Before I Go by Colleen Oakley

called.”
    I’m a little surprised that it’s him. I didn’t really expect that I would get to speak with him simply by asking for him. Doctors have an elusiveness about them; almost celebrity-like. You can talk to their handlers and they’ll set up an allotted time for you to be in their presence, but you can’t call them directly whenever you want. They’re much too important for that. But then, Dr. Saunders has always been a bit different. More accessible.
    “Yes, well, I had a quest—”
    “Can you come in this afternoon?” He cuts me off. “I’d like to talk with you about something.”
    My grip on the phone tightens. Oh my God. Maybe the diagnosis really is a mistake and he already caught it. Maybe he wants to tell me about it in person; make sure I don’t intend to sue the hospital for mental distress. My heartbeat speeds up. Dah-dump-dump-dump-dah-dump-dump-dump.
    “Daisy?”
    “Yeah, yes. Of course. But, um . . . Can’t you just tell me over the phone?”
    You screwed up. Say it. Say it.
    “I’m sorry, I have to run. I have patients. Stay on the line. Martha will set up a time.”
    Martha? Martha doesn’t even work for you anymore, I want to shout, when the classical music starts up again. Then my flare of irritation settles into self-satisfaction. I am downright smug. Because if Dr. Saunders can’t even remember that his receptionist retired, then it’s all too conceivable that he could confuse a couple of test results.
    The receptionist suggests 2:30 and I agree, because my day is inconceivably devoid of activity. As I hang up, Jack walks into the room, a towel around his waist, his hair still wet. He shivers.
    “Who was that?”
    “Dr. Saunders,” I say. “He wants me to come in this afternoon.”
    “Did he say what for?”
    I shake my head no. And then, instead of telling Jack about my successful handling of the broom, or Dr. Saunders’ inability to remember that Martha no longer works for him, I leave the room, because all at once I’ve turned into a seven-year-old who doesn’t want Jack to tell me there’s no Santa Claus.

    THE LAST TIME Jack and I stood in the Athens Regional parking lot together was right after my final radiation treatment more than four years ago. He surprised me with an obnoxious number of balloons—so many that I thought he might get whisked into the sky if a strong wind blew. “Did you miss the turn for the circus?” I asked him.
    “I don’t think so,” he said, nodding at my bald head. “Aren’t you the strongman?”
    “Very funny,” I said. We stood there grinning at each other. I had known Jack for only two years then, but he had stuck by me through all the cancer stuff, and we had made it to the other side. “You’re done,” he said. “I’m done,” I agreed. He uncurled his fist that was holding the balloons and they started floating upward. Then he held out his hands to me. “Let’s go.”
    Today we head toward the entrance in silence. I slip my hand into his and we walk through the parting glass and down the corridor to the heavy wooden door of the cancer center. Not-Martha looks up as I sign in. “Dr. Saunders is running a few minutes behind today,” she says. I nod and go sit down next to Jack.
    He picks up a Sports Illustrated and I start to rifle through a Highlights for Children , but it’s clear that neither of us is actually reading the words on the pages in front of us. I’m mentally practicing what I’m going to say to Dr. Saunders when he admits to the mistake. I try angry: “How dare you? Do you know how freaked out I’ve been?” Or I could be happily surprised: “Really? Are you sure? Oh thank God !” And then, of course, there’s kind understanding: “These things happen.” I’d nod. “I just feel so sorry for the other woman. That poor thing.”
    Lativia finally calls my name and we both stand up and follow her through the waiting-room door and down the hall to Dr. Saunders’ office. Before we walk in,