Business as Usual Emily Claire Utley Mary and her mother sat at a plastic table in the corner of a McDonald’s. The midafternoon sun leeched through the tinted window and made Mary’s fish sandwich look gray. The tartar sauce dripped of its own volition from the plastic bun. Mary had given her fries to her mother who ate them like a hamster eats a carrot. The doctor suggested organic greens, meat high in protein, and snacks easy on the stomach. Instead, her mother wanted to sit in the dingy McDonald’s, her bald head warmed by a purple knitted cap, and lick salt off her fingers. “You feeling ok?” Mary asked. “Stop asking. I’m fine.” “This is absurd.” Mary crossed her arms and tilted her head toward the dead-moth-infested florescent light. “Dr. Morrison said you should be home in bed.” “Well, it’s not like it will kill me,” her mother said, munching on another fry. “No, Mom, that would be the cancer,” Mary barked, then unfolded her arms in attempt not to bite. “As a nurse, I can attest McDonald’s is not the chosen cuisine for breast cancer.” “You aren’t a practicing nurse. You work for an insurance company. Let the real nurses worry about my salt levels. Go get ice cream or something. Relax.” Worry was Mary’s own form of cancer, digging into her organs and gaining strength with each new mass: sick mother, absent fiancé, looming deadlines, weird ticking noise in car, out of tampons. “I don’t want ice cream,” she said. Her mother shrugged and inserted another fry between her bright pink lips. On chemo
days she insisted on wearing make-up to the hospital. Mary couldn’t help but think she had a crush on the 30-something Indian doctor who let slip he’d just broken up with his fiancé. A scrawny teenager with dimpled cheeks appeared at their table. “Napkins?” he said, offering a thick wad of them. Mary’s mother reached out and allowed the kid to place too many napkins into her palm. “Thank you, young man,” she said. Then, after the kid stepped away, “Where’s Chris?” “At work, I guess.” “You guess?” “Where else would he be?” “You tell me,” she said. A child’s head appeared above her right shoulder. A toddler stood in the seat, chubby cheeks smeared in ketchup and a fry clutched in his tiny fist. When Mary made eye contact with him he ducked back down. “There’s nothing to tell,” Mary said. He had been taking sick days without telling Mary. When she had called his law firm and asked to speak with him, the secretary responded, “He’s at home, isn’t he?” When she had asked how his day went, he said, “Business as usual.” Then, he stopped coming home altogether. She spent her days, alone, approving insurance claims and her nights, even more alone, trying not to use her imagination. His absences became routine. Each time he returned home with new vigor for their relationship. He spoiled her with intimate nights in with a bottle of wine or dinner out with his hand possessively around her waist and a new piece of tasteful, expensive jewelry. She didn’t know where he went or why; she told herself she 48
