by Heidi Willis
Ashley's wearing normal clothes again. She smiles and hums and is sometimes crabby with me when I baby her. I found a new word in a book Logan left the last time he was here: buoyant. I like it. It sounds like we are floating. Which is what it feels like.
When all the days before the red circle are crossed off, I pack my car with the remains of our life here. Bags of books and DVDs, the laptop, a box of cards, and photos Ashley has helped me take down from where the Baptist ladies taped them. We stand in the room looking at the bare white walls, the room stripped of everything that had made it home the last month, and it almost seems sad. Ashley finds a card in the box from one of the kids at church, a sloppy rainbow across the front with the words, Get Well Soon in childish writing. Inside, it reads, "God answers prayers." She holds the card to her chest for a minute and then lays it on the white pillow. I thought saying goodbye to this place would be all joy, but turns out it's a bit teary, too.
Travis has gone to drive the truck under the overhang by the front door to wait for Betsy to wheel Ashley out in a wheelchair. Not that she needs it today, but it's hospital tradition, Betsy says, so we agree to it.
Ashley looks around in that saying-goodbye kind of way and walks out to meet Betsy and the wheelchair.
The parents who live with us in the McD house are there to see us off, like I was for others before us. Several kids Ash has made friends with wave from a second story window. I've never seen so many bald children in one place, but our going seems to give them hope. I look at Ashley and think of what we've gone through, of what is ahead, and I think I didn't know hope until this moment.
I watch Ashley and Logan pile into the front seat of Travis's truck, Ashley's feet propped up on dashboard, a grin spreading from ear to ear.
"See you at home?" Travis asks, and I nod. The small crowd waves as they turn out of the parking lot and disappear down the street.
When she's gone, I return to check for anything we might have missed. The sheets are already stripped, and there's a hint of ammonia that replaces the smell of Ashley.
I drive home alone. When I walk in the door it's like the last month never happened, except the house is actually clean and there's no laundry on the sofa. Ashley's in her room, music turned up. Logan's gone. Travis is sitting in his chair in front of the TV, watching NASCAR. I sit on the couch watching with him, not talking, until car racing turns to bull riding and Logan comes home and Travis is hungry, and everything is so old normal I don't know what to do with it.
~~~~
Janise calls a little after ten. "Turn on your TV."
We turn on right as the news anchor cuts to the shot of a reporter standing in front of Children's Hospital. I recognize her as one of those local gals, the platinum blonde, face-tanned reporter whose drawl is just a bit too sugary as she reports stories that aren't sweet at all.
Logan's gone, Ashley's in bed, but Travis and I sit to watch.
"Yesterday we reported on a new treatment for diabetes-- called by some a cure--that is being touted as a possible medical miracle. As is usual with many medical breakthroughs, however, there is a controversial side to the procedure. Today, we're learning that many are protesting the fact that this cure comes from one of the leading embryonic stem cell researchers, a Dutch physician named Jack Van Der Campen."
"I thought he's American," Travis says.
"He is."
"It's come to our attention also, through extensive research, that a young Texas girl is the next patient to enter this untried and very risky treatment."
"Just because it hasn't been done in the U.S. doesn't mean it's untried," Travis growls.
I'm surprised to hear him so defensive when he himself was saying these same things not long ago. I don't get why the news, which always seems on the side of medical research, is now against it.
"Each of the patients in this trial suffer from type 1 diabetes, a disease which has no cure but is easily controlled by a drug called insulin."
"Is this lady an idiot?" Travis says.
"According to the regulations we were given to view, each patient must have some sort of complication that makes the disease difficult to control," she continues. "It seems that even the doctors running this trial agree it would be hard to justify the type of risks these children are taking."
"Why does she keep referring to them as children? One is twenty."
"I'd like her to sit up with her kid all night testing her sugar, worried every minute that she might end up passing out." I get up to turn off the TV, but Travis put his hand on my arm so I sit back down again.
"Can you tell us about the procedure and the likely complications?" Bob is saying.
"Certainly, Bob. Firstly, each child will undergo a very painful surgery in which their bone marrow is removed with a long needle."
The camera cuts to a series of pictures of things like needles and blood drops, in case people don't know what they look like, I suppose. Seems to me like they are trying way too hard to make something of nothing.
"While scientists take the marrow and attempt to extract stem cells from it, the child will then have their immune system destroyed by drugs similar to chemotherapy. This is where the majority of the risks are. Besides the usual dangers of surgery, completely killing the immune system leaves each of these children open to many other illnesses and infections."
The camera cuts back to too-tan girl looking very serious, like she really cares about all this. In the background, the sign-wielding morons are jumping up and down and smiling, and I get the feeling they are more interested in being on TV than making a point.
"If stem cells are found, they are cultivated in the lab to reproduce. When the immune system is rendered ineffective, the stem cells are reintroduced and stimulated to create more of the insulin producing cells in the pancreas. If successful, this might reverse the disease and the children might be cured. We must emphasize, though, that this has not been proven yet."
