by Mary Campisi
“Mr. Harry?” Lizzie whispered into the softness of his shirt. “Can we stay here sometime? I want to sleep in the blue room. I like the pillows.” She meant the room painted the color of the Caribbean with a four-poster bed mounded with blue and green pillows in various shapes and designs: squares with stripes, round with polka dots, triangles with swirls. How in hell he’d ever let the designer talk him into that was beyond him, but when you’re sleeping with the person making the recommendations, the noncerebral head usually makes the choices. Still, the room was a conversation piece and every female who had seen it, from Christine to Lizzie, fell in love with its random bizarreness.
“Sure. We’ll plan on a sleepover.” He probably should get Greta’s okay before promising anything. She’d already scolded him for the Cubs’ tickets he bought without her permission. What was the big deal about a baseball game?
“Tomorrow?” She lifted her blonde head and looked him in the eye. There was trust and faith in those blue eyes, and an innocence that twisted his gut. In ten years it would all get wiped away, destroyed by a world that lied, cheated, and did not keep its word. Harry didn’t want that for Lizzie; he wanted to keep her safe, protected from the harshness that seeped into everyday living like a cancer, snuffing out innocence, replacing it with doubt and suspicion. “Okay, Mr. Harry? We can have a sleepover here tomorrow?”
Harry darted a glance in Greta’s direction. Good, she was absorbed in the movie. He lowered his head until he was inches from Lizzie’s sweet face. How could Greta’s ex-husband abandon his kids? Didn’t he want to keep them safe? Hell, didn’t he know what he was missing? Harry opened his mouth to tell her the sleepover depended on her mother’s permission, but the words that fell out of his mouth were quite different. “Sure. Now, do you want chips and dip or a soft pretzel?”
Lizzie squealed and threw her arms around his neck. “Soft pretzel. Thank you, Mr. Harry. Thank you so much.”
The movie ended forty minutes later and Harry thought about mentioning the sleepover to Greta but it was late, and he didn’t really want to have this discussion in front of the kids, just in case she got pissed at him—which she probably would. Why hadn’t he been able to say “no” or “we have to wait” when Lizzie asked him? Parents were supposed to be parents and make the tough calls, right? They were not supposed to be friends. Good thing he wasn’t a parent because he’d make a horrible one. He’d give the kid everything he wanted and then wonder why he couldn’t think for himself and forge a life on his own. Isn’t that what had happened to him? Everything handed over, even his thoughts, and when it was time to use reason and common sense, there were none, because he’d never been asked to develop them? Greta had her head on straight; she was firm but fair, and consistent. That damn consistency was what really mattered. You couldn’t tell a kid no ice cream before dinner and then turn around and buy him a hot fudge sundae because he gave you that sad face.
Harry planned to wait until morning to tell her he messed up and promised Lizzie a sleepover, but when the phone rang twenty minutes later with an unhappy Greta on the other line, he knew there was no postponing anything.
“Elizabeth told me you promised her a sleepover tomorrow.”
She didn’t even offer a “hello”, which meant she was ticked. He rubbed the back of his neck and tried to figure out if he should just let her rant or start the apologies now. “I’m sorry. I screwed up. I knew I should check with you first, but damn, when she looked at me with those big blue eyes, I couldn’t say no.”
“We talked about this. Several times. You’re not to go about promising them things, Harry. It’s not fair to them. Kids believe what people say; they expect when a person says something, he’ll keep his word and when he doesn’t, they think it’s their fault.”
“Who says I wasn’t going to keep my word?”
Silence. “Don’t.”
Okay, so he’d screwed up, but she was acting like he’d lied to them. “I get it.” He paused. “Just because I never had a kid, I’m not a complete idiot.”
Long sigh. “I know you mean well, but they’re my children, and I have to protect them.”
“Protect them?” What the hell was she talking about? “From me?”
“From getting hurt.”
