If you're up for it. You rest, I'll cook.”

Lana was exhausted, but it was mostly emotional fatigue. Resting sounded perfect. Having someone cook for her sounded equally tantalizing. She nodded.

“Your place or mine?” Abbot asked.

Her place had no children until at least four p.m., but it had Matt, bills, reminders of Graham. “Yours,” she said. She wanted newness, change, a glimpse into Abbot's life.

His condo was clean and calm: tan carpet, sage walls, a hunter-green couch and upright piano. The furniture was mostly dark wood: earthy, solid, and comforting. He opened his balcony doors to reveal a view of Sycamore Canyon and the mountains of Cuyamaca in the distance. He directed Lana to the couch and carried the bag of groceries into the kitchen. She woke up just as lunch was being served.

“I was trying to be quiet. I didn't want to wake you,” he said.

“No, food is good. I was too nervous to eat this morning. And too anxious to sleep last night.”

He'd made salmon, brown rice with mushrooms, fruit salad, grilled asparagus. Lana realized how hungry she was the moment she sat down.

“This is wonderful,” she said. “I haven't had a man cook for me in . . .” She took a bite, thought it over. “Okay, maybe ever.”

Abbot laughed, his hazel eyes twinkling. “Well, get used to it. I made a couple extra salmon fillets, a salad, and got you some French bread. I'm sending it all home with you so you don't have to cook tonight.”

“You're too good to me,” Lana teased.

“I haven't even started,” Abbot said. He leaned forward and whispered, “There may also be fresh-baked cookies.”

After lunch he drove her home. They parked in the driveway and kissed in the car like teenagers. Lana was excited, exhausted, cramping, exhilarated. It was overwhelming. But Camilla was right. The best means to combat all of the lousy new stuff in her life was with something absolutely wonderful, something just for her.

After the Graham fight outside the restaurant, she'd been enjoying a newfound solidarity with Byron and Abby. Byron teased her, called her “warrior-mama,” pretended to be afraid of making her angry now that he'd seen her confrontational side, but she could see how much he'd needed it, that feeling of her having his back.

Abby was back to eating sandwiches in her room rather than dinner with the family, but she wasn't avoiding Lana during non-meal times. She was like a young child again, sneaking her way onto Lana's lap on a sunny afternoon, cuddling and snoozing against Lana without a word. It was in this position that Lana realized just how skinny Abby had gotten. She was all bones and sharp angles, not a scrap of fat on her. Even her muscles seemed smaller. Lana patted Abby's frail body, felt every surface, searching for flesh, finding almost none.

“Baby?” she asked, barely a whisper. “When did this happen?” She slid her hand down the slope of Abby's arm, felt the knobbiness of her elbow, the lack of meat above or below it. Abby sniffled, then gave in to tears, and Lana held her, and waited.

“I don't know, Mama,” Abby whispered. She only called Lana “mama” when she was hurting or scared.

“Oh, my sweet girl,” Lana said. “Tell me what to do. How to help.” Lana cried with her, silent tears that slid off her chin and onto Abby's flaxen hair. She'd been so wrapped up in cancer fears, struggling to pay bills, fielding interested men, trying to avoid feeling anything toward Graham, that she'd failed at the one job she cherished most. But if she could be Byron's warrior-mama, she could be Abby's, too. She hugged Abby, the notches of Abby's spine carving into Lana's arms like knives. She'd known Abby wasn't eating much. How had she missed just how far it'd gone?

“I don't know,” Abby said. “I don't know what happened. How to get back.”

“We'll get you some help. We'll do it together, okay?”

“Okay,” Abby said. She nuzzled closer. The day outside was warm, the heat pushing itself inside the house. Soon Lana would have to switch the air conditioner back on. But Abby's body was ice-cold.

“I never told you about Grandma Gloria,” Lana said. “Maybe I should have. I'd kind of forgotten about it until recently. Or I just didn't want to remember. She was bulimic.” Lana let the word settle in between them. “And when she wasn't bingeing she was dieting. Living on these appetite suppressants and practically nothing else. It was like an obsession for her. After Stephen died it was even worse. The more depressed she got, the more control she needed, over something, anything. And that was it. It didn't make her happy, it didn't make her healthy, it just masked the real problem, the sadness she wasn't dealing with.”

Abby sniffled and wiped her eyes, nodding.

“I don't know what all is hurting you now, love. But I'm here. If it's me or something I've done, or the separation, or anything. I'm here for you. No matter what. You can trust me.”

“I know,” Abby whispered. But of course that couldn't be true, or she wouldn't have kept this secret.

“Do you know what you weigh?” Lana asked.

Abby cried and shook her head. “I have a friend. Celeste. She's
a recovering . . .” Abby sighed, cleared her throat. “She says it's better not to see what you weigh. You weigh yourself backwards. Have someone else look at the number, but not you. I thought about Matt, but . . . maybe you would be better.”

“Okay,” Lana said. “We don't have to do it now. When you're ready. And we need to see your doctor. Maybe she can recommend someone to talk to.”

