by Amy Cross
"This isn't working," he continues. "This treatment, these drugs... None of it's working. You said it yourself, Kate, you're dying, so haven't the past six months been a complete waste of time? Have you just been here in a hospital room, praying that you might get better while modern medicine fucks up your body a little more and drags you closer to the grave? These people haven't got a clue. The doctors here, they're no better than a bunch of old voodoo priests. They have a bunch of textbooks and a little experience, but when it comes to your cancer, they're powerless."
"I'd have died a lot sooner without these drugs," I tell him.
"Shame you have to die at all," he replies.
"I don't think I have much choice," I say, "and I've come to terms with that."
"Have they persuaded you to believe that?"
"It's true."
"No," he says firmly. "No, no-one comes to terms with death. They might fool themselves, but everyone's scared. You're scared, Kate. I'm sorry, I don't know you well enough to be so direct, but it annoys me when people act as if they've had some kind of great moment of clarity. You didn't waste years of your life by chasing after something that wasn't there. You were doing something important. Something meaningful."
"I'd like you to leave," I reply, feeling as if I'm close to tears.
"I'd like you to leave too," he says. "With me or without me, but I'd like you to get up from that bed and get back to what you were doing. The film needs to be developed, and if there's an image of Amin Bell on there, it has to come out, and you're the only one who can do it."
"Why's it so important to you?" I ask.
"Because I've been looking for him too," he replies, getting to his feet and walking toward the door, "and unfortunately, he won't appear to me. But you're a different story. I'm not gonna drag you out of this place, but I hope you'll reconsider. If you come and develop that film for me, I can offer you something in return."
"There's nothing I want," I tell him.
"Isn't there?"
"Please leave me alone," I whisper. "I'm not strong enough to help you."
"You're more than strong enough," he continues. "You've just allowed these modern charlatans to convince you otherwise. You could get out of this bed, unhook yourself, and go do something that actually matters with the rest of your life, but you're too scared. It's a shame. If you change your mind and decide to keep pushing, you know where to find me, but I guess I won't be holding my breath. This place has already started to take your soul. It's not too late, but you need to take it back soon or you won't stand a chance." With that, he turns and heads out of the room.
"You don't know anything about me!" I call after him.
Silence.
He's gone.
"You don't know what it's like," I say quietly, feeling a jolt of pain starting to burn in my chest.
Letting out a sigh of frustration, I stare at the blank wall opposite my bed. For months now, I've allowed myself to drift along in a haze of drug-induced apathy, but now that bastard has really stirred me up. I want to forget about all the crap with Amin Bell, but suddenly my head's swimming with images from the past, particularly from that night in the church. I can't help thinking about the film that Dagwood must have retrieved from my crushed camera. I just want to be left alone, but now Amin Bell's face keeps flashing into my mind. It's as if the old Kate Logan has woken up in the shattered, cancer-ridden body of the woman I've become.
Twenty-five years ago
"It could be so much worse," my mother says, with tears in her eyes as she sits next to my hospital bed. "The doctors think they can go in, remove the tumors, and sew you right back up again. You'll be back on your feet in a couple of weeks!"
I try to smile. The truth is, I've been finding it harder and harder to hold back tears over the past few minutes, and I feel as if I'll break down crying if I say even a single word. I wish everyone would understand that I don't want a big fuss; right now, I just want to be left alone, even if that means I die. It's too hard to fight.
"Stay strong," she continues, reaching over and squeezing my hand. "The liver's one of the most resilient organs. I just..." She pauses, as a tear trickles down her face. "You've had so much bad luck, Kate, but I'm convinced this is going to be the end of it."
"You said that last time," I reply, my voice trembling with the effort required to keep from crying.
"I know," she says softly. "I know, honey, but this time it has to be true."
"Maybe I'm just not supposed to live," I tell her. "Maybe my body just won't ever be okay."
"Don't think like that," she replies, squeezing my hand tighter. "Optimism is half the battle."
I know there's no point arguing with her, so I take a deep breath and try to pull myself together.
"We can't afford this," I say after a moment. "You told me our insurance -"
"It's been taken care of," she replies quickly. "All you -"
"What does that mean?" I ask.
"Don't worry about -"
"You told me the insurance wouldn't cover any more treatment for a year," I reply.
She opens her mouth to say something, but the words seem to catch in her throat.
"Who's paying for this?" I ask, watching her face for some kind of clue.
"A charity," she says, forcing a smile. "It's a charity that covers people with liver cancer. Young people, mainly. They're very generous."
"What's this charity called?" I ask.
"I... don't remember," she continues, pulling her hand away as she gets to her feet. "Just try to sleep, Kate. You've got a big day ahead of you tomorrow. You're lucky they can operate so soon. I'm just going to get a cup of coffee. I'll bring you some water."
"Wait," I reply, but it's too late. She hurries out of the room, and it's totally clear that she didn't want to get into a conversation about the financial side of things. I sure as hell don't buy her bullshit story about some charity stepping in, though, so as I lean back in the bed and try to ignore the pain in my chest, I can't help wondering who the hell would pay millions of dollars to help someone like me.
