The Eggnog Chronicles by Carly Alexander Page B

calloused fingers. A friend had told us that Dr. Scotto had “beautiful hands,” which I realized was not literal; the fact that he had removed a neck tumor the size of a grapefruit and left barely any scar put him high on the list.
    â€œWhat about the vocal cords?” I asked him. “Do you think they’ll be damaged?”
    He shook his head. “You might be a little hoarse for a few days after the operation, but nothing permanent.”
    I cocked my head, reassured by the pressure of Dr. Scotto’s hands on my neck. He wore a wedding band on his left hand, but a girl could fantasize. “So I’ll still have a chance to sing on Broadway?” I teased.
    He smiled. “I can’t promise that.”
    Emma and I exchanged a look. “Quick, call Julliard,” I said.
    She nodded. “They’ll need a new understudy for Wicked.”
    â€œCancel my road tour, and we can kiss that lucrative voice-over work good-bye.”
    Dr. Scotto grinned as he flipped through my chart. “It shouldn’t harm your writing career. You’ll just need a little time off. A week at least, probably two, until you’re able to sing in the shower.”
    We booked Dr. Scotto for the middle of January.

11
    B y the time Ricki arrived for her Christmas visit I was ready to take some time off, seize the moment, and squeeze out every glittering charm New York had to offer in my limited lifetime. Even if thyroid cancer didn’t send me to that “great writer’s workshop in the sky,” I was going to go eventually, from a heart attack or a car accident or some flukey event like a hair dryer falling in the toilet or a bolt of lightning or a paper cut that swelled into an infection of monstrous proportions. I wrote about these things every day; how was it that I’d imagined I’d maintain my humanity without a human exit from this world? Just self-absorbed, I guess.
    Her brief tenure in the South had made Ricki nurturing and mellow at a time when I didn’t mind being nurtured just a little. Together we soaked up the Christmas experience like two wide-eyed tourists in the Sugar Plum Fairy’s Land of Sweets. She dragged me onto the ice at Rockefeller Center, and we laughed every time I went down.
    â€œSo much for my triple Sow-Cow,” I said.
    Ricki skated up to me and smacked ice shavings off my jeans. “I think you sowed when you should have cowed.” After skating we sipped expensive wine at Morrell’s, then sprang for tickets to the Christmas show at Radio City Music Hall, complete with Santa’s 3-D Sleigh Ride and the Rockettes dancing their chorus line dressed as wooden soldiers.
    By day we posed for photos at Macy’s Santaland, sat for makeovers at Sak’s, scarfed up candles and candies and ornaments at Bloomingdale’s Christmas department, and lined up our shopping bags under our table as we sipped high tea in the lobby of the Plaza. At night we donned the dresses we’d scored that day and carried ourselves regally down the aisle of Broadway theaters. In one week we saw Wonderful Town, The Producers, Wicked and Hairspray. “Only feel-good musicals,” Ricki insisted, contending that I’d experienced enough catharsis for the year. She kept me on a positive track, looking forward with hope and laughter.
    Only once had we cried together about my diagnosis—the time I called her to spill my fears. I’d felt bad about dumping the news on Ricki over the phone, but not having much choice I had called her one night and closed my eyes against the tension in my chest. While the cartoon kids of Peanuts explored the meaning of Christmas on my TV, I told Ricki we needed to talk about something awful.
    â€œThat ENT I saw?” My voice sounded small, childlike, but I was unable to pull the volume up with my usual bravado. “He did a test. He says I have thyroid cancer.”
    â€œWhat?” Ricki sucked in air.