"It has been done successfully," Travis yells at the TV. "Do your research, lady!"
At the bottom of the screen a little graphic of a fetus with one of those DNA strand things through it appears, with the streaming words, check out our website for more information on embryonic stem cell controversies. Just the fact that they put this alongside the story about Ashley makes my blood boil. No one will remember what this big-haired lady says. What they will get out of this is that this is about killing babies.
Behind the reporter are protesters standing out in front of the hospital waving posters that show their collective idiocy in matters of stem cell research. On TV, Bob and the blond drone on.
"We've heard a lot about stem cell research, but we rarely hear about the practical aspects of putting this research to use. Are there drawbacks with this type of therapy?"
I hate the way they do this back and forth thing, like they're sitting in a coffee shop having a conversation instead of on TV reporting.
"Most definitely, Bob. Adult stem cells have been known to mutate into the wrong type of cell, which can obviously cause some very dangerous problems, as well as the fact that they have, in the past, had a tendency to increase the risk of cancer."
"Is this true?" Travis clicks the TV off and looks at me. "I don't remember reading about cancer, or about the stem cells turning into something else other than beta cells."
"She don't know what she's talking about." I don't know this; I'm as concerned as Travis, but I am afraid this single blonde bimbo is about to derail our plans to save Ashley, and right now all I know is, cancer or not, this is the only option we have.
"Where'd she get that information?"
"Who cares? It's wrong. You know the media. They just like to blow things up. They exaggerate it to get a reaction."
He considers this and decides I'm right. "We should ask the doctor, though. About the cancer thing."
"Okay," I say. I won't ask, but I don't tell him this. I don't want to know. She dies of diabetes now, or cancer later. I'll take the later a
nd deal with that when it comes.
~~~~
After Travis is in bed I sneak out for my cigarette and think about what the reporter said, and what everyone else is thinking. The protest signs saying we are interfering with God's design. The news that the stem cells could become something other than what the doctors intend. Could they become heart tissue or eye balls? I remember years ago hearing about some lady who had stomach pains and went in for an operation. They found she had teeth growing on her ovaries. Some cells traveled and made their home in the wrong place. Could that happen to Ashley?
I've been so worried about finding some answer, any answer, I wonder if there are some answers that are worse than no answers at all. Is it possible this cure might be worse than the disease?
And then I think of Ashley, barely strong enough to walk, sleeping all the time, not able to eat, wasting away to nothing but a skeleton in sallow skin, and I think anything is better than this life she has now.
"How far will you go?" Travis had asked me that day outside the restaurant, motioning to Dr. Van Der Campen inside munching on chips and salsa.
"As far as I need to," I said.
Right now I hope we aren't going too far. Whatever too far is.
~~~~
Chapter Twenty-Two
The first time it happens I think it must be some kind of joke. Logan's friends maybe, or a rival baseball team with too much time on their hands with summer break.
I stand in the yard, trying to work it out in my head when Travis comes out to get the newspaper and sees it, too: red paint splashed all over the driveway like blood. We turn and see it spattered on the door and the siding, smears of it forming the words baby killer, and it hits us in the gut that this is no prank.
It's a message.
"Keep the kids inside," he says, pushing me toward the house. "I'm calling the cops."
When the two officers arrive they do a quick search and find two paint cans in the bushes near the back of the garage but nothing else. One takes out a notepad and jots down something. I recognize him from our sister Baptist church across town.
"When were you last outside before the paint appeared?"
"It didn't 'appear,'" I seethe. "Someone threw it there."
"Last night," Travis says, laying his hand on my arm. "About 10:00."
"Did you hear anything suspicious after that? During the night, maybe? Anything that woke you up?"
"No," Travis answers, then looks at me. I shake my head.
"Can you get fingerprints from the paint can or something?" Travis asks.
"Probably not, but we'll try. Most likely whoever did this doesn't have a record to have prints on file anyway."
"Why do you say that?"
He shrugs. "Just a hunch. Crimes like this aren't usually done by criminals with records. They're done by people who feel morally obligated."
"You saying this is morally right?" Travis voice is low and growly, the way he gets when he's really angry.
"I'm saying they think you are morally wrong. It's not about destroying property. It's about making a point." He flips his notebook closed like he's putting the matter to rest.
"So you're not doing anything?" I say.
Again he shrugs. "Not much we can do."
Travis and Logan spend the morning trying to scrub the paint off. When hose and soap don't work, they pour some toxic chemical on it and go at it with the outdoor broom. Logan don't ask where it comes from or what it means, but I figure he knows. He don't complain, neither, about giving up band practice for cleaning. When I go to the store I buy him a tub of Twizzlers and put them on his bed.
The next day our mailbox is bashed in. The policeman don't even flip open his notebook for this one. "It might not have anything to do with you. Looks like kids just playing pranks after drinking a bit too much."
"But no one else's mailbox is beat up," I point out.
"Well, it's hard to ID the bat that might've done this, so I think you're just gonna have to buy yourself a new mailbox and figure out why you think y'all are targets."