Today
"It's fish soup today," says a dour, flat voice. "I know you don't like fish soup."
Stopping as I enter the cafeteria, I turn and see that Anne is sitting quietly in the corner, focusing on her knitting. She's so small and quiet and gray, I hadn't even realized she was here. She's the kind of woman who can sit in the corner for hours without anyone noticing her presence.
"I said it's fish soup today," she continues. "Fish soup."
"I heard," I mutter, suddenly rethinking my plan to spend some time in here. I don't even know why I was going to bother, except that I feel like I need to get out of bed at least once a day. Of course, there's not really anywhere to go. I'm not allowed out of the ward, so I just end up traipsing through to the cafeteria and sitting here for a while. I prefer it when there's no-one else around, but today I have the pleasure of Anne's delightful company.
"You coming or going?" she asks, sounding bored already. "It's unsettling, having you hover over there."
"Sorry," I reply, limping into the room.
"You look like shit," she continues.
"So do you."
"No kidding." She finishes a loop of her knitting and starts a new row. "I'm making a hat for my son," she adds. "I doubt I'll get to finish it, but I figure someone can pick up where I left off."
"Thinking ahead," I mutter.
"Gotta," she replies. "The world keeps turning after we're gone. Might as well make it as easy as possible for the people who came after you. Am I right?"
"That's very... practical," I reply.
"It's always good to be practical," she continues, her voice sounding flat and dull. "What's the alternative? Going nuts and screaming all over the place?" For the first time since I entered the room, she looks straight at me with her empty, bagged eyes. "Sometimes I think I'd like to scream," she adds, "but then I think... why bother? I'd just have to take a nap straight after."
&nb
sp; "Maybe you should scream anyway," I say with a smile.
"It'd hurt my throat."
"But it might make you feel less frustrated."
She pauses. "No," she says eventually. "I'm done with that. I just want to sit around and wait until the end, and screaming's just gonna make it more unpleasant." She sets the knitting down. "I think I'm done with this," she mutters. "I keep making mistakes. Someone else can finish it for him when I'm gone. Won't be long now."
Staring at her, I realize that she's given up completely. As she stares down at the patch of brightly-colored wool that's supposed to eventually form a hat, her yellowing eyes seem to be devoid of all hope. For a moment, I'm filled with pity, before the pity turns to horror and I realize that maybe this is how Dagwood saw me earlier.
"You can choose when to die, you know," she continues after a moment. "You can just say to yourself that you've had enough, and you're done with it all, and somehow your body just starts shutting down. It's a miracle." She pauses. "I think I might have just hit that point, you know? Where you really don't..."
I wait for her to finish, but her voice drifts away.
"Good point," I reply, looking over at the window. I can see my reflection, and it's not a pretty sight. I've lost weight while I've been in this place, thanks in part to a loss of appetite but also to the fact that all the food is goddamn sterile and tasteless. I'd give anything for a big, juicy steak and -
Suddenly I spot movement over my shoulder, accompanied by the sensation of someone brushing against me. I turn, but there's no-one there. This isn't the first time I've had such an experience, though; at least once a day, I seem to catch sight of something out of the corner of my eye, as if I'm being watched or followed by someone I can't see properly.
"What's wrong?" Anne asks. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I think I want to go back to bed," I mutter, turning and heading back toward the door.
"Suit yourself," she replies, still working on the hat. "If you change your mind, I'll be here." She glances at me again. "It's always nice to have company."
Smiling weakly, I head back out into the corridor. Ever since John Dagwood's visit earlier today, I've been feeling completely out of joint, as if he's ruffled some long-forgotten feathers. I've spent so long drifting through day after day in this hospital, I guess I've become completely placid, and yet now... Now I feel as if I actually want to get back to work. For six months, I've been forcing myself to focus purely on my health. This time, I -
Suddenly it happens again.
Turning, I feel something bump into my shoulder, and for a fraction of a second I spot a shape moving behind my back. As I turn, however, it seems to disappear, and I'm left standing alone, wondering what the hell's happening to my mind. Is this it? Is this what it's like when you start dying?
Twenty-five years ago
"It'll probably be very early," the nurse says as she adjusts the drip. "We'll come and get you at 5am, maybe a little earlier, and you should be in the operating theater by 6am. It'll take a couple of hours once they've started, but hopefully you'll start to come round shortly after lunch."
"Sounds like fun," I mutter.
"Kate, you need to keep your spirits up," my mother says from her now-customary spot on the nearby chair. I swear to God, if she doesn't leave soon, I'm going to ask one of the nurses to throw her out.
"There will be some discomfort," the nurse continues. "Nausea, too. They'll be taking around twenty per cent of your liver, and obviously it'll take time for the healing process to get going."
Spotting a clipboard on the nearby table, I reach out and grab it. Before my mother can stop me, I've flipped through to the second page, where I spot the name of the company that's paying for my treatment.
"Dimone Halifax Industries," I mutter, before my mother grabs the clipboard and pulls it away from me. "Who are Dimone Halifax Industries? They sure as hell don't sound like a charity."