“I’m not going to hurt them.” He actually liked Arnold and Lizzie, which perplexed him since he’d never cared much for kids, except for Lily. Her he liked. When Greta didn’t respond, Harry pushed through the silence. “Did you hear me? I said I wasn’t going to hurt them; at least give me credit for that.”
“Oh, Harry.” Her voice slipped through the line, soft and sad. “I don’t want them to come to depend on you.”
“Why the hell not?” Did she think him such a loser that she couldn’t count on him to do right by her children? Well, he wasn’t a loser and he could be trusted. “Answer me, dammit.”
“Because one day you’ll leave.”
Chapter 12
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Blacksworth. How are you?”
“I don’t know; why don’t you open that file on your desk and tell me how I am?” She stifled a cough and cleared her throat. It would not do to have a doctor witnessing her hacking her way into a full-blown coughing fit. She cleared her throat again. “I’m fine.”
Dr. Andrew Bating nodded, adjusted his glasses, and attempted what might be a half smile. Could these doctors not learn a bit about socialization and etiquette? Did they really not possess the ability to make a patient comfortable with the proper intonation and use of words and facial expressions? Body language, dear boy, didn’t you learn about that in medical school? He looked too young, probably younger than Christine. She wondered at his education. Yes, he’d come well recommended but what did that mean? He played golf at the same country club as Roger, who quite inconveniently suffered a minor heart attack that required several weeks away from his practice. That proved sticky, especially when it came time to refill her pain pills. Of course, this new doctor required a complete history and physical—not that she’d been completely truthful with the history—before he would prescribe so much as an aspirin.
She hadn’t missed the way he looked at her when she admitted to smoking a pack of cigarettes a day. Last year it had been a pack and a half, so this was an improvement. The doctor hadn’t said anything, but she’d spotted the lecture in his eyes, even if it didn’t work its way to his mouth. Well, she’d be damned if she’d tell him about the Crown Royal. “I’m a social drinker,” she’d said, even when her liver studies came back indicating she might be a bit more than that. And the pills? “I fell off a horse years ago and suffered a horrible injury. I only take the pills on bad days.” She did not tell him all days were bad days.
Gloria had wanted refills on those prescriptions and if subjecting herself to a physical was the only way to get them, she’d do it. But she hadn’t expected he’d find spots on her lungs that required biopsies, necessitating yet another doctor visit.
“Mrs. Blacksworth?”
She glanced at him, offered a cool smile. “I’m fine.”
“We received the results of the biopsies.”
He did have a nice speaking voice though—well modulated, concerned, probably could make a nice audio…
“They’re malignant.”
…had he taken public speaking? His delivery was actually quite good; even tones, no hesitation, he got right to the meat of it. Most people danced around—
“It’s cancer, Mrs. Blacksworth.”
She jerked. “Cancer?” She, Gloria Blacksworth, had cancer?
He nodded, the dark eyes beneath the wire frames turning darker. “I’m sorry there isn’t better news.”
“Hmm.” She sat back in her chair, hooked her gaze on a photo behind the young doctor; two children, a woman, a dog staring back at her. Was he a father, a husband? A pet owner? Did it matter? She had cancer. She would lose her hair, eyebrows, a few dress sizes. Her hair stylist could recommend someone to help with the wig that anyone
would swear was Gloria’s own hair, and pencils made eyebrows in any shape and color. The tailoring would require some thought; petite women who wore size two did not seek further weight loss, but the clothing could be adjusted to hide her thinning body. Cancer? She clasped her hands together to keep them still. “I want surgery as soon as possible.” She did not want it in her body one second longer than necessary.
Three days later, she sat in another doctor’s office, this one a middle-aged oncologist with a shock of red hair and an underbite. His name was Paul Quinn, and once again, Gloria repeated her earlier demand. “I want surgery as soon as possible.”
Dr. Quinn cleared his throat, fixed his gray eyes on her, and said in a quiet voice, “That’s not really an option, Mrs. Blacksworth.”
“Oh.” And then, “Why not?”
