Chapter 2
I wake up the next morning with an aching jaw and a headache, something that only happens when I’ve been grinding my teeth all night.
I don’t even make it all the way to my cubicle before texting Millie, asking if we can respond to Hugh – Learnt? Who does he think he is ? But she never responds. The day passes slowly, and I alternate tweaking a slide deck that I need to send to my boss and drafting snarky messages I wish I could send to Hugh.- Becca nags me until I reluctantly agree to sneak out of the office with her to get bubble tea. Accompanying Becca on her relentless pursuit of drinks and snacks is the foundation of our friendship. I offer to buy her tea as a thank you for being the only reason I see sunshine most workdays, but she refuses, insisting that I’ve repaid my debt by listening to her litany of complaints about online dating.
When Becca heard what happened with Zach, she was shocked. She couldn’t believe I turned down the chance at a stable, pre-planned future with a nice guy. My explanation that ‘I felt trapped,’ didn’t cut it. ‘Trapped by a man is all I want to be!’ she exclaimed. I almost offered to give her Zach’s number.
When one of my afternoon meetings gets cancelled, I decide to take matters into my own hands and, in an uncharacteristically bold move, I DM Hugh.
Well, technically @millieandipaxton DMs Hugh. Millie and I had started a joint Instagram account when we went to India together, chronicling our trip to the ‘Golden Triangle’ – New Delhi, Agra, and Jaipur. Mostly for our parents, the feed was filled with pink palaces, golden vistas, colourful saris, and giant, lumbering elephants. It was one of my favourite trips I’ve ever taken – nothing compares to the vibrancy of a New Delhi evening – and looking back at the photos I remember why I used to love travelling so much. I’m so overwhelmed at how long it’s been since I’ve taken a trip – two years, to be exact, the entirety of my last relationship – that I almost forget why I’ve logged on to Instagram in the first place.
Hugh’s Instagram is private, but his bio reads ‘marine biologist USYD’. His profile picture is so small that even screenshotting it and zooming in does me no good, all I see is a pixelated outline of a face.
@millieandipaxton I just wanted to let you know that I don’t plan on taking logic cues from someone who spells ‘learned’ ‘learnt’.
@hughharris94 It is most effective to communicate with your audience using their preferred speech patterns (I learnt that at university). When one is writing about the Great Barrier Reef (located in Australia, let me remind you) it makes the most sense to use Australian English. Therefore, ‘learnt’ would have been the correct way for you to write your response. I was just pointing that out.
@millieandipaxton Touché.
@hughharris94 Hmmm . . . you really don’t know your audience.
@millieandipaxton ?
@hughharris94 Aussies aren’t a huge fan of the French. But, of course, someone from Ohio wouldn’t know that.
@millieandipaxton Real original, coming for Ohio like that. Actually, now that I think about it, I would trade Ohio seasons for an endless cycle of natural disasters. *Fire emoji*
@hughharris94 I would say that’s a low blow, but I don’t expect anything better from an American.
@millieandipaxton Like Australia is that much better.
@hughharris94 We have better healthcare, living standards and lower crime rates.
@millieandipaxton Yet you’re still ranked below us for climate action policies . . .
I hear Matteo’s footsteps before I see him. I rush to press ‘send’ before dropping my phone back into my bag, a smile blooming across my face just as Matteo thuds to a stop beside my cubicle. He walks like a lumberjack, even though at five foot nine he’s only a few inches taller than me. He fills up the entire space next to my desk.
‘What’s got you grinning?’ he asks, smiling himself.
‘Nothing.’ I squirm, trying to ignore the insinuation that I haven’t been as cheery at work lately.
As if he can read my mind, Matteo’s expression softens, and I remember why I liked him so much during my first interview with Sunshine Foods (a giant conglomerate that produces a lot of cereal). I interviewed for an operations job, one that involved a lot of crunching numbers in a cubicle and putting them into a slide to help executives make decisions on how many boxes of cereal to ship to each supermarket. Sunshine Foods was a good opportunity for someone just out of college. I had no idea I would end up sticking around this long.
‘I just wanted to tell you good work on this deck,’ he says, hoisting a sheaf of papers in the air and waggling them around.
‘Thank you.’
‘I’ve been meaning to ask you – are you taking any time off around the holidays? I haven’t seen any requests come in.’
I hesitate. I know I should be taking time off, but I have nothing to do with it. Taking time off to sit at home sounds . . . depressing.
‘Just let me know when you’ll be out.’ Matteo’s deep voice fills the silence. ‘Things slow down during the holidays, no need for you to sit here alone. Heck, even I’ll be gone!’ He laughs at his own joke. He gestures towards the sea of desks that are already starting to empty out in the post-Thanksgiving, pre-Christmas lull. ‘See?’
‘Right,’ I say, feeling panicked at the idea that everyone seems to think I need a vacation. How many times will I have to say, ‘I’m fine,’ before they believe me?
