by Nicky Webber
‘Well, I just kept thinking it was nothing. Some days I felt okay and others, I could barely move and wanted to stay in bed all day.’
‘So, have you been to a doctor?’ asks Logan, his voice tight with concern.
‘Yes. I got sent to the hospital…’
Maddy gasps as both her hands fly to her mouth. The blood drains from her face. Logan reaches over and grabs Hawke’s forearm.
‘What’s wrong? What did they say?’ Logan’s voice is breathless with urgency, and fear creeps into his restricted chest, but his voice is still strong with authority.
Hawke draws in a deep breath and releases it before carrying on. ‘I had tests, scans, all that stuff, and the bottom line is that I have some sort of blood cancer, a kinda lymphoma thing going on.’
Both Logan and Maddy gasp in unison. Neither speaks, concentrating all their energy on Hawke’s words.
‘I’ve signed consent forms for a lymph biopsy and genetic test to confirm which type it is,’ he states. ‘I go to hospital after the weekend.’ He hesitates, taking on board the shocked expression on their faces. ‘But they can treat it. It’s very treatable, so I’ll be okay. Just not a pleasant thing to tell you both, and Dad needs to know too.’
Maddy repeats, ‘Oh my God,’ over and over. Logan stands and hugs her. Thoughts of cancer and Mila immediately flash through their minds. Maddy can’t help tears welling as panic engraves itself on her face.
Logan turns to Hawke. ‘Hey. You’re going to be okay. I promise. We’ll get you the best of the best treatment. You’re young and fit, way ahead of the rest.’
Hawke stands up to hug his tearful mother. ‘Mom, don’t cry,’ Hawke pleads. ‘It’s just a blip on the radar. Work is cool. I can take as much time off as I need and, of course, I’ll be able to work in between the treatments. I don’t even know if it’s definite yet until I get the biopsy results.’
After a lengthy discussion into the night, Hawke returns to his apartment, near the city which he shares with his girlfriend, Tracey. He still has to tell her the news.
Once he had gone, both Maddy and Logan discuss their fear and shock at Hawke’s medical status. They are mostly silent and tearful, hugging and reassuring one another that Hawke will beat the disease. At one point Maddy becomes overwrought, knowing that Lymphoma was a blood cancer and the cancerous cells would course through Hawke’s entire body. Finally, emotionally drained and exhausted, they both say a solemn good night and Maddy goes to bed. She will explain to Fred after he returns home from his business trip.
Early the next morning, Logan calls out of the blue at 5.25am when Maddy is still lingering in the twilight zone between her a fractured night’s sleep and early sunrise.
Logan has hardly slept as well, but in the cold light of day he had realizes the genetic test Hawke will undertake could seriously backfire on them all.
‘This is not the time or place, but I think we both need to be very aware of the implications of Hawke’s tests,’ Logan offers as his opening salvo.
‘Yup,’ Maddy simply says. She knows only too well how much destruction it could bring into their lives if paternity is confirmed.
****
An exhausted wife meets Fred’s return flight from Connecticut after two sleepless nights struggling with phone calls from Hawke and Logan. The deep end of their conundrum has now become bottomless, and a murky layer of frightening possibilities rears up from the depths of Maddy’s thinly disguised dread.
Fred can tell when he sees Maddy standing in the crowd at the Airport Arrivals hall that something is very wrong. She looks seriously pale and distressed. He doesn’t know what to say, reverting to his default position of silence. She will explain in her own good time.
Back safely at home, Maddy breaks the news to her husband. To her surprise, Fred doesn’t seem to react badly at all, taking the approach that Hawke is otherwise young, active and healthy.
‘He’ll beat this, Maddy,’ he says immediately. ‘He has youth on his side. If he were eighty-five, I’d say it will kill him. But thank heavens at twenty-three, he’s going to bounce straight back.’
Tears fill Maddy’s eyes as she tries to speak. Fred senses he should give his wife a hug, so he awkwardly reaches forward and holds her close.
‘Don’t worry. Hawke’s going to be fine,’ Fred reassures his wife.
It’s five long days before the results of the medical tests are available. Maddy drives Hawke to the doctor’s rooms to confirm the diagnosis and agree on a treatment plan.
