Bree sat silent in the passenger seat of Della’s Range Rover as they drove away from the city towards Bree’s farmhouse. Della respected her friends silence, glancing furtively towards Bree, checking for what? Della didn’t know; was there a protocol for ‘how to act when your friend is told she has a few months to live?’ Della wasn’t sure and at this moment her heart hurt as if it were being squeezed by a giant hand intent on crushing the organ in her chest. Della met Bree Maxwell at the registrar’s office in 1974 at the University of Chicago. Just two long-haired hippie chicks in bell bottom denims and crop tops among thousands, struggling to look cool while simultaneously overwhelmed by the process of registering for classes. The two became fast friends and shortly thereafter they met Tish and Ann, also freshman. The foursome became inseparable and forged a bond that has endured four decades. Bree is the consummate Earth Mother, although never married and childl
An audible gasp escaped from Della’s mouth with the same velocity as if she had been punched in the gut, robbing her of air. Her hazel eyes flashed green with alarm and flew from the doctor to Bree who perched serenely on the edge of the exam table her cascade of graying hair fell in waves down her back. The flimsy patient gown seemed to swallow her slight body whole, one thin bare shoulder peeking out of the too big neckline. Bree’s facial expression was frozen in a tight, thin lipped half smile as she received the news. Dr. Jordan, supposedly the best oncologist in the Chicago area, delivered the diagnosis in a kind but wearisome tone as if he did this too many times already today, “I’m sorry Ms. Maxwell your recent CT scan reveals the cancer has metastasized to your liver, meaning it is no longer confined to the pancreas.” Bree’s shoulders drooped slightly, her chin jutted forward valiantly, and her voice quivered as she spoke, “My liver? That’s not encouraging.” Della, seat