This is Barb from the Breast Center

"Yes, this is Janice Cowell. Sorry, who is this?"

"This is Barb from the Breast Center at South Valor Hospital. How are you doing today, ma'am?"

Barbara presses her left cheek against the telephone receiver, holding the phone firmly between her face and shoulder while her fingers skitter across the office computer keyboard. A coral-pink smudge will materialize on the receiver's surface over the course of the next eight hours; Barbara is basically religious about touching up her lipstick throughout the day—with a distinctly indulgent reapplication right after lunch—and equally as deliberate about smearing the pink lipstick smudge off the phone with one of those dampened brown paper towels every afternoon when she clocks out.

The woman on the other end of the yellowing office telephone sounds frazzled to Barbara. "Oh, I'm—I'm fine. Thanks. The weekend was, well, you know—I was just ready to get this call as soon as possible, so it was . . . fine . . . it was a fine weekend."

Barbara nods, a fountain of understanding, never considering that the woman she is speaking to cannot see her sympathy.

"Of course, absolutely. I wanted to call you first thing this morning, Mrs. Cowell—"

"I called right at 8 a.m. and no one answered me."

"Oh! I'm so sorry about that. I was—I got to the office a little later than usual today."

Barbara hears what sounds like two small children chattering somewhere near Mrs. Cowell. She thinks at least one of them is a little boy.

She takes the slightest of deep breaths before speaking again.

"Mrs. Cowell, we've received your biopsy report back, and I understand you received an emailed copy over the weekend. I'm calling to let you know that it does confirm you have breast cancer in your left breast."

A sharp intake of breath hisses through the phone. The children chatter on. Barbara continues with what she is certain is a calming tone of voice, one she has practiced while talking to herself during the forty-five-minute commute to and from the hospital.

"At this point, Dr. Raleigh has no reason to believe it's more than stage one. You'll receive a call from him this afternoon, and a call from your oncologist, radiologist, and surgeon as well. And we'll get you scheduled for an MRI this week."

Mrs. Cowell is silent for a moment, and then: "I—I have cancer."

"Yes, ma'am." Barbara is nodding again, hoping Mrs. Janice Cowell gets a good cry in right here right now if she needs to. "And Dr. Raleigh is going to contact you today with a plan from your team."

"A plan." Mrs. Cowell's stunned zombie repetitions crackle in the office telephone speaker. "A plan."

"That's right, they're ready to get to work and will be in touch today. You're in good hands, Mrs. Cowell."

"How can you even say that to me?" Mrs. Cowell asks the question as if asking how someone could've run a stop sign in a school zone—mildly scandalized, but only mildly. "Is that supposed to make me feel better right now?"

"I apologize, Mrs. Cowell. I know this is hard news and makes for a tricky Monday to say the least. I only meant that your team will be aggressive and has plenty resources to offer you." Barbara is aware that Mrs. Janice Cowell is having a much worse day than she, Barbara, could possibly be having.

"Well—that's good to know. That's great. Um. Barbara. Your name's Barbara, right?" Mrs. Cowell sighs deeply and suddenly through her nose. "The MRI. We'll schedule that now?"

"We'll get that firmly scheduled this week, once you've spoken with Dr. Raleigh, but I'm penciling you in for a tentative appointment at ten o' clock this Thursday morning. How would that be?"

"Fine. It's all fine. I'll wait for Dr. Raleigh's call. Thank you. I'm sorry to snap at you, it's just—you know. Thank you for calling me."

"It's absolutely fine, Mrs. Cowell."

A click and a buzz. One call down—a whole list of names and numbers left to go.

Barbara scans the list on her computer screen without blinking and tucks a stray, flaxen hair behind her right ear.

She adjusts the placement of the telephone against her shoulder and dials.

"Hello, this is Katherine!"

"Hi, this is Barb from the Breast Center at South Valor Hospital. Am I speaking with Miss Khalil?"

Katherine Khalil's voice is a chirp, a flutter of feeling like light through a sheer curtain. "You are speaking with Katherine Khalil! It's Mrs. actually, that's recent. It must have gotten entered wrong when I came for my—for the biopsy last week. But that's fine! That's fine if it was entered wrong."

Katherine Khalil swallows audibly, and Barbara jumps at the chance to spare her the suspense.

"I can edit that for you, no problem. Mrs. Khalil, I'm calling to let you know we received your biopsy report back just this morning and you'll get an emailed copy any time now. The report does confirm you have breast cancer."

A second and a half of absolute quiet, and then Katherine Khalil's voice cracks it open. "Oh. My God."

"At this point, Dr. Raleigh has no reason to believe it's more than stage—"

"Oh my God," Katherine Khalil sobs. "No, oh my God—"

"I know it's such hard news to hear, Mrs. Khalil." Barbara is aware that Mrs. Katherine Khalil is having a much worse day than she, Barbara, could possibly be having. "I want you to know that you'll receive a call from Dr. Raleigh this afternoon, and a call from your oncologist, radiologist, and surgeon as well. And we'll get you scheduled for an MRI this week."