‘I’ll let you know when I’ll be out.’ I force a smile and Matteo claps his hands on the padded grey walls of my cubicle and walks away. Matteo is the one who hired me, and in the six years I’ve worked for Sunshine, our relationship has never progressed past colleagues. I know about his two daughters, and he knows I have a sister and live near my parents. He promotes me like clockwork every two years and gives me a 2 per cent raise every year. I never work more than forty-hour weeks and have a great work–life balance. But lately I’ve been feeling like I have no ‘life’ worth balancing. Especially now that after our friends sided with Zach in the breakup, I only have Murphy and Millie to keep me company. Sometimes I go running. Maybe I should learn how to knit. With a sigh, I pull up the company calendar.
I have fifteen days of holiday for the year. So far, I’ve only used three, all of them to go to weddings. I was supposed to take a trip to Italy with Zach, but after I asked him four times if we could spend one weekend planning it, and each weekend he ‘lost track of time’, and was ‘so sorry’, and ‘please can we plan it next weekend?’ I stopped trying to make that happen.
‘He doesn’t mean to let me down,’ I remember confessing to Millie in an attempt to minimise my disappointment. ‘Travelling just isn’t as important to him. He likes being home.’ She had simply nodded.
I force my attention back to the calendar. Sunshine Foods gives us the week of Christmas off, so if I’m going to use my holiday before year end, I basically have to start tomorrow.
Matteo means well, I remind myself, and time off should be a good thing. I can take Murphy for more walks. I can get some stuff done around the house. I can take my time wrapping Christmas presents. I almost cry at how boring my life feels.
I google ‘Great Barrier Reef’ and watch as the search returns picture after picture of magnificent coral structures, bright pink and yellow, giant clams ringed with purple. I pore over the photos, imagining what it would be like to go to Australia. I spot a bright blue coral that looks like a collection of elk antlers – staghorn coral – the coral Millie’s lab studies. You could take photos of that for her , the voice in my head says, you know your stuff. You’ve been pretending to be more like Millie your whole life. This will be a piece of cake.
As quickly as I opened it, I close the tab and get up from my computer, looking over my shoulders to make sure no one saw. I’m superstitious, and I feel like if I even admit to myself that this trip sounds fun, something will happen to Millie. I do not want to take that chance.
‘Please God,’ I whisper, ‘let Sal be a good lump.’
Two days later and I’m repeating ‘Let Sal be a good lump,’ in my head like a mantra. I met Millie at the hospital so we could go to her post-op appointment together, and I can’t tell who is more nervous. Millie is scrolling through Instagram from her reclined position on the exam table in the middle of the room, and even though her posture is relaxed, her gaze darts to the door every five seconds.
When we hear a knock, I flinch. I’ve been jumpier lately, much to Murphy’s chagrin. Every time he barks at a squirrel I gasp, and he cocks his head at me in annoyance. And I’m not the only family member that’s picked up an annoying habit out of anxiety. My dad has thrown himself into his hobbyist French horn playing and decided to learn all the Christmas carols, starting with ‘Silent Night’. I’m pretty sure if my mom has to hear the opening bars one more time she’ll scream. She’s been in overdrive, texting Millie and me both constantly, dropping off casseroles, baking banana bread and offering to take us out for drinks when we finish work.
I have been attempting to act exactly the same and give Millie a semblance of normal, although I feel like I fend off a panic attack every five minutes.
Millie has rallied all of her positive energy into manifesting a good result. She’s doubled down on yoga classes, been drinking green smoothies every morning, and finished all her Christmas shopping. She even had me reset the password to her HealthChart account so she couldn’t see the results of her biopsy before she had a chance to speak to the doctor about them.
‘There’s no sense in paying them if I’m just going to diagnose myself, is there?’ she said, when she handed me the log-in credentials. ‘Better to not google.’
Since the night we watched The Bachelor , she hasn’t mentioned Australia again — not once. Before the lump, Millie referenced it every time we were together. If we so much as saw a swimsuit or a cute hat through a window she would squeal, ‘Should I get it for Australia?’ but since asking if I would go, she’s been radio silent.
There’s another knock at the door. Millie clears her throat. ‘Come in,’ she says. Her voice wavers. I take a deep breath and try to steady my shaking hands. Millie plasters a smile on her face, completely committed to a positive outcome.
The doctor sidesteps into the room, his face partially obscured by the sheaf of papers he’s holding in his right hand. A shock of white hair sits on the top of his head. ‘Dr Taylor,’ he announces, as he turns to face Millie.
‘Hi,’ she says brightly, extending her hand. ‘Millie.’
‘Ah, so no Millicent then,’ he says, making a note on his clipboard.
‘Nope. No one calls me Millicent, just Millie.’ Except Hugh , I think, remembering our conversation from yesterday.
@hughharris94 America’s policies are the last thing you should be bringing into this argument . . .