Travis and me look at each other, then back at him. He looks at us like he's waiting for us to say something, admit maybe that we are the baby killers, but Travis clamps his hand over mine and nods tersely. "Maybe you're right, Officer. Maybe it's just kids."
The cop waits a second, and seeing we ain't talking more, gets in his car and drives away.
~~~~
I Google "Jack Van Der Campen" and "embryonic stem cell" and within seconds there are over ten thousand hits. I let my eyes wander over the titles and their descriptions, but I don't click on them. Just the words in their brief summaries are enough to make me sick to my stomach. It don't take many pages to realize he's not just the face on the posters, he's the face of embryonic stem cell research. Aborted fetuses. Invitro embryos. Experiments and research and test tubes and mice. He's neck up in everything bad about stem cells, and I shut down the computer before the third page. I don't care, I tell myself. This is different. I don't let myself think about how many babies died for him to learn what he needs to make Ashley well. It's not the same, I say to myself.
~~~~
Turns out we'd've been better off not fixing the mailbox, 'cause hate mail starts showing up. Not the stamped kind that comes through the post office. It's the kind that's written in cut-out magazine letters and folded without envelopes. No one threatens us. At least not with bodily harm or anything. It's more along the lines of "you will burn in hell." Since it ain't God I'm scared of at this point, I tear up the letters and throw them away.
We don't call the police this time, 'cause we're pretty sure they ain't on our side. For once I wish we lived in some city up north, one of those places way outside the Bible belt with all those liberals and pro-choice democrats.
We don't tell Ashley, and it seems she don't notice. She don't leave the house much. She gabs on the phone with her friends and keeps up on the message boards with her new diabetic friends and in general keeps herself in her room. She's happy thinking life is a little normal again, so Travis and Logan and me all tiptoe around it, trying to make it that way for her.
We don't talk about it with anyone else, either. It's like if we said it happened, we'd be saying we're the ones--putting a big target on our backs or something, and so we don't. We act like it's normal to clean paint off the driveway and replace mailboxes and lightposts and windows, and fill in holes big as a grave dug in the front yard with its graphic paper headstone. We stop reporting it 'cause the police don't do nothing anyway.
There's only a few days left until we leave. Maybe when we're gone it'll all stop. I haven't seen nothing lately on the news about it, so it seems like it's just a local thing now, and I'm thinking it may just be kids, like the police said. A day passes with nothing, and then another one, and I think maybe this all will just go away.
~~~~
"Babs?" It's Janise, and I can tell from the way she says my name it ain't good. "I'm not sure you should go to church tomorrow."
"What?" I wave my hands to get Logan to turn down his video games and press one hand over my ear to hear better. "Yeah, we're going to church."
"I don't think you should," she says, louder so I can hear her plain as frogs on a summer night. I wave at Logan again, and he turns off the games, none too pleased, and sulks out.
"What's wrong?"
"There's a rumor going around. I heard it from some women in my church. I don't believe it, but people are talking."
I can't imagine what people in her church would be saying that would have to do with me and my church. I gather the remotes that are spread out around the room like they got legs and walked away. "So?"
"It's about the news story--the stem cell thing."
I catch my breath before realizing she don't know about Ashley. We haven't talked about the clinical trial and the upcoming procedure to anyone. Other than Donna Jean and Pastor Joel, I dodn't think anyone even knows Ashley needs more treatment. As far as everyone else is
concerned, we got Ashley's diabetes under control and now she's home.
"People just like to get riled up. You know that. They probably got the news all wrong anyway."
"I don't think so, Babs. That doctor running the trials in D.C.--he's the baby killin' guy all right."
I squeeze my eyes shut and hold a finger to my temple, warding off a sudden migraine. "What does it have to do with them, though? Why do people here care so much?"
She's quiet a second, letting the clock tick tock like a bomb in the room. "They say someone from Collier Springs is doing it."
I freeze, not wanting to hear what comes next. It comes anyway.
"Some are saying it's Ashley."
I sink into the couch and take this in. They can't say it on the news. She's a minor. Dr. Jack has promised us that they can't say anything unless we tell them it's okay. But somehow someone knows.
"Babs?"
"We ain't done nothing wrong, Janise."
"I know that, honey. I do."
"We're just trying to take care of Ashley."
"I know that."
But I don't know that she does. If the folks in town think we're part of some stem cell research for a cure, they're gonna think what they want, which is pretty much what the news tells them to think: that there's something morally wrong with using stem cells. They won't get that this is different. That Ashley ain't using someone's unwanted pregnancy to get better. That she's healing herself. Who's ever heard of that before? Who would believe it if they heard it?
She waits for me, but my jaw is clenched so hard I can't speak.
"There are some groups around town really spun up over this. They're planning some big protest this Sunday. Near your church." She waits but I say nothing. "It's summer. Everyone's bored," she rushes on, as if I need an explanation. "And it's not like it's a big town. There aren't that many sick people here." She waits again. "Babs?"
