Przewalski opened her door and the two of them walked to the front doors of Fiddler. A few students whispered to each other and pointed as the two entered the building. I waited to make sure they were inside, then backed the car up and drove around to the far end of the block. I shut the car off, hopped out, and backtracked as quickly as I could, picking a spot diagonally across the street to set up camp. I checked my watch. I had some time before I had to be on the road, assuming I'd break some speed limits to get to Demitri's office.
I scanned the sidewalks, the streets, and the building entrances, my eyes skimming over people and objects, letting my mind and my intuition do the work of looking for the break in the pattern, the thing that jumps out. I'd learned a while ago that trying too hard screws with your attention. You focus on a bright, shiny object and realize too late that it's a handbag when what you're actually looking for is a gun. I didn't let my eyes get lazy--though Lord knew I was feeling the effects of last night's circus--but I trusted heavily in my instinct with a nudge from my experience. When something seemed to snag my attention, I gave it a five second stare, then moved on.
Ten minutes into my one-man surveillance, the streets filled up as kids cut it close, rushing to make their eight o'clock class. I watched as the dreadlocks, the backpacks, the sandals, the piercings, the black eye-shadow, and the tattoos passed by, some kids scooting now as they tried to slip behind a desk at the last second, others sauntering along unconcerned. All of the kids dressed like felons to my aged eye, but nothing screamed "Michael Wheeler" at me. No one stalked along with a handgun and a mission. No one flung white carnation petals all over the sidewalk. In fact, the place became strangely empty before a new surge of kids, probably just getting off the Foggy Bottom Metro, crowded the sidewalk again. I glanced at my watch. I had to go. I'd done what I could for Amanda and had to trust that I'd delivered her into good hands.
Now I had to go do the same for myself.
Chapter Sixteen
Nurse Leah whisked me back to an exam room ten minutes after I walked through the door.
"Hey," I said, surprised. "Not this again. I thought I was supposed to go to the lounge?"
Leah smiled. "I'm going to check your vitals, then I'll go over the chemo procedure. After that, you get the easy chair. Same routine, every time."
I groused some but at least they hadn't made me wear a paper bag again. Leah took my temperature, blood pressure, and so on, then handed me a laminated pamphlet. It was entitled "The Folfox Protocol," which sounded like a Robert Ludlum novel to me. Underneath was a list of medicines and chemical names like I'd never seen, most of them ending in "zan" and "vorin" and "zine." Leah pointed each one out as she launched into a spiel worthy of any flight attendant. This one was for nausea, that one was to protect the stomach, this one killed the cancer, another flushed the last one out before it could kill the patient.
She took some blood through the mediport and disappeared with the little plastic tube. A minute later she was back to go over the same side-effects Demitri had told me about, the weird lineup of fatigue, cold sensitivity, and numbness, none of which seemed related. I nodded politely, tired of listening. There was a knock on the door and another nurse opened it to hand Leah a sheet, which she scanned quickly, bobbing her head as if to a song. She looked up, smiling. "All clear. Let's get started."
She led me back to the easy-chairs. Four were occupied. Leah put me between an elderly woman with an elaborate knitting project in her lap and a young black guy sound asleep with headphones on. Even through the headphones I could hear the tinny beat of whatever lullaby had knocked him out. Everyone who was conscious gave me a smile or a wave as I sat down. I was part of the club.
Leah introduced me to the woman, whose name was Ruby. The other lucky suckers were Jim, a phone line technician; Mandy, a cake decorator; and Leroy, who slept in a chair for a living. I got the sense it was fine to mention this was my first time, but maybe not so cool to ask how far along everyone was, for the obvious reason that the question would reveal where they stood with the disease. But I was spared making conversation when Jim and Mandy went back to their books.