"Can I—sorry, I just—" Katherine Khalil sniffs violently. "—can I call your office back in just a few minutes? Just—a few minutes—sorry—"

A click and a buzz. Barbara is surprised to find that she has been holding her breath. She settles the phone in its base.

Isla LeFevre chooses this moment to pop her head into Barbara's closet of an office, the bleakness of which is assuaged only by a vase of fake roses and several framed photographs of a pit bull perched on the desk. It has never occurred to Barbara that these accents perhaps make the bleakness more palpable.

"Can you hit the lights in my office before you leave today?" Isla asks.

"Sure. Happy to. You're leaving early?"

"Yup. Got a date and I don't intend to miss it because of rush hour traffic, but I'll come in early one day this week to make up for it. People always drive slower and dumber than usual when it snows."

"A date with—?"

Isla's pupils dilate and her eyes light up suddenly. "Pause—speaking of snow. Did you hear about the lane closures today because of the kid who fell through the frozen lake or pond or whatever? The one on the grounds of that old wooden playground along the stretch of road just south of town. They sent a firetruck and an ambulance and cops and everything. I don't think they got him out though, the kid who fell in."

Barbara realizes Isla LeFevre looks at this very moment like the human version of a hyena and then wholeheartedly regrets thinking such a thing about anyone.

"I drove right by there this morning," she says.

"Oh, wow! So you saw the ambulance and all the hubbub probably!"

"Yes." Barbara sometimes wonders if her voice is actually her voice, if her own mouth is the one moving when words come out of her. "Yes, I saw it."

Yes, she thinks. She saw it. Lingering at a stop sign a quarter of a mile past the playground on her way to work, she happened to glance into the rearview mirror.

She saw the ice break beneath him. She saw the small bundled-up body vanish into the depths below. She saw the man come running, a man she could only assume was the little boy's father. She saw the two cars a quarter of a mile behind her pull off onto the snowy shoulder, the drivers stumbling out into the blinding white morning to help, to try. She saw the digital clock on her dashboard shutter from minute to minute. She saw the ambulance charging down the road in her direction, her car still anchored to the asphalt at the stop sign.

"Earth to Barb!"

The bleak office rushes to meet her senses again, and Barbara feels terribly rude for spiraling into some sort of flashback with another person present. "Oh—I—sorry?"

"Earth to B-A-R-B-A-R-A! Need some coffee or something?"

Barbara blinks and reaches up to tuck a hair behind her ear. "My name—my name isn't spelled with the extra A."

Isla does not appear to understand what she is saying.

"My name. Sorry. It's spelled B-A-R-B-R-A."

Isla considers this a moment and then nods. "Oh, cool. My bad."

Barbra says "sorry" again and does not know why she says it.

Isla picks a speck out of her soupy-with-mascara eyelashes. "It's fine—I just wondered whether they saved that boy or not, since you drove by all the craziness. Super sad. Anyway, it must not have held you up. You were on time as usual today, I noticed."

It happens again, that feeling that the voice speaking doesn't belong to her. "I—well, I was late today, actually."

"Oh. I guess I didn't notice then." Isla's head swivels in search of a clock. "Man, I gotta hustle to get my stuff done before I leave today. Like I said, I'm not missing this date for anything."

She turns and peers at Barbra, the look of a conspirator mingling with something else in her face. Barbra thinks it might be hopefulness, which for some reason makes her feel like crying.

Isla says, "He's being a lot nicer to me, y'know. Since that time I told you about. Anyway."

Before Barbra can open her mouth, Isla has already disappeared as she moves into the tiled hallway beyond the office, her voice still bouncing around the space. "See you tomorrow!"

The electronic bleating of the office phone erupts next to Barbra, and for a moment she feels frozen to her driver seat again, clutching a steering wheel with mittened hands, an ambulance barreling past her window with sirens wailing.

She reaches up to tuck a stray hair behind her ear, but there isn't one.

"This is Barb from the Breast Center at South Valor Hospital. What can I do for you today?"

"Hi. Barb. Barb? This is Katherine Khalil."

Mrs. Khalil's song of a voice strains through the popping telephone noise. "We spoke earlier and I said I'd call you back?"

"Of course. I've been waiting for your call and it's good to hear from you again, Mrs. Khalil." Barbra notices the lipstick smudge already blooming on the phone and compulsively reaches for a tissue with which to scour the pink from its surface.

"I'm so sorry I hung up on you like that. It's just—it's not the news we were hoping for."

"I completely understand," Barbra assures her. She is aware, after all, that Mrs. Katherine Khalil is having a much worse day than she, Barbra, could possibly be having.