Maddy believes thinking is a dangerous preoccupation, but she has nothing else to distract her mind from the fear of Hawke’s illness and the terror of exposing her son’s true family lineage.
The Oncologist is an affable middle-aged man, and Maddy guesses he was about her age. He wears a crisp, white-collared shirt and thin navy-blue tie. Dr. Smythe’s voice is soft, demanding attention or listeners risk missing the meaning and the values he attributes to his minimal words.
He sniffs before he speaks to the pair, their anxious eyes concentrating on his. ‘Yes, the biopsy confirms its Non-Hodgkinson’s Lymphoma, and we’ll follow up with a bone marrow test next week,’ he says.
Silence.
Dr. Smythe continues. ‘It’s not great news, I know, but it’s also not so bad. We have several treatments and will start him on chemotherapy next week too. You’ll talk to the Charge Nurse in oncology who will go through the treatment plan with you both.’
‘What’s it mean?’ asks Maddy in a tentative voice, struggling to absorb this additional information. ‘Are you saying there is a cure?’
‘Yes. He’s at stage three,’ the doctor says.
‘How many stages are there?’ Hawke asks.
‘Four,’ says Dr. Smythe, waiting for their reaction. ‘Let me explain a bit of background and put this in context. Hawke is a strong fit, young man, so his chances are good. It appears to be prevalent in several lymph nodes, so we don’t want to delay getting him into hospital. The treatment isn’t great, but we have lots of first-class designer drugs, these days, to beat the disease and help minimize the side effects.’ He looks from one pale face to the other. It’s hard to tell if any of this is sinking in. He expects stunned expressions on his patients’ faces. There will be questions and phone calls, and he will have to explain again, in more depth.
After some discussion among the three of them, Dr. Smythe states the need for a genetic test.
‘A disease like this has a strong genetic component, and we do it as part of the work-up and to alert other family members, particularly siblings who could be at high risk of developing the disease,’ he explains as he types a few notes on Hawke’s medical file, into his laptop.
Maddy holds her breath, unable to think or speak. Hoping against reality that the doctor will not require Fred to take a genetic test too.
‘Does it mean my brother could have it?’ asks Hawke, with deep concern. ‘Or could my kids get it?’
Dr. Smythe grins. ‘How many kids have you got?’ They all laugh, breaking the tension. ‘Look often it jumps a generation, but probably a good idea to get your brother and both parents tested to make sure. It’s not absolutely vital, but it makes logical sense, especially as it’s a little unusual to have this type of lymphoma in someone so young.’
‘Hawke’s father has been away for work, but I’ll talk to him and my other son, Blake, tonight,’ Maddy says, deciding to take the high ground and act as normal as possible. She will unscramble her emotional state in the privacy of her own home. She briefly considers confessing to Mila and immediately dismisses the idea as a shameless way of releasing her guilt and rupturing their friendship.
And then there is Fred.
CHAPTER 22
An Ending
The stark, white-tiled bathroom almost hurts Logan’s eyes as he surveys the room. He stands clutching the door frame to steady himself. The light bounces off the hard surfaces as he notices a faint perfume smell. It’s the familiar smell of Mil
a. Tears well. He glances down into the bath again where his wife’s dead body lay. Mila Jones, fully dressed, awkwardly slouches against the cold porcelain. There are no apparent signs of a struggle, no blood or injury. Her sheer white blouse innocently clings to her breasts and tucks into the waist of her jeans. Her feet are naked, her shoes neatly positioned on the pale blue bathmat.
Somehow the sight of her two beautiful bare feet stab him with pain. Something is haunting and isolated about her lying there. She will never walk beside him again. He will never sit on the sofa, stroking her feet, while watching television together as she drifts into a relaxed sleep. He gasps out loud. The sharp loss cuts into his very soul. Moments earlier he had tried unsuccessfully to lift her, but in his panic soon realized he needed to call the police. Once they establish his address, the response is unmistakable.
‘Touch nothing!’ the female emergency responder says into his muffled ear. Was it his voice or had sobs and screams already escaped into the room? The painful noise in his head is overwhelming. He can’t think. He didn’t know how to explain or what to say. She repeats herself and reassures him the police will soon arrive.