Ruby, on the other hand, had waited her whole life to talk to me. I told her I'd been a cop and those were the last words I managed to get in that hour, interrupted only by Leah coming in and switching some tubes around. I learned about Ruby's favorite police TV show, her favorite police novel, the best police film ever made, and so on until I was ready to rip the tubes out of my chest and sprint for the door. In one of the few lulls in the monologue, I asked about her knitting to change the subject. That was the second sentence I uttered and definitely the last one I remembered as the previous night's hijinks caught up with me. My last conscious view was of Leah coming in, shooting me a sympathetic look--for the chemo or for having to listen to Ruby, I'm not sure which--and changing my lines one last time. After that, Marty Singer was on the fast-track to La-La Land, helped on his way by Ruby's non-stop vocal drone.
. . .
Aside from two concussions I'd received in the line of duty, I awoke feeling more stupid and dizzy than I ever had in my life. This was comparable on the wooziness scale, but those other times I'd also experienced massive pain on waking, which is what happens when you've been hit with a pipe (the first) and a fist (the second). This time, at least, there was no pain, but it was as if someone had taken my brain out, scrubbed it, then put it back upside down by mistake.
I focused on the room around me. Ruby and her knitting were gone, thankfully. Jim and Megan had also finished, and apparently Leroy had woken up long enough to walk out. He'd been replaced by a woman in her forties or fifties, also wearing headphones and with her eyes closed, but drumming her fingers on the arm of her chair. My brain commanded my arm to lift and I glanced at my watch. It was after eleven. I groaned out loud. I'd promised Amanda I'd be picking her up after class about now.
Leah moved into view. "How're you holding up?" she asked. "You've been out for a while."
"I feel…I feel weird," I said.
"Weird like sick?" she said, looking around. For a bedpan, I assumed.
"No. More like you did a lobotomy on me."
"We tried," she said. "But we couldn't find anything to take out."
I wanted to laugh, but nothing came out. Instead, I said, "How much longer is this going to take?"
She grabbed a small plastic cup off a cart and handed it to me. "Here. It's apple juice. What's the rush, sport?"
"I have to pick somebody up," I said. It sounded stupid even to me, seeing as how I was having trouble keeping my eyes from crossing.
She looked at me quizzically. "You're kidding, right? What part of ‘have a friend to take you home' didn't you get?"
I shook my head. What was I supposed to say? I didn't think it would be this bad? "Can't help it. I gotta."
She shook her head. "Sorry, but you're not going anywhere. I'm serious. Maybe later, when you know your limits with the treatment, but you're in no shape to hit the road. Is there any way your friend can get a ride from someone else? Or can we call a cab?"
I shook my head again, not to disagree, but because I suddenly felt numb all over. Useless. Helpless. It was as though someone had ripped away the proverbial curtain, showing me that what I'd been thinking and what was real were at complete odds with each other. I'd been treating cancer like it was the flu, an inconvenience that I'd have to put up with temporarily. Except cancer wasn't just a sore throat and a fever, and chemo wasn't just a shot in the arm. Cancer wasn't a bump in the road, it was the road, and I'd better make plans to treat it that way. My life, as I knew it, had changed for good.
Leah put her hand on mine. Her fingers were cool, dry, and soft. She smelled like soap and fabric softener and flowers and a bunch of other things that were solid and good.
"It's real, now?" she asked.
I swallowed. "It's real."
"That doesn't mean it's over, okay?" she said. "It's going to be the number one thing in you
r life, but it's not going to be the only thing, got it?"
"I think I figured that out," I said. "Took me a while."
"Do you have anybody at home we can call?"
My face froze into a mask and I could feel my throat tighten up. "I have a cat. Pierre. And he can't drive."
She smiled, then squeezed my hand. "What's your friend's name, the one you have to pick up? Let me give them a call, see if they can make it without you. Maybe they can even swing by and help you home."
I shook my head, but I was too tired to explain that I was the one who was supposed to be helping people, not the other way around. I fumbled for my cell, thinking of calling Amanda to let her know I wouldn't be coming, but before I could concentrate on punching the number, somebody toyed with the focus on the camera and the room went fuzzy. I sank back into a big black pit where all the noises came through a ten foot layer of cotton, everything smelled of flowers and apple juice, and no one talked about cancer, or drugs, or death.
. . .
"So what should I do when I get him home?'
