Danielle Steel - Lightning

“I was throwing up and it was on the floor, for God's sake, Sam. I can't worry about how I look every minute. I'm sick.” She didn't realize it but Annabelle was listening to them argue with frightened eyes.

“Then she shouldn't be with you,” he accused, and with a look of absolute terror, Alex hauled off and slapped him, as Annabelle began to cry out loud, but still her parents battled on.

“Don't you ever say that to me! She's not going anywhere! And don't you forget that!” Alex yelled at him and he shouted back.

“You're in no condition to take care of her,” he roared as Annabelle flew into her mother's arms.

“Oh yes, I am,” Alex snarled at him, “and if you lay a hand on her, you sonofabitch, I'm going to hit you with the biggest fucking discrimination suit you've ever dreamed of. She's staying with me. Is that clear?” She clung to her child, shaking, as Sam glared at her in fury.

“Then keep your wig on.” He backed down only slightly in the face of Alex's threats, and his daughter's sobs. She didn't want to be taken away from her Mommy, but she also hated it whenever they fought. She knew it was probably her fault, but she was never quite sure why.

It was a rough night for all of them, and Sam left as soon as Annabelle went to bed. But the next day, he and Alex sat down and talked in earnest. This wasn't working out. It was time for him to move out, and they both knew it. Their battle in front of Annabelle the day before had shaken them both. But he absolutely amazed her by saying he didn't think he should go until she finished her treatments. As far as he was concerned, the business of Annabelle's hair seemed to prove that. He felt he needed to be there to help watch her, and keep her from getting distraught while her mother was still sick and in treatment.

“I don't need you here as a nursemaid, Sam. You can leave if you want to.”

“I'll move out in May when you're finished with your chemo,” he said firmly.

“I can't believe you're saying this to me. You're staying because of my chemo?”

“I'm staying for Annabelle's sake, in case you're too ill to take care of her. And when you're finished, I'll go.“

“I'm impressed. And then what, Sam?” She was pressing him. She wanted to know if he was going to marry his girlfriend. And who she was. But he wasn't ready to let her in on his secrets.

“I haven't figured that out yet.” But she could guess. It was pretty obvious. He was looking young and lean and very handsome. It was easy to see that he was happy and in love, and she was amazed that he was willing to hang around, even some of the time, until she finished her chemo. The end was still four months away, and nobody wanted it to be over more than Alex herself.

“Do you think you can stand it till then?” Alex asked him, pressing him again.

“I can if you can. I'm not going to be here all the time, but I'll be around and available if Annabelle needs me.”

“I appreciate it,” Alex said grudgingly, half wanting him to go, and half wanting him to stay, and not sure which was worse. It just delayed the inevitable, and she had stopped fooling herself about that. She knew that eventually, now, or in four months, he was going to leave her. And in most ways, he already had.

And when she told him the next day, Brock couldn't believe the arrangement they had come to. It made sense, for Annabelle's sake, but it was hard on everyone else, and just seemed to drag things out forever. No one was more aware of that than Daphne. She looked like a disappointed child when Sam told her what he had agreed to with Alex, to stay at the apartment with her until May.

“I so hoped you would move in with me now.” They had had such a good time in Europe. They had made love constantly and had a great time in Gstaad and then he had taken her to Paris and bought her everything they could lay their hands on. They had gone to Carrier and Van Cleef, Hermes and Dior, Chanel and Givenchy, and every little boutique she fell in love with. But what she really wanted was Sam, even though she understood his reason for postponing moving into her apartment. It was too small for both of them anyway. And he was talking about buying a co-op for them in May, after Alex finished her treatment.

“It won't be long,” he promised her, and he certainly didn't have to sleep at their apartment every night. He was going to continue doing just what he had been, and spend most of his nights with Daphne. He wanted to introduce her to Annabelle too, but he was still afraid it would be too confusing for her, and she might tell her mother. But Daphne wasn't pressing him to meet her anyway. As she had admitted to him from the first, she was not overly sentimental about children. She was not overly sentimental about many things. But she was sexual about everything, every moment, every opportunity. They had made love absolutely everywhere in Europe, including a fitting room at Dior, and another at Givenchy. She was wild and passionate, and she made him feel young again, and totally free of his problems.

Alex caught a glimpse of them again one Saturday afternoon in February. They had just come from previewing the jewelry items at Christie's, where he'd left a bid on an emerald ring for Daphne. Sam bought her a lot of things, and seemed to be happy to spoil her. And as Alex stood watching them, she saw them stroll up Park Avenue, oblivious to anything but each other. It made her sad seeing them again. A lot of things made her sad these days. The way Annabelle looked when her father left, or when she asked about him, and Alex had to find excuses about why he didn't sleep there very often. It still made her sad to see what her body looked like, or that her hair didn't grow back. And it didn't cheer her particularly when Dr. Webber suggested reconstructive surgery to her. It had been long enough since the surgery to begin thinking about it now, but she found she didn't care. She didn't like what she saw, but she was used to what she looked like. And oddly enough, it was Brock she discussed it with, and she was surprised when he thought she should have it. There was nothing she couldn't talk about with him. There was not a single sacred subject. He was the closest thing to a brother she'd ever had.

“What difference does it make, if I have one boob or two? Who gives a damn?” she said belligerently, over lunch at Le Relais during one of her better weeks without chemo.

“You give a damn, or you should. You can't live like a nun for the rest of your life.”

“Why not? I look cute in black, and I don't even have to shave my head.” She pointed to die longer, more glamorous wig she was wearing, and he made a face at her.

“You are truly disgusting. I'm serious. It'll make a difference to you one day.”

“No, it won't. I like being a freak. So what? So what, if somebody loved me, would they really care if I went to all that trouble and got an implant? I mean, hell, we're not talking about Sam. For him, I'd have to get two new ones to compete with his British bimbo.”

“Never mind.” Brock looked at her, thinking about it. “I still think you should do it. It'll make you feel good. You won't be mad at yourself every time you look in the mirror.”

“Would you care?” she asked him bluntly. “If you met a girl with one breast, I mean?”

“It could save a lot of time,” he said, making fun of her now, “save you all those difficult decisions. No, I wouldn't care,” he said honestly. “But I'm unusual, and I'm younger. Guys your age are more hung up about appearances, and perfection.”

“Yeah, like Sam. We know all about that kind, thank you very much.” She still remembered all too clearly his face when he saw her. “Okay, so what you're telling me is that I either need reconstructive surgery, or a younger man in my life. Those are my choices.”