Live a Little by Kim Green Read Free Book Online

the snapped stalk between two of its sisters to prop it up, careful to maintain the upturned motion of its face. Wouldn’t do to have a party pooper spoiling it for everyone, now, would it?
    I drove home from Meissner’s office in a daze. “Reeling” would be too scrawny a word to describe my state of shock. Once you’ve had someone point the finger at you and pronounce the “C” word, it’s pretty much incomprehensible that God is going to amble on down the mountain and revise His handiwork. I’d even demanded to see the biopsies side by side. Meissner had humored me with a shrug and a sigh, but by that time the characters had blurred into a morass of ink and I’d stumbled out of the office into the sunlit, alien-looking parking lot. During the forty-nine minutes it took to locate the car, I had plenty of time to ponder the latest development.
    On the one hand:
This is great, right? I won’t have to delegate the preservation of Taylor’s virginity to Phil after all.
    On the other:
Several thousand people just wrote fat checks to the Bay Area Breast Cancer Alliance because I spilled my sob story.
    That said:
It’s not my fault the hospital data-entry people suck.
    Still:
The Alliance cashed them.
    And:
You did go on TV. . . with a blow-out, no less.
    But:
They told me I had to! Mom and Laurie railroaded me! I was scared!
    Not to mention:
Nobody will believe you.
    Hey:
It’s true!
    So:
Pathological liar spins better than data-entry victim.
    But:
Duh . . .
    Plus:
And let’s not forget, you’ve been. . . different since this happened.
    So:
Different how?
    Well:
Different good.
    Okay:
Whatever. Do you ever think about, you know, the other Raquel Rose?
    ’Nuff said.
    The most pressing issue: how to break the news to my family for the second time. It seemed wrong to deliver the good— awesome? apocalyptic? weird?—news without ceremony, so I buckled down and cleaned the house, undoing some of the damage I’d done when I’d thought no one would hold it against me (salad spinner put away unwashed, household receipts plopped in art-supply drawer, wine bottle opener put back with cork rammed on). I put on a festive garment—red knit tunic and matching palazzo pants—and dabbed Chanel number something behind each ear and in the furrow of my (happy again) cleavage. My beloved tunic is, in Sue’s opinion, one small step above Jaclyn Smith for Kmart, but it does have the magical redeeming quality of expanding to accommodate whatever I care to put in my stomach. I go out and shop for foods that occupy the bottom portion of the pyramid at the snooty organic store, come home and crack my mother’s
Joy of Cooking,
and sweat my way through a four-course meal.
    At the last second, I light a stick of tangerine–butternut squash incense I got free for participating in a focus group (“Mrs. Rose, on a scale of one to five, how likely would you be to buy peanut butter with fish oil in it?”). Now Phil, Micah, and Taylor will associate my second lease on life with the restorative scent of citrus and root vegetable instead of the stench of anxiety perspiration.
    Sounds of teenagers and husband and canines mingling at the front door.
    “Mom! We’re home!”
    It’s funny how it takes a cancer diagnosis to rouse a civilized greeting. Maybe they’re afraid I’m dead?
    “I’m in here!” I call gaily, Doris Day with a tumor (or not, as the case may be).
    They explode into the room. I watch, amused, as the kids go through the usual ritual of dropping their backpacks on the floor then, shamefaced, pick them up unsolicited and deposit them on the countertop in a semblance of order. Taylor pauses to sniff the table bouquet, as if verifying that it is indeed real.
    “Hi, all. Hungry?” I say.
    Micah and Taylor nod, suspicious. I crack the oven; eau de pot roast wafts out. My kids look at each other, then at Phil, who still has a sheaf of exam papers clutched to his chest.
    “I also made Micah’s favorite mashed potatoes