He drops the cell phone and leans back over the bath. Hoping against cold reality that he has somehow misunderstood. Mila can’t be dead. He carefully peers at her again, her mouth slack-jawed, a faint blue tinge to her lips. Logan has already pulled strands of hair away from her face and he gently runs a hand over her head. Part of him is like an outside observer staring at her dark hair straddling the rim of the bath as her head lies awkwardly tilted backwards. Feeling for a pulse in her neck again, his fingers concentrate their efforts on picking up a heartbeat. Nothing. An empty bottle of pills lie on the floor, the lid having rolled into the corner under the towel rail. A half empty bottle of limoncello stands on the floor next to the bath like a sentry guarding the scene. Suddenly, the full realization of her death slams into his consciousness.
Logan pitches his head back, releasing a heart-wrenching, guttural scream. The primal sound escapes from his strangled throat like a trapped animal desperately screaming to free its soul. His tortured shriek would chill the blood of the most hardened observer.
But no one is there. He is utterly alone.
Logan kneels beside the bathtub and presses his cheek against his wife’s face. Her skin is still warm, giving him a momentary shock. Pulling back, he looks into her eyes, wide but now glassy from death’s eroding fingers. He understands she has gone, leaving only her body behind. A loud, uncontrollable sob escapes his lips as he cries. A remote doorbell rings. Standing clumsily, he braces himself on the edge of the bath. He takes a few steps and turns his tear-stained face towards the door. He stops as the doorbell urgently rings a few more times. Glancing back at his lifeless wife, he has only one question. ‘Why?’
Mila had been so full of energy and light. They had shared over thirty-years of marriage, but never in his wildest dreams could he have imagined their wedding vows ending like this. He was four years older than her, and he took it for granted she would outlive him. Her suicide was premature, especially considering the oncologist recently reassured them both that she could remain in remission for several more years.
Two years earlier, Mila was first diagnosed with breast cancer at the Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. She confided with Maddy, confirming she had no intention of rotting in a hospital bed. There would be no courageous fight to the end, as the death notices often publicize.
‘No way!’ Mila announced. ‘I want control over my untimely demise.’
She raised her orange juice and clinked the glass again with Logan’s coffee mug. Her dark eyes laughing at him. ‘Don’t look so morose. It’s only death. I’m not banning you from sex, chocolate, and beer.’
He gave a wry grin. ‘So, what sort of time-frame are you talking about?’ he asked. ‘When’s your cut-off date?’
‘I’ll know when I know.’ She smiled across the table.
‘You’re going to tell me, right? You know how I hate surprises!’
She shrugged. ‘Of course! Let’s not dwell on it.’
‘Okay, so I’m on notice then?’ His eyes rested on hers.
‘No!’ She was convincing in her quick response. ‘Of course not.’ She walked around the kitchen table and kissed him on the nose and forehead as if he were a fractious child. ‘There’s plenty of life left yet!’
Logan marvelled at her deception. It was only five days ago they chatted so nonchalantly over breakfast. The early morning sunlight streaming into their white and stainless-steel kitchen. Shades of morgues and hospitals, he now thought. Why hadn’t he seen the signs?
A bunch of funeral flowers, purple and yellow Irises, lay wilting in their glass vase on the timber dining table. The succulent green stems looked slightly blurry, but on closer inspection, Logan saw they were fuzzy with dying. Like his dead wife, they too had joined the relentless treadmill of life’s terminal touch. He walked over and picked up the limp flowers, putting his nose to them. They smelt of nothing, not even of decomposing plant matter. Just blank. The end. He unceremoniously wrenched the flowers from the vase and shoved them into the kitchen sink. Gathering up the slimy stems, he flung them dripping into the under-counter rubbish bin. He flushed the tap water down the drain. A few dead petals and soggy leaves spun around as the water emptied. He filled the container with cold water and left it standing in the sink. There would be no more flowers. Flowers, funerals and the other The F-words were engrained in his psyche, and he could never look at flowers again without thinking of Mila and her laughter. Wordless and muted now for the rest of his empty life.
