Addie’s marriage had lasted sixteen years. She was single now, though she’d resolved to keep Tye’s surname after the breakup. One less change among many at the time. Tye’s full name was Thierry Levesque. The superintendent in their first apartment, a Portuguese immigrant who’d recently arrived in Canada, always pronounced the s in her married name. She had never corrected him. Indeed, she sometimes thought of herself as the former Madame Levesk.

She unfolded the first letter from Sybil. This was the announcement of the illness that would soon end her friend’s life. Addie knew she should throw away every one of these sad reminders, but so far she had not.

Dear Addie,

Have you ever had the feeling that you’re going through something that can’t really be happening? Not happening to you?

Well, that’s the way I feel at this moment. And since this letter has to be written sometime, the time might as well be now. Remember the lump I mentioned a while back? I told you that I would see about it, that it would be a routine investigation. But it was not a cyst, as I’d been told to expect. The lump was cancerous.

This is happening. To me. Right now. I am being forced to face reality.

I’m sorry to be sharing this, but you have to know the facts at some point, and there isn’t going to be any good time to pass on the news.

January 9 I discovered the lump; two days ago I was in the OR having my left breast removed. I am on the ward now, and in the best hospital for the surgery. Half the nurses here are people I trained myself. I am treated the way one hopes to be treated—if one is unlucky enough to be here in the first place. I’m not experiencing physical discomfort. I dress myself in my own clothes every day. I don’t wear a gown on the ward. I have already begun exercises. The staff—including the cleaning staff—believe me to be an imposter. I cry a bit. I’d like to scream, but not here. That’s the first thing I’ll do when I’m back in my apartment. I don’t want to upset the other patients. I’ll be home soon, as they don’t keep patients long, not here—or anywhere, for that matter.

I’m cheered somewhat because things are looking positive. Having gone from the initial belief—self-created—that I had two weeks to live, I have now accepted a brighter prognosis. Now discussion is about possible spread: lymph, liver. Or not. Chemo or no chemo. Radiation or no radiation. That news is yet to come. I’m trying to be hopeful. That’s what I mean when I use the word “positive.”

My mother insisted on coming to Montreal and has been staying at my apartment, but I have encouraged her to go back to Greenley. She wanted to be present while I was undergoing surgery, and I understood her need to be here. However, I want time alone when I’m discharged.