by V M Black
In contrast, Mr. Thorne was cold and remote, arrogant and God-only-knows how much older. I couldn’t even picture him where Geoff was, sitting in the humming Dairy, legs outstretched and a negligent half-grin on his face.
I shook my head. Mr. Thorne, I told myself, was not a possible...boyfriend. I didn’t know what he was—I still couldn’t wrap my head around it—but he was a creature of another world entirely.
“After Winter Break,” I said, answering Geoff’s question. “I’ll know by then if the new treatment is working.”
“And if it isn’t?” Geoff said, his forehead creasing with concern. He set the pizza down.
“If it isn’t, I won’t be around long enough to make a relationship worth it,” I said bluntly.
He looked stricken. “Shaw—”
“Please, don’t. I can’t deal with that right now. After the break. I’m sure I’ll be doing better then,” I said, making promises I had no power to keep. I finished half of my sandwich.
“But we’re still on for studying for finals together, right?” he asked. Geoff had been a part of Lisette’s economics study group from our first meeting, and he was the only other one who still met with us before each test.
“As long as Lisette’s along to chaperone, sure.” I smiled at him, picking up the second half of my sandwich.
“Like she’ll let you study without her,” he said.
“She’s the one I have to kill, isn’t she?” I asked. “She told you I was sick.”
He looked uncomfortable. “I asked. She didn’t want to tell me at first.”
“But she did,” I said. “Oh, well. I’m sure she thought it was for the best. She always does.”
“She’s a good friend, Shaw,” he said.
“I know she is.” A better friend than I deserved. I finished my sandwich. “And since she’s the one who told you about my cancer, she should be the one to have to put up with all the tension between us.” I said the word with deliberately exaggerated drama.
“You don’t trust me?” he demanded.
“Maybe,” I said, standing up and gathering up my trash and my bag, “I don’t trust me.”
With another grin over my shoulder, I threw away the trash and ducked out of The Dairy, feeling lighter than I had in days and leaving Geoff gaping at the table behind me.
Chapter Ten
A week later, I wasn’t feeling so optimistic. I had come down with a cold that had turned into a raging ear and sinus infection, and I was trying to gut it out and push through the last week of school before finals. I had been feeling so much better without the side effects of the alemtuzumab that I had almost managed to put out of my mind how sick I really was. But feeling better or not, I wasn’t healing. I was, slowly, inevitably, getting worse.
Dr. Robeson had hammered the seriousness of this kind of illness into me the first time I’d seen her. Opportunistic infections were a leading cause of death for victims of leukemia, she’d said—it was my white blood cells that were broken, so even as they multiplied out of control, they stopped doing their job of fighting invasions, large and small. If an infection didn’t kill me, then I could look forward to hemorrhage, catastrophic gastric ulceration, or drowning in my own fluids with pulmonary edema.
Good times.
I called Dr. Robeson as soon as I recognized the signs of another infection. She prescribed me a round of ciprofloxacin over the phone. The infection could be viral, she explained, but waiting for a culture could lower the chances of the antibiotics being effective if was bacterial, given my compromised immune system. It was my third infection since I had been diagnosed with leukemia—and the second time I’d heard that spiel.
“Have you called to hospice?” she asked. “You don’t have to choose that path, but I do wish you’d at least talk to them.”
“No,” I said. “And I’m not going to. I called the other number that you gave me. The card.”
There was silence on the other end of the phone for a moment. “And how did that go?”
“It went well,” I said. “I think. I passed the screening. I’m supposed to call in two days and give my consent for the procedure.” I had tried again to look up anything I could online, but the name Thorne and a phone number weren’t enough to give me any relevant hits. “Can you tell me about this company? Its name? The CEO’s background?”
“I’m afraid I really can’t,” Dr. Robeson said. “But I trust Mr. Thorne implicitly.”
“The treatment is risky,” I said. “It probably won’t work.”
“I know,” said Dr. Robeson.
“But if it’s the only chance I have....” I let that trail off.
“Cora, there’s nothing more I or any other oncologist can do. Mr. Thorne’s procedure, however unorthodox, is your only possibility of a cure.” Her voice wasn’t unkind, but she was firm.
I let out the breath I didn’t know I had been holding. “Thanks for being blunt. I needed the reassurance. My judgment....” I trailed off, then changed the subject. “I’d really already decided to go for it. Anyway, I’ll be picking up the antibiotics at the Health Center, as usual.”
“I’ll call it in. Goodbye, Cora,” she said. “And good luck.”
“Bye,” I said, and I hung up.
And that was that.
I grabbed the picture that sat on my bedside table and turned it so I could see it from the bed. In the photo, I was grinning and holding up my high school diploma with my Gramma’s arm wrapped around my shoulders in a fierce hug. She looked so happy. Triumphant, even. She’d done it, giving me a normal childhood all on her own after my parents’ death in the car accident. She’d put off her retirement for more than ten years, I found out later, to support me. Worked herself to death, a small voice whispered. I could never pay her back, but I’d wanted to succeed to show her that all her sacrifice had meant something. If Mr. Thorne’s experimental procedure didn’t work, I’d be dead in less than a semester.
