Forbidden Fruit

By Eve Morton

Katrina Rose knows there are two things cancer patients can't do: laugh and date. She tries to challenge each one of those assumptions at every last turn. When she finally receives surgery to remove her tumor, she wants to go back to a normal life, but finds herself going to the all-women therapy group for cancer victims and survivors every week. After an aggravating discussion that threatens to shatter Kat's devotion to her group, Carmen walks in and completely changes Katrina’s goals.

Carmen Sykes is a tall, beautiful woman, who just lost her girlfriend of cancer. She teaches at the local university and is the curator at the local museum. After she argues with a woman about cancer’s perception in the mainstream media, Kat knows she has found her intellectual -- and physical -- match.

The two women immediately start an overwhelming affair that lasts into the final days of autumn. They go shopping for forbidden fruit in the local farmer’s market, talk about myth and art and cancer as they stay in bed all day. But soon, Kat realizes Carmen's hiding something she can't quite recognize or name. When a figure from Carmen’s past turns up, the truth about what she’s really growing in her garden may surprise -- and also relieve -- Kat of all her worries.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JMS Books LLC
• Release date: Mar 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9781685506919

Book preview

Chapter 1

We should be happy, the therapist said. She looked around the room, curling her blond hair over her ears, before she folded her hands in her lap. I know it seems odd to be ‘happy’ in the state we’re all in. But we’re alive right now and talking about it. We will go home tonight and hopefully see one another next week. Even if we don’t, we know the ending. There are no surprises for us. That’s a small miracle to celebrate. We should be content to die of old age.

Except ‘old age’ doesn’t exist anymore. A different woman spoke now, her head bald like a baby’s and the skin under her eyes dark from treatment. "Doctors can’t put that on autopsies as a cause of death. People need a real reason to die now. Cardiac failure. Pulmonary edema. Pneumonia. Trust me. I have a nurse and doctor on my in-laws’ side. They tell me what it all really means. No one ever dies of old age anymore. It’s another bedtime story. I’m not going to buy it."

And what does it all really mean, Clara? the therapist said. Katrina didn’t know her name. Her long blond hair obscured her name tag. Only the small heart, which dotted her i, was visible.

What? Life and death? Clara shrugged. The fluorescent lights of the room shone on her head. Cancer is the new old age, I guess. We weren’t designed to live this long. There is no old age anymore, just rapid cell growth until death. Being old is irrelevant; it’s just a status, a way to get discounts.

Kat stifled her groan. Old age is only irrelevant, she thought, if you’ve had people experience it. If generations of people in your family had always died young, then old age looked pretty good, if just for the discounts. Kat sighed as she crossed her legs. Over from Clara, another woman with a hacking cough talked about her lung cancer and her foolish need to smoke.

I just want to feel normal, she said. So I keep my cigarettes. It allows me to deny things a little longer.

And even then, Clara added. The doctors won’t put the real cause of death on your form. Not the cigarettes that caused the cancer. It will always be cancer obscuring the real world. It’s a mask.

That’s all I mean, the therapist said. She leaned closer to them both, her eyes alight. Cancer is the new old age. Same with pneumonia, heart attacks, anything. All of these are different names for the same thing. And instead of lamenting cancer, we should be happy to get so far in life. Nothing lasts forever—even forever. Whether or not you believe in an afterlife, there is some comfort knowing that there’s something beyond this world and the names we call things. Even if it’s just cell decay.

The therapist smiled. As she shifted in her seat, her blond hair moved against her name tag, and revealed Gabi (dotted with a heart over the i, of course). Kat knew she would soon forget the name.

The cancer support group ran from 7 - 9 P.M. every Wednesday night in the basement of St. Agatha’s church downtown. Katrina had only come to the past seven meetings in the last two months since she had her final surgery. She had been diagnosed with ovarian cancer on her thirty-second birthday. When chemo had stopped proving effective, the doctor had taken her ovaries, uterus, and basically everything else that made her bleed and cry every month in an attempt to make her better. It had worked—more or less. Two years after diagnosis, she was cancer free. Her hair had started to grow back in tight curls and she was starting to flesh out again. She was tired a lot less, even if she felt oddly empty inside.

Logically, Kat knew she was still a woman without the organs. She had even been excited at first because this surgery meant no more periods and no more cancer. She had gathered her friends, had a party, and given away everything she had associated with menstruation. But after everyone had left, sadness overwhelmed the sudden joy of being alive. She had felt as empty as the four walls of her home. Still queasy from the meds she was on, she wandered around from room to room, touching the walls, the pictures of her family, until she got to the end of the apartment. Stuck, like a dead end. She used to worry that cancer was going to end her life. But now that she had survived, she realized the cancer had stopped her DNA, her legacy. She would never have children now. Not that she had really considered having them. But now there was no other option and she was forced to make the best of it.

And Katrina? Gabi said. She turned to Kat, interrupting her thoughts. How are you feeling about all of this?

About cancer? Kat asked, shifting in her seat. Or life? They kind of blur together.

Whatever you want to talk about.

Well. I saw my doctor yesterday. Everything’s fine. There’s always a small chance it could come back. But the surgery worked, so at least I didn’t go through being turned inside out for nothing.

A few people made faces at her remarks. Kat knew her jokes were almost never appreciated here—just like her dating advice. There were two things that people never wanted cancer patients to do: fuck and laugh. It was forbidden, as if they couldn’t take part in their own treatment without being gravely serious. The afternoons Kat used to