His expression turned more sympathetic, sadder. Maybe this doctor had taken a few classes on being human and delivering bad news to patients. “Did you come here alone?”
Alone. What a horrible, treacherous word. There were those who chose to be alone and there were others who had it chosen for them. Gloria belonged to the latter group and bitterly resented it. She unclasped her hands, gripped the edge of his desk. “Yes, I came alone. Now stop dancing around the answers and tell me exactly what’s going on.”
“The cancer is in the upper lobe of the lung. It’s not operable, and it’s spread to the lymph nodes and the mediastinum.” He paused, his next words filled with concern. “Did you not have any shortness of breath or bloody sputum? Maybe loss of appetite, chest pains? Any unusual symptoms that would indicate something was going on?”
“Chest pains? Shortness of breath? Loss of appetite?” She bit out the vile words. “I lost my husband last year in a car accident. One minute he’s heading home to dinner and the next, he’s in a coffin, and he’s never coming home again. Do you know what that does to a person? Do you have any idea?” She gripped the edge of the desk harder to keep from lunging at the man. “I couldn’t eat. When I thought about the seconds after the accident, I obsessed over whether he suffered, or if it was an instant death. You tell me if that wouldn’t give you shortness of breath and chest pains? And you play it over and over in your head until you think you’ll go mad.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Blacksworth.”
He did appear sorry, well, at least there was that. She relaxed her grip on the desk and sighed. “Thank you.”
“And the bloody sputum? Maybe coughing?” he said in a gentle tone, almost a whisper. “None of that?”
She eyed him and spit out the bold-faced truth. “I smoke and I drink and I take pills, and I’ve had a nagging cough for at least five years. And the blood? Well, I figured what was a little blood considering what I was doing to my body?”
“They were signs.”
“I was not looking for a sign, dammit, I was not interested in signs.” She’d only been interested in getting through the day, before Charles’s death, and definitely after.
Dr. Quinn glanced at the open file in front of him and rubbed his jaw. “We can provide palliative care. By that I mean radiation to minimize the size of the tumor and, hopefully, alleviate some of the symptoms you’re experiencing.”
“What about chemotherapy?”
He shook his head. “It’s too advanced.”
No chemotherapy. No nausea, vomiting, hair loss. No chance to make it. She’d walk around bald for the rest of her life with a barf bag attached to her hip if she could have a chance to beat this damn monster. “Can we try chemo?” Can I have a chance?
“I’m sorry, it’s not going to help.”
Gloria stared at the photos on his desk: a young man and woman, two babies dressed in Christmas garb, and the doctor standing beside a black Labrador retriever. Where was Mrs. Quinn? Had she died? Of cancer? Had that prompted him to go into this field, so he might save others when he could not save his wife? And what of the ones he could not save? Like her? She stared at the picture until her eyes rimmed with tears. Focus and regroup. You must.
When she spoke, her voice was calm and in command. “I’m sorry, Dr. Quinn, but that is not acceptable.” She gathered her handbag and stood. She needed a cigarette, badly. “I’m going to seek another opinion.” She straightened her shoulders, raised her voice so he knew she would not settle for his treatment plan, and vowed, “And I’ll keep getting them until I find a different answer.”
Two specialists, numerous scans and appointments later landed Gloria sitting across from Dr. Marcus Patrick. Apparently, the young buck, Dr. Bating, had been accurate with his diagnosis, and Dr. Quinn had nailed the prognosis, and especially his treatment plan. Damn.
“I wish there were better news, Mrs. Blacksworth.” Dr. Patrick spoke with an empathy that told her he’d done this enough times to know when to pause, when to suggest, and when to merely listen. She’d spent weeks running from doctor to doctor and it did help that she and Charles had contributed such vast amounts to West Mount Memorial Hospital. Who could possibly turn down one of the largest contributors to the hospital and personal friend of the hospital president? Money did have a way of pushing a person to the head of the line, but sadly, it did not change the outcome.