Logically, I knew my chances were slim, but I was convinced that this time, I would be the one-in-one-hundred lucky one. I don’t know where that conviction came from, but no amount of rational thought could shake it.
I levered myself out of bed and dragged on some clothes. My head felt like it was stuffed with a wad of cotton, my sinuses were slowly burning through my skull, and my ear throbbed dully. I wavered for a moment, wondering if I could even make it to class. I looked at my Gramma, eternally beaming from the photo, and I sighed. Shoving my feet into my UGG knockoffs, I went into the kitchen and poured myself a bowl of cereal.
“Hey, Cora,” Lisette said from the living room. “I thought you’d left for class.”
“No,” I said, splashing milk over my raisin bran. I was glad to see her even though I’d pay for our conversation later that day, when my endurance gave out. A year ago, I could never have imagined how many thousands of small costs of strength there were in a day, how each and every action I took exacted its own toll.
I flopped in a chair and dug in. I hadn’t gained any weight back since stopping the alemtuzumab, but I hadn’t lost any more, either, for a change. “I had to call Dr. Robeson and get another script for cipro. I can’t shake this ear infection.”
“I’m sorry. Have you seen Geoff since our last study session?” she asked with exaggerated casualness.
I aimed my spoon at her. “I know it was you who told him I’m sick, so don’t play innocent with me. He admitted it.”
“Wait, he talked to you? And you didn’t tell me?” She looked betrayed.
“Last week. And I didn’t tell you because you opened your big mouth and told him about my cancer.”
“Oh, come on, Cora. He’s been mooning after you all semester,” Lisette said. “And you weren’t going to do anything about it. Somebody had to.”
“It’s my life,” I grumbled.
“And it’s his, too,” she pointed out. “Anyhow, you’ve been weird ever since you came back from your last appointment with Dr. Robeson. It’s not healt
hy.”
“I’m not healthy,” I returned.
“So, what did Geoff say?” Lisette was not to be distracted. “Dish! I can’t believe you guys have been studying with me for three days now, and I had no idea.”
I sighed. “He’s still interested, okay? And believe it or not, so am I.”
Lisette made an absurd squealing noise, and I treated her to a glare.
“After Christmas,” I said. “If the treatment’s worked.”
“So you’re going to go for the treatment? For sure?” Lisette asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “I can call and make my appointment in two days. As soon as finals are over, I’m doing it.”
“I know you’ll pull through,” Lisette said staunchly. “It’s going to work. It’s got to.”
“Yeah,” I said.
I hesitated for a moment. I didn’t want to hurt her. I didn’t want my memory to hurt her. She already cared far too much, far more than I deserved. But there were things I had to say. Just in case.
I said, “But if I don’t—”
“You will!” Lisette said sharply.
“Listen,” I said. “If I don’t, I just want to say...thanks. For everything. You’re the best friend I could ever have, and I’ve been a pretty shitty one these last two years, with Gramma and then the leukemia.”
Her face crumpled. “Don’t you dare say that, Cora Shaw. You’re my best friend, too. You’re like the sister I never had.”
I laughed at that, dispelling the tears that had begun to prick my eyes. “But you have a sister. Actually at UMD, in fact.”
She smiled with palpable relief. “Yeah, but you’re not like that one. So, after Christmas?” she prompted, steering the conversation back to safer shores.
“Then Geoff and I try to pick up where we left off. More or less.”
She rolled her eyes. “Where you left off was making longing faces at each other over your textbooks and lunch trays. You’ve got to do better than that.”
“You’re one to talk, little miss no-love-life,” I returned.
“At least I’m not making all my friends sit through my ridiculously protracted mating ritual,” she said. “Seriously, you’re like a middle schooler.”
I finished my bowl of cereal, dumped out the milk, and set the bowl in the sink to wash after lunch. “I’m not really the rushing type,” I said. I pulled on my jacket and swung my backpack over my shoulder.
“It’s been three years, Cora. I don’t think anybody’s going to accuse you of rushing,” said Lisette.
“I’ll see you tonight,” I said pointedly, my hand on the door.
She smiled. “Yeah, see you.”
***
I was alone in the room, some kind of stone chamber with supporting arches every few feet that made it impossible to see very far.
“Hello?” I called out.
There was no answer.
The room was cold. I rubbed my palms against my upper arms, the muscles of my stomach and nipples tightening beneath the thigh-length tee shirt that was my only clothing. I began walking, peering through the murky dimness, moving through the maze of pillar and arch aimlessly. I had to reach a wall eventually, I decided. Somewhere, there had to be an end to this.
Then I saw the light. It was red, low, and fitful, but it gave me a destination, and I sped up, my bare feet soft on the bare dirt floor. I came around a final pillar, and I saw it then, a kind of metal bowl or fire pit full of coals so hot that they were nearly smokeless, bending the air above them with their heat.
I approached, drawn by the warmth in the dank chill of the endless chamber.
And then I saw him. And my heart seemed to stop.
Mr. Thorne stood in the shadows on the other side of the fire. He was nothing like the urbane, contained man I had sat across from at the restaurant. Dressed in a loose white shirt and dark pants, he seemed larger, freer, and not entirely human.