@millieandipaxton Right, because your country is perfect and definitely not still dealing with the fact that it was stolen from indigenous peoples . . . oh wait . . . how could I forget it’s STILL stolen because it’s still a commonwealth nation? Although I’m not sure how that slipped my mind, considering you have the most royally pompous name ever.
@hughharris94 Your name is literally Millicent.
His grainy Instagram profile picture blooms across my brain. I’ve been checking to see if Hugh commented on Millie’s article again. He hasn’t said a word, and something about the pointlessness of reloading the page deepens my embarrassment about giving him so much attention. I’ve tried to kick the habit of constantly refreshing our conversation and Millie’s article, but hating Hugh has been a nice distraction from what’s going on with Millie.
As if on cue, Millie speaks. ‘This is my sister, Andi,’ she says, startling me from my thoughts. I watch Millie stretch her lips into another smile and wonder if the doctor can also tell it’s forced.
‘Hi. Pleased to meet you,’ I say.
‘Dr Taylor.’ He turns to greet me with a firm handshake. He has even more wrinkles up close. Despite his warm grandpa energy, his hand is freezing. ‘I can see the resemblance.’ Dr Taylor smiles at us and takes the seat across from me. ‘No use in delaying it,’ he begins, ‘good news, the lump is benign.’
Millie lets out a rush of breath. ‘OK,’ she sighs with relief.
I immediately fish my phone out of my purse to text our mom.
‘We did find something else,’ Dr Taylor continues.
My heart clenches and my hands feel clammy. I drop my phone back into my bag.
‘When we ran your bloodwork, you tested positive for a harmful variant of the brCA gene. Do you know what that is?’
I shake my head no, but Millie nods. She’s frowning.
‘The brCA genes are inherited from your parents and produce proteins that help repair damaged DNA. But there are harmful variants of the genes. Millice—excuse me, Millie, you tested positive for a harmful variant of brCA1, which increases the likelihood that you will develop breast cancer at some point in your life. While your scans are clean now, this is something you should be aware of. And—’ Dr Taylor looks meaningfully at me ‘—it’s genetic. So, you should probably get tested as well.’
I swallow. My throat feels dry.
‘Got it.’ Millie fidgets with her hands.
‘So . . . what’s next?’ I ask, filling the silence.
‘Well, you have a couple of options.’ Dr Taylor folds his hands in his lap and peers over his glasses. I focus on the wisps of white hair that are out of place instead of on his face, which I’m sure is about to deliver more bad news.
‘You can do nothing, which is not recommended given your family history and genetic makeup. Or, you can explore taking preventative measures, which is what I would recommend. You could be a good candidate for a double mastectomy.’
Millie doesn’t say anything, she just looks at Dr Taylor.
‘Double mastectomies are getting more and more common. We separate your breast tissue from your skin and muscle and remove it, which substantially lowers your risk of getting breast cancer. There are reconstructive options as well.’ He pauses, and his tone softens. ‘Look, I know this is a lot to think about. Why don’t I give you two a minute . . .’ he pauses, and pulls a pamphlet out of his front coat pocket ‘. . . and I’ll leave this here. It explains brCA in more detail. I’ll come back shortly to answer any more questions you have.’
Millie nods.
‘And remember, this is good news,’ he emphasises on his way out the door.
‘Thank you, Doctor,’ I manage to choke out, but my voice sounds scratchy and foreign. The room falls into silence apart from the gentle ticking of the clock on the opposite wall.
Millie collects herself quickly, taking a few deep breaths before she starts explaining to me how much research she’s already done. It only takes her a few moments to decide. She’s going to get the double mastectomy. She doesn’t want this hanging over her head. If insurance will cover it, she’ll do double mastectomy and reconstruction at the same time.
She’s speaking with such force and surety that I can tell she’s been thinking about it for days, anticipating this as one of the outcomes of her biopsy. She’s thought through all her options and charted the best path forward. I’ve always been impressed by her decisiveness.
Dr Taylor returns to the room and Millie launches into her plan. Within minutes, he’s recommended a surgeon. He reminds me to schedule my blood test with the front desk. He schedules a time to have a follow-up call with Millie.
I’m still in shock when Dr Taylor leaves. We are supposed to get out of the room, leave the hospital, return to our lives, but I can’t even seem to get up from my chair.
‘Everything’s fine,’ Millie tells me, ‘I have a plan, we have a plan.’ But I can’t shake the feeling that everything’s about to change.
The only thing that makes me smile the rest of the day is a message from Hugh:
@hughharris94 I bet you’re one of those Americans who pronounces Cairns like it rhymes with barns.
@millieandipaxton Ah yes, because it makes total sense to pronounce it like the film festival.
@hughharris94 Touché.
@millieandipaxton Touché.
@hughharris94 Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.
@millieandipaxton Sorry, just distracted today. Got some not bad not good news.
@hughharris94 Terrifying to think about how not-bad-not-good news would have to be to distract an American. Another yodeller chaining himself to a Walmart? Did a bear eat Lady Gaga’s famous poodles?
@hughharris94 Sorry to hear that though, really.