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strict regulations governing fund-raising and philanthropy. I don’t know the details—we have lawyers and tax people for that stuff—but I do know that everything goes directly to the Breast Cancer Alliance. We aren’t even taking a share for operating costs. Laurie’s rules.” Shiny’s admiration of my sister nearly shimmered across the phone lines.
    “I’m glad.” I was. Really. Gladness personified.
    Shiny’s squeaky falsetto dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “You didn’t hear this from me, but this couldn’t come at a better time for the show. Our ratings have been slipping a little. Alicia—that’s the station director—isn’t happy, Laurie’s nervous, and our biggest competitor is gaining on us. That’s why we need a win right now, something we can spin but really
matters,
you know? But we have to dot every ‘I’ and cross every ‘T’, too. Otherwise they’ll find some reason to can us, and . . . let’s just say I think it would be, like, a
travesty
if the world lost a visionary like Lauren White to the ratings wars, you know?”
    She had me convinced.
    “Look, Raquel, I’m glad to have this chance to talk with you, because I just want to say you’re really making a difference.
    I, like, totally respect you for putting yourself out there while you’re going through this, and trying to help other women. Nobody would blame you if you didn’t, but the way you think of others before yourself, is, well, it’s awesome. And the fact that you speak your mind instead of sugarcoating everything. You may not realize it, but you’ve just become an icon to the breast-cancer community.”
    Raquel Rose, icon.
    Like all thoughts that brew in the cavernous pit of self-doubt and wishful thinking that is midnight ponderings, this one stinks of delusion. I lick my finger and dab at the potpourri of crumbs on my plate. Being a pillar of iconlike strength sounds like hard work. All the more reason to keep my strength up.

CHAPTER 4
     
Confucius Wish You Double Happiness
    “I don’t understand. How can you possibly make a mistake like this?” I wail.
    Samuel Meissner, M.D., sighs and rakes his hand through his Harvard-approved mop of chestnut hair. It is hard to look straight at him, now that I know where that hand passes the time when it isn’t palpating my breasts.
    “Mrs. Rose, I’m sure you can appreciate the unlikelihood of two women named Raquel Rose getting breast biopsies the same week at the same hospital.”
    “Not really. I mean, don’t you use computers to keep track of this stuff?”
    Meissner leans back and studies me. He looks unhappy. I wonder if he gives Wendy Yen that look when she does something that pisses him off, like rushing back to San Carlos to make sure the housekeeper has finished making Connor Welch’s brats’ dinner or not letting Meissner come in her mouth.
    “Mrs. Rose, you’ve just had a death sentence revoked. I would think you’d be thrilled.”
    “I am. Of course I am.”
Am I?
    “You don’t have cancer. The lump’s benign. You’ll live a long, full life.” He checks his watch, a fancy gold cuff that shouts Shiksa Goddess, There’s More Where This Came From.
    “But how can I trust anything you people tell me after this? What if I
do
have it?”
    “I promise, you don’t. The biopsy, remember?”
    Oh yeah. “But . . .”
But what?
“I don’t
feel
right. I feel sick.”
    Annoyance flashes, quickly veiled. “Mrs. Rose, I have a hundred percent confidence that at this moment you are suffering nothing more than an attack of nerves. You’ve had a trauma, but you’ll recover. If you want, I can refer you to a qualified therapist.” His hand dangles threateningly over his Rolodex.
    “I already have one, thanks.”
And she’s going to get an earful this week!
    He is halfway out the door. “Now you just skedaddle on home and tell your family the great news.”
    “Skedaddle.” I hate that word, even when children use it.
    I tuck the sunflower with