"Well," my mother replies, "I'm sorry you don't like the name, but they are a charity and they have put up the money for your medical care. Would you rather tell them to leave us alone, so you can try to wait a year before we can get you in somewhere else?"
I want to argue with her, but there's no point. As the nurse finishes her work and grabs the clipboard, I can tell that the atmosphere in the room has changed. The more I fight my mother, the tighter she'll clam up, and I've learned by now to pick my battles carefully. Instead of asking her what's going on, I figure my best bet is to be less direct. Still, there's no way I'm leaving this alone. No-one pays for the medical treatment of complete strangers unless they've got a damn good reason, and I sure as hell don't want to be in debt to someone I don't even know.
Today
"So we'll switch you to the second regimen soon," Dr. Martindale says as he stands by my bed, checking my chart. "That's a day earlier than we'd originally planned, but I think a twenty-four hour shift is acceptable. We'll monitor the uptake and make adjustments where necessary, and then we'll see if we can come up with a more reactive approach that perhaps fits your personal profile a little better."
"Will it make any difference?" I ask, glancing up at the large plastic bag of chemicals hanging above my head. It looks exactly like the previous bag, and the bag before that, and the bag before that...
"It'll be a 0.4% swing toward a higher phosphate level," he replies, making a note on his clipboard. "So it's a relatively small change, but over time the significance of the variable will become increasingly apparent, in your blood-work if not in your general demeanor and levels of motility."
He continues to speak, churning out the same garbage as ever, but as I stare at his lips and watch them move, I can't help but feel that he's running on auto-pilot. This is just the standard, hope-filled spiel he gives to every dying patient, and I can see in his eyes that he knows it's not going to help. We both know I'm dying, and he can mess around with my drugs all he likes, but he can't really do anything that'll make a real difference. It's just a matter of waiting in this bed until I finally die, and then he can have me wheeled out so that a new sucker can take my place.
"Kate?" he says suddenly, interrupting my train of thought. "Are you listening to me? You look like you're starting to zone out."
"Drugs," I reply half-heartedly. "More treatment. More drugs."
"I sense your motivation is flagging."
"It's all very well," I continue, "but it's not going to save my life, is it? None of this is going to save me. It's just the death industry, rolling forward."
"Kate, you need to be realistic -"
"So it's just going to change how I die."
He sighs.
"Do what you want," I add with a sigh of my own. "I don't care. Change the drugs. Take the drugs away completely. Mix the drugs. Stir them. Whatever. Just don't bore me with the details. It doesn't make any difference to me, does it? I just sit here while you pump the crap into my veins."
He stares at me for a moment.
"What?" I ask eventually, trying not to lose my temper.
"You seem more cynical than usual," he continues, with an infuriatingly calm tone. "You can't just give up like this. Half the battle is about maintaining your sense of motivation. I've seen it time and time again. When motivation flags, it can be a really bad sign."
"Maybe Anne was right," I whisper.
"Anne?" He pauses, and I can see a look of concern in his eyes.
"What's wrong?" I ask, before I'm struck by a moment of clarity. There's a look in his eyes, as if he really doesn't want to talk about Anne at all, and that can only mean one thing. "She's dead, isn't she?" I continue, feeling a cold chill pass through my body. "Anne's dead."
"Kate -"
"Isn't she?" I insist.
"I'm afraid so," he replies. "She was found in the cafeteria earlier. Her heart just gave out."
"Jesus," I mutter, realizing that she must have died just a few minutes after I left her. When she said she was giving up, she wasn't kidd
ing.
"You shouldn't take this too badly," Dr. Martindale continues. "Anne's condition was much further advanced than anyone else's here. She knew the end was coming, and her time just came along." He waits for me to say something. "I didn't know that you and Anne were close," he adds eventually.
"I've had a bad day," I reply. "Worse than yesterday, but probably not as bad as tomorrow."
"Is it related to the visitor you received earlier?" he asks.
"No," I say bitterly, "it's not related to the visitor I received earlier." The truth, though, is that John Dagwood is entirely responsible for the change in my frame of mind. It's been a few hours since he was here, and I still can't settle properly. I keep thinking about Amin Bell, and about all the work I did on the churches of New York, and now I'm wondering whether I was right to drop my interests when the cancer returned. I've spent the past six months in a hospital bed, but how different might things have been if I'd been working instead?
"Perhaps we should revisit our discussion about depression," Dr. Martindale says after a moment.
"Is that your answer?" I reply.
"Are you against the idea?"
I take a deep breath.
"You don't think you're depressed?"
"I think I'm dying," I tell him, unable to stop thinking about the haunted look in Anne's eyes earlier. She must have been pretty much dead already, even when I was talking to her. "It's probably healthy to be a little down."
"I feel as if something's on your mind," he continues, switching from one pre-arranged set of statements to another. It's like talking to some kind of automated diagnostic system. "Would you care to -"
"You can't actually do anything, can you?" I say after a moment, finally letting out the frustration that has been building for so long. "You talk and you talk and you talk, and you make minor tweaks to the crap you're pumping into me and you scribble a few notes on that chart, but you can't actually keep me alive, can you? It's all just a load of self-important lies designed to make you feel like you're doing something!"