"There's not much to do. Help him get comfortable and stay positive. He'll be tired and woozy. Don't try to get him to eat or drink if he doesn't want to. He'll tell you when he's ready. We're sending him home with some anti-nausea stuff if he's not. That was a hell of a reaction he had."
"Is it always going to be this bad?"
"No. This is the tough part, where we have to wait for the drugs to work through his system. His reaction here and at home helps us grade the strength of the chemo regimen for next time. I know Dr. Demitri planned an aggressive dosage to try and get the best results, but it doesn't make sense if it ends up making Marty feel like this every time."
"God, I hope not. He looks terrible."
I opened my eyes, though they felt like they had to be unzipped first. I was still in the easy chair. A blanket had been draped over my lap. Amanda and Leah were standing nearby, heads close together.
"I can't look that bad," I croaked, trying to interject some humor into the situation, but the only words that came out were "can't" and "bad." The two looked over. Amanda had a worried expression on her face that twitched into concern and anger when she saw that I was awake.
"Marty," she said, coming closer. She had her enormous backpack with her. Just looking at the thing made me tired. She dropped it to the ground and leaned down next to me. "What the heck were you thinking? I can't believe you agreed to help me knowing you were starting chemo, for God's sake. Why didn't you tell me?"
"I'm feeling much better, thanks," I said. Leah poured me a plastic cup of water, which I knocked back and held out for more. I looked at her. "I thought you said the worst would be like having bad Mexican."
She bit her lip. "We can't always predict the reactions people have. I'm afraid you tipped the scale in the wrong direction."
No kidding, I thought. Then I looked back at Amanda. A mistake.
She was glaring at me. "Marty, this is crazy. All of it. We need to get you home, then I'll find some other way to handle Michael."
I swallowed, then shook my head. "No." She opened her mouth to say something, but I held up a hand. "Home first, then talk. Believe me, I'm not up for doing anything heroic and stupid right now."
Amanda frowned, a crease forming over the bridge of her nose, but said nothing.
I pushed the blanket off and, with their help, I was able to stand, pull on my coat, and totter out to the front desk, where I made a follow-up appointment with the receptionist. I kept nodding, agreeing to whatever date and time she was saying so I could get the hell out of there. Leah walked us out the front door, her hand under my elbow. She got us to the door, where she watched, her arms folded across her chest, as Amanda helped me into my own car.
I stared straight ahead, trying not to think, and failing. Amanda had almost been attacked the day after I'd taken the job, I was flat on my back from a chemo treatment, and she'd had to be the one to come get me. Why didn't I hire her, instead? I didn't feel like an ex-cop, I didn't feel like a bodyguard. I wasn't ready to start an investigation or stop a potential killer. I felt like Amanda's invalid father, ready to go back to the nursing home.
My bones felt heavy, as though they were sagging through my flesh. Slush spattered the windshield and the world outside was gray. I put the seat back and stared out the window, wondering if I had enough life left to preserve and, if I did, why bother?
v.
She was gone.
The lock had been easy--ten seconds' work--but he was still cautious. Kids at school had more electronic equipment than entire police departments did a decade ago. If she had a security camera with a motion sensor, his breakin was already playing in real-time on a website somewhere while he stood in the doorway. If so, it wouldn't be long before a patrol car would be on its way.
With his back turned to the room, he pulled a ski mask on over his face, then did a circuit, looking for outlets and cords in particular. Few webcams operated on batteries, so he pulled every plug he found. An alarm clock began its urgent, neon 12:00…12:00….12:00 and there would be lights that wouldn't come on when their switches were thrown, but he didn't care if he left that kind of evidence behind. She would know, in her gut, it was him. That was the point, after all.
He prowled the small apartment, asking himself what he'd learned with the flowers. This wasn't a courtship. There were no sunsets to ride into. This was about exorcising demons, about obliterating the past. He needed to admit he was enjoying teasing himself and her; some part of him couldn't resist the delicious twist of the petals, that there was a sentimental reminder that only the two of them shared. It was dangerous. Self-indulgent. He'd have to be more disciplined. Emotions like that had almost tripped him up the first time.