“I’m going to die.” It wasn’t a question any longer; there was no need for that. Dr. Quinn had implied the grave prognosis before she walked out on him. The second doctor, Virginia Bentworth, had not even offered a tissue or a kind word with her death sentence. And now, Dr. Patrick with his “I wish there were better news.” She understood what he said, but more importantly, what he did not say. Death would come to her. She would not make it to the next decade of her life, maybe not even to her next birthday. Two hundred scans would not change the outcome. Neither would another hundred doctors. “How long do I have?”
Hesitation, a breath, two. “It’s very hard to say—”
“Just a guess.” She met his gaze, held it. “Please. What do you think?”
He pushed the box of tissues toward her and said in the quietest of voices, “It’s already metastasized to the lymph nodes. We can try radiation to reduce the size of the tumors—”
She snatched a tissue, swiped at her eyes. “How long, dammit?”
“Six months, maybe a year.”
Gloria blew out a long breath, coughed. “I suppose you want me to quit smoking?” Every blasted questionnaire she’d completed had asked about her smoking habits. She’d dutifully placed a check in the box and written one pack a day, though during stressful times, such as Charles’s death and Christine’s departure, it had increased.
“It’s up to you, Mrs. Blacksworth. Whatever will cause you less stress.”
Because it’s too late. No matter what you do, you’re going to die. “I suppose I could cut back. Would that help, even a little?”
He offered the gentlest of smiles. “It would.”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
Gloria made her way home through a blur of tears and disbelief. She was going to die. Oh, it might take six or twelve months, but cancer would snuff her out. There would be no looking ahead at two years, or five, or reaching sixty. She would be dead. Everybody was going to die, but to have an indicator that narrowed the timeframe? That was a bit unsettling. Charles once said he’d want to know when he was going to die, so he could be prepared. As if anyone was ever prepared to leave this earth. He certainly wasn’t. If he’d been prepared, he would not have left his affairs in such a mess, and Gloria would not be driving home alone from the doctor’s after receiving her death diagnosis.
Death. What was the point of knowing when it was coming? So a person could right wrongs? Go on a do-good crusade? Eat a bag of chocolates a day? Take a trip around the world? What was the goddamn point? There was none, not so far as Gloria could see.
When she arrived home, she pulled the car in the garage, entered the house, and proceeded to relieve her entire staff of their duties, even Elissa. Two weeks’ severance and the promise of a letter of reference got
them out the door. Maybe she’d write the letter, maybe she wouldn’t. Elissa had tried to inquire about the reasons behind the dismissal, but Gloria merely attributed the decision to a change in plans and refused to say more. Once the servants were gone, she locked the doors, closed the blinds, and made her way to the master bedroom, where she spent the next seven days smoking, drinking, popping pills, and denying the diagnosis. There was something to be said for living life in a blur of intoxication and excess, because it just didn’t matter when you couldn’t focus long enough to think, feel, or care.
On the morning of the eighth day, she slid out of bed, tossed the empty bottle of Crown Royal in the wastebasket and headed for the bathroom where she showered, brushed her teeth, and threw on a bathrobe. She wanted a cup of strong coffee and a piece of toast with cherry jam. Maybe an egg or two. Certainly she could manage that. She stuffed her cigarettes into the pocket of her robe and padded downstairs. The smell of over-ripe bananas hit her when she entered the kitchen and a glance toward the fruit basket told her why. Fruit flies swirled around three brown bananas that oozed a clear liquid onto the apples and oranges in the bowl. Gloria lifted the bowl, opened the trash drawer, and dumped the contents into the can. Why hadn’t she thought to have the cook clean out the fridge and empty the garbage before she dismissed her? And now that the staff had been let go, who was going to cook her veal, buy her peaches, clean her toilet? When she’d arrived home after the prognosis, releasing everyone from service to ensure her privacy had seemed the logical and prudent plan of action: necessary and immediate. Now, days later and in need of a cup of coffee, she had to admit that she might have been a bit hasty.