“Ms. Shaw.” My name sounded like a prayer on his lips. Those lips, slightly, wickedly fuller than they should be. “You’ve come.”
I said nothing, mesmerized by his raw beauty.
He circled the fire pit in slow, stalking steps. He was dragging something at his side, something long and narrow, but I could not take my eyes off his face to look at it properly.
He came right up to me and stopped, just as he had when I’d turned to face him in front of the restaurant. Then he pulled me against him with one hand, so that I could feel the length of his body, and his mouth came down over mine.
And I lost myself. The heat flared up in my midsection, twisting inside me, lancing down between my thighs and up, into my lungs and into my heart until I could only cling to him.
Then I felt him pressing something into my palm. His other hand, the one that held the object. And I saw that it was a long, thin rod of iron, and on the end of it was a letter: T. His letter.
His brand.
“Take it, Ms. Shaw.” He breathed the words into my hair.
My hand closed around the rod. I knew what he wanted, and I knew that I would do it. My heart beat wildly out of control.
Mr. Thorne kissed me again, urgently, and I stuck the end into the coal. I threw back my head as his kisses moved lower, across my neck, to the collar of the tee shirt. His free hand skimmed over my body, up from my thigh, under the shirt, and then he was pulling it off over my head. I was naked in front of him, but I was too hungry to be ashamed.
He said, “It is time.”
He stepped back, and I kept my eyes fixed on him, rejoicing as I reached for the end of the iron rod. The brand was glowing red from the blistering coals.
I knew what he wanted. His eyes filled my world. I grasped the rod of the brand as close to the heated end as I could bear. I turned it toward me, toward my naked flesh, shivering in terror and desire.
And he didn’t even have to ask.
I pressed the brand against my abdomen, and the stench of the burning flesh filled my nostrils as the terrible, glorious agony of it swept over me—
And my own scream woke me.
I was sitting up in bed, the blankets kicked off onto the floor, the alarm of my phone blaring at full volume. Still panting and shuddering with reaction, I groped for the off button, and then I scrubbed my face with the heels of my hands.
Thursday. It was the Thursday before finals—exactly two weeks after I had seen Mr. Thorne at Komi.
No wonder I was having nightmares.
I took a breath and lurched into the bathroom. A shower chased away the last of the dream, leaving me with a clearer head.
Decision time.
Dammit, I’d made my decision. I’d made it two weeks ago—before that, even, back at Johns Hopkins, when I’d chosen the mysterious card over the hospice brochure.
I glared at my thin body in the mirror, glared at the ravages the cancer had done upon it. My hip bones protruded, stark and angry, my ribs an ugly line of bars, my cheeks sunken and eyes hollow. I was going to take the leap of faith. Even if I landed on crumbling ground, I already knew the bridge I stood on now was doomed.
I wrapped up in the towel, went back into my room, and grabbed the phone from the bedside table. I searched for the number that I had stored under the contact LAST HOPE. I hit send.
“Cora Shaw,” came the familiar voice of the man who attended the phone. “We have been expecting your call.”
“Yes,” I said. My voice shook slightly, and I swallowed hard. “I am ready to give my answer.”
“That is good to hear, Ms. Shaw. What shall I tell Mr. Thorne?”
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.
“Ms. Shaw?”
I heard my voice answer as if from very far away. “I want to go through the procedure. Next Friday, after my finals.”
“A car can pick you up at six. Will that be acceptable, Ms. Shaw?”
“Very,” I said. “Thank you.”
“No, thank you, Ms. Shaw.”
The line went dead.
I
’d done it. I was committed.
I put my hand to my chest, so I could feel the frantic rhythm of my heart, which circulated my poisoned blood with every beat. In eight days, it would be purified, rid of the mutant cells that threatened to overwhelm my body even as they failed in its defense.
Or else I would die.
Either way, I would see Mr. Thorne again. And I would know which of my fears were imagined and which were very, very real.
Chapter Eleven
“That’s it! Last final!” Lisette let out a whoop and slammed her textbook into the nearest trash can. “Take that, econometrics!”
“You know you could have sold that back,” I pointed out. “And anyway, it’s not like you even hated the course.”
She grinned. “A new edition was published two months ago, and now the university bookstore and Amazon won’t pay jack for this one. I’ve been wanting to do that for three and a half years, but this is the first time one of my textbooks became obsolete the same semester I was using it.”
“That kind of defeats the purpose of a grand gesture,” Geoff said. “I mean, if it’s trash, anyway....”
“Shut up,” she said cheerfully. “Let’s celebrate.” She spied someone else across the green. “Hey, Ross! Sabrina! Come on, let’s celebrate!”
Sabrina waved, and they crossed over. “You guys done?” Sabrina asked. Ross Myo had been an economics major, too, before switching to statistics his sophomore year. He’d met Sabrina, a bio major, in the taekwondo club, and she’d become a fixture in our group when we got together.
“They are—until next semester,” Geoff said, nodding at me and Lisette. “I’ve still got a history final in three hours. It’s no biggie, though. 100-level core course that I saved for my senior year slack-off.”
“When are you guys taking off for break?” Lisette asked.