And could ruin things for him now. He'd watched in shock as Marty Singer, of all the people in the world, had skidded to a stop on the sidewalk outside the classroom building and ran around like a super cop, just like he had twelve years ago. And even though nothing Singer had done had touched him then, the man was dangerous. There'd be no more chances to scatter flowers.
He searched thoroughly like he'd been taught, looking for clues as to where she'd gone. As he upended boxes and pulled out drawers, the scent of her caught in his nostrils. Thoughts of Singer vanished, replaced with visions of Amanda as a little girl. Riding her bike. Laying on her bed. Playing in the yard. The memories elicited an involuntary croon from somewhere deep in his chest, a small animal noise that started to uncoil and grow. A prickling sensation started along his hairline and ran up and down his arms. He gulped in air, trying to clamp down on the feeling and the sound, choking both. This wasn't the time to give in. He stood there for a long moment, breathing heavily, gaining control. When he felt like he'd recaptured his focus, he opened his eyes and assessed.
Dishes were piled in the tiny, utilitarian sink. Garbage swelled in the trashcan, pushing the lid off. Clothes and papers were strewn around the fake hardwood floor. It would be tempting to believe this was just how a recent college grad lived or that maybe she was only gone for the day. If you didn't notice the small things. No checkbook or cell phone charger. Dresser drawers closed, but half empty. A jewelry box with impressions in the red velvet liner, but no tenants. She'd left in a rush and meant to be gone for a while.
Only one thing of note was left: a small glass figurine of a unicorn, lying on its side on the top of a dresser. It was the kind of meaningless keepsake a little girl wins at a carnival and keeps on a shelf with pink ribbons and candles. He stared when he saw it, letting the barest memory float to the surface of his mind and take shape. He'd seen it that night, the night everything had changed. The night, though he hadn't known it yet, that his life had gone to shit.
He placed the figurine in the center of the apartment, as though choosing a place of reverence. Resting his foot on it with exaggerated care, he ground it into the floor until it was nothing but grains of multi-colored glass. He liked the crunching sound it made
and he twisted his boot several times to hear it again.
He took off his mask and walked out, leaving the door unlocked and open behind him.
Chapter Seventeen
We pulled up to the curb in front of my house. I managed get out of the car and stand up, all on my own. As long as I held onto the door. Amanda came around from the other side and threw one of my arms over her slim shoulders. She was surprisingly strong. We made the thirty feet to the front door in under a minute. A voice inside my head was screaming that we should be checking the back door, looking for signs of a breakin, and generally showing more caution than we were as we limped along. But that voice was drowned out by the one that needed me to lay down…now.
We got inside and I collapsed on the couch, a neat parallel to how I'd crashed onto it the day before. Amanda bustled around the first floor, turning lights on, feeding Pierre, and generally not looking in my direction or talking to me. I did a silent physical inventory and was relieved to find that I wasn't nauseous or in pain, simply wiped out beyond belief. I watched Amanda go about her self-appointed tasks, then flagged her down on her third fly-by through the living room.
"Hey," I said.
She stopped. "Yeah?"
I waved to a chair. "Can you sit down? Please? I'm going to apologize now and I'm too tired to yell to you in the kitchen."
She sat, managing to huff without making a sound. Her mouth was set in a firm, unrelenting line and her hands were carefully arranged on the arms of the chair. I stared at her for a second, trying to judge the best way to start, came up with nothing. So I dove right in.
"So. I've got cancer. I'm sorry. I should've told you. But I hadn't gone to chemo yet, as you probably guessed. I thought I had everything under control. Why not? It's been a long time since I got hit with something that I couldn't handle, so I fought it in my usual stupid way, like nothing was wrong. As if a little bit of luck and a couple visits to the doctor were all I needed. Apparently, that was a mistake. I've got to face the fact that things might not work the way they did before, that I can't make an assumption like I'll drop you off in the morning and pick you up later after a little dose of chemo."
A Reason to Live (Marty Singer1) Page 12