The shrill sound of his cell phone fractured the silence. It was Mila’s best friend, Maddy keeping up her commitment to call Logan every day and remind him that his sadness will dissipate. She promised unconvincingly that he would eventually get his life back.
Maddy had to steel herself to talk to Logan. She was equally distressed as he was at Mila’s death, even though she knew all about that dreadful day. In these circumstances, her loyalty lay with Mila, and she would never confess to the part she played in her friend’s death.
Years ago, Mila had helped Maddy during their shared university days to deal with an unwanted pregnancy. It had been a traumatic experience, but Mila stayed close to her friend, supporting her recovery. Mila reminded her friend, two weeks ago, when Maddy hesitated to be part of Mila’s euthanasia plan.
‘How are you feeling, darling?’ Maddy asks Logan
‘Just the same,’ came Logan’s response after being immersed in bereavement hell.
‘Why don’t you come over and stay with us for a few days? Fred would love to see you. You know we both love you and want to do anything we can to help.’
Logan’s voice sounds close to cracking, but he forces the words out. ‘Thanks Maddy, you’ve both been truly wonderful. I would never have survived these past weeks without you.’ He gave a heavy sigh, which amplified over the cell phone. ‘But… I somehow need to adjust to my isolation.’
‘That’s what I mean, Logy.’ Maddy always used his childhood nickname. ‘You don’t need to be alone. Spend time with us just to get you over this awful shock. It’s going to take time. A lot of time, to get used to being on your own.’
‘You’ve both been so caring and understanding, but…’
Maddy cut him off. Her tenacity is so like his late wife’s. It is one of the critical factors that made them such close friends. In fact, they were often mistaken for sisters, both with thick dark wavy hair and engaging laughter with alert, curious eyes darting from one thing to another. That was part of the problem. She constantly reminded him of Mila. The haunting lilt in Maddy’s laughter and some of her familiar catchphrases brought sadness rather than comfort to Logan.
Maddy and Mila’s energetic conversations had ranged over various topics with half completed sentences, partially resolving some issues. They wove their communication up and down, and leap-frogged across concepts already understood between
them both. They created new colorful tangents of emotion intertwined with previous strands about children, work and, of course, the vagaries of living with a man. In the end, after copious cups of tea or coffee, their conversation would resolve itself. It made no sense to outsiders, but was a perfectly understood by them both.
Fred and Logan were both astounded that their wives never grew bored with one another and always engaged in their vibrant conversations with laughter, and sometimes tears, as if separated for months. The maximum time they ever spent apart was a few days. Losing Mila was an overwhelming, deep-seated heartbreak for Maddy. But Mila begged Maddy and made her promise to support and love Logan, helping him and their daughters in any way possible after her death.
Mila’s untimely death also left Maddy with deep remorse. She contemplated assuaging her guilt by finally confessing to her husband. Maddy wanted to come clean and be free of emotional turmoil. She played out all the platitudes and clichés that would allow her, the perpetrator, to shake off the guilt and talk directly to Fred. But her first priority is to help Logan navigate through his grief. It felt like the hardest thing she had ever done.
Logan knew it was going to be harder for him to claw back his life after the gaping loss of Mila’s love. It reminded him every time he saw the thinly disguised grief in Maddy’s eyes. Even Maddy’s camouflaged voice was often tantalizingly close to distraught as she bravely tried to encourage him to re-design a new world without his wife.
The conversation dwindled out. Logan agreed to think about visiting and would call her back when he felt strong enough. She promised to pop around on the weekend and check in with his two daughters.
Logan and Mila’s eldest daughter, Sacha Jones had qualified from the University of California in Los Angeles, with a Law degree the previous year and had landed a legal executive role at the large corporate, Watson, Parsons and Constantine in the bustling heart of New York City.
Their younger daughter, Suzie, was two-thirds of the way through her medical degree at UCLA and her boyfriend, Bruno, a business graduate. They had both recently left New York for a sabbatical year in France, working at a Bed and Breakfast boutique establishment in a small town of Aureille. The ancient stone village nestled in the gentle hills south of Avignon, in the Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur region of southern France.