“You mean a shrink?”

“I do. It can be a family therapist, and we can all go together. Or you can go alone. Or some combination. Whatever feels most comfortable. But we need to do something. The outside things that have been controlling us, today's the day we stop them. Today we stop being afraid. Start getting ready for all the good to come. Both of us.”

“You sound like Aunt Becca,” Abby said. Lana laughed. She never thought she wanted to sound like Becca, with her metaphysical spirit-guided proclamations, but maybe Becca was on to something.

“I just had a scare myself,” Lana said. She tried to stop herself, because why burden her children with this uncertainty, this threat? But like Camilla and her breast-cancer-scare solidarity, Abby deserved to get something in exchange for her trust. “I had a routine cancer screen, and something abnormal came up.” Abby gasped and sat up. She looked at Lana with alarm. Lana cupped her face. “I'm fine. I had a procedure done to cut out all of the bad cells. We'll keep an eye on it to make sure no new ones crop up. But here's my point. It's been a hard year for all of us. We're buried in change, and most of it the kind we'd rather do without. It won't be easy, but I say from today forward, you and I make a pact to help each other focus on the good stuff instead of the bad.”

“What if there's no good stuff?” Abby asked.

“Then we make some. We do something we love, every single day. Something just for us. It doesn't have to be big, but it has to bring us joy.”

“I think maybe I want to change schools,” Abby said.

“Why?” Lana asked.

Abby shook her head. She sighed and tucked her hair behind her ears. “Because I hate my life.”

“Being a teenager is hell,” Lana said. “I remember it well.”

“Is this the part where you tell me it will pass and get better?”

Indeed, Lana had been about to give that very speech. Because it had passed. It had gotten better. She smiled and shook her head. “No. This is when I tell you we're not running. We're fighting. We're kicking this thing's ass. Whatever it is.”

“Whoever, you mean,” Abby said.

Lana felt the warrior-mama rise to full height within her. “Who's hurting you, baby?” she asked.

“I'm on it,” Byron said from the foot of the stairs, startling them both. “She won't hurt you anymore. I promise.”

He came to sit beside Lana. Abby wiped her red, tearful eyes, her runny nose, and stared at Byron with a look of quiet awe.

“What does that mean?” Lana asked him. “Should I be worried?”

“No. I won't get into any trouble. I know what I'm doing,” Byron said. “So, this cancer thing. You're going to be okay?”

Lana sighed. She'd have to follow up later on the bully situation. She let him change the subject, though. This was just as important. “Yes,” she said.

“You don't know that for sure, though. Not really.”

“I don't know what happens next. Not really. But I know that whatever it is, I'll be fine. We'll be fine. I'm warrior-mama now, remember? No going back for me.”

As she sat, one arm around each of her children, her nearly grown babies who thought they no longer needed her, but clearly still did, she resolved to fight. For them, for herself. To set a better example. They didn't need to see a woman who was taken down by her husband leaving, or one faking that she was fine despite having been left. They needed to see that she'd gotten hurt, knocked down flat, but got up and kept going.

She kissed them both and headed for the phone. First, she made an appointment with Abby's doctor. When they asked what she needed to be seen for, Lana hesitated.

“Anorexia,” she said, clearly as she could. It was a frightening word.

She hung up and dialed Graham. He was working, no doubt buried in tax forms, and he sounded impatient as he greeted her.

“I think it's time we filed for divorce,” Lana said. “Made it official.”

“You sure you're ready for all of that?” Graham asked, as if the act of getting divorced could be more painful than the act of being left.

“I am. Enough of this limbo.”

Abby held the notebook before her, balanced in her open hands. They were clean, her hands, but still it made Matt nervous. She carefully turned the pages, reading every word, and Matt tried not to think about the strain on each page, grazing the wire coil as Abby flipped a page up, over, and around the spring-shaped spine of the notebook. They were her pages, after all. Matt repeated this to himself to keep from taking the notebook back. He wanted her to keep reading. The best part was coming, but if even one notch of the spiral-bound page tore, it would ruin the entire notebook.

“Oh,” Abby said. She stopped flipping pages and held the notebook closer to her face, and Matt knew she'd seen it. That when she stopped eating and there were no more meals or calories to count, he'd tried counting her smiles, but soon those had stopped, too. So he counted her breaths. It was all she had left to offer him, and Matt needed something for the empty yellow pages yet to be filled. Each page was supposed to cover one day, and the days were marching forward. He couldn't just stop taking notes. He'd already written the date at the top of each page with his heavy black calligraphy pen. The pages needed data.

Abby had taken thirty-seven breaths since she'd begun reading. She took more when she was upset, fewer when she was concentrating.
They were slower now, although Matt felt her tense next to him. And then she wasn't breathing at all. Matt wondered what else he would count if she took her breaths away from him, too.

“Thirty-seven,” Matt said. “So far. Thirty-seven breaths now.” He pointed toward the notebook, toward the waiting page.