“What are the circumstances?” I demand. “We’ve been told fuck all about what’s going on. Forgive my language, Doc. But we’re the only family he’s got, and not being allowed to—”
“I’ve taken care of that,” Beckett interrupts. “I’ve told the nurses that both you and Miss Carter are to be treated as his next of kin and afforded all due rights and considerations.”
“Hallelujah,” Maggie whispers.
“Can we see him now?” I ask anxiously. All night long, I’ve felt like if we could see him, touch him, talk to him, he’d come to.
Maggie thinks there’s magic in moonlight? Well, I say there’s magic in the three of us. When we’re together, anything is possible.
“Let’s talk first.” Beckett motions to the chairs Maggie and I vacated and then pulls a third chair up in front of them. When he takes a seat, there’s nothing for me and Maggie to do but follow suit.
She shoots me a quick look, and the fear in her eyes mirrors my own. Again, she reaches for my hand. Again, I find her fingers icy cold.
“One minute, he was fine,” I tell the doctor, absently chafing some warmth back into Maggie’s hand. “The next, he was chasing down some woman he thought was his mother, who’s dead by the way, and then crumpling to the ground with convulsions.”
“He suffered a grand mal seizure,” Beckett explains. “It’s rare for hallucinations to precede an event like that, but it’s not unheard of.”
I nod. “And you reckon all this is on account of his brain injury? Or could it be a side effect of his concussion, or—”
“Sergeant Armstrong is suffering from edema of the brain,” Beckett cuts in. At our confused looks, he’s quick to add, “That means swelling. The staff here have been treating him with steroids all night long, and I can report that his scans show the swelling has come down some. Not as much as we’d like, but some.”
“Does that mean he’ll be awake soon?” Maggie asks at the same time that I say, “But what caused the swelling in the first place?”
Beckett glances from me to Maggie, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses. His expression is kind. Too kind. So kind that a lump forms in my throat, and a stone lodges in my chest.
“Sergeant Armstrong will likely regain consciousness.” His voice is soft. “But it will be temporary at best.”
I swear the floor tumbles away beneath me, leaving me suspended in midair, waiting for the fall.
“Why temporary?” I barely recognize my own voice.
“Nine months ago, Sergeant Armstrong was diagnosed with stage four glioblastoma,” he says quietly. “His doctors discovered the mass while treating his head injury following the suicide bombing. Now the tumor has grown so large it’s putting pressure on his medulla oblongata, the part of the brain responsible for regulating breathing, heart rate, blood pressure, and consciousness.”
I don’t know what glioblastoma means. But I know the words mass and tumor. And I know that stage four is a cancer diagnosis. The bad kind. The worst.
Maggie knows it too. An awful sound seeps from her. Instinct has me pulling her into my arms again. Disbelief has me telling the doctor, “But he hasn’t been receiving treatment.” I shake my head. “There hasn’t been any radiation or chemotherapy or—”
“Sergeant Armstrong elected to forgo treatment,” Beckett explains. “The original tumor was too deep in his brain to make surgery an option, and he didn’t want to suffer the side effects of less invasive therapies that might have extended his life but also would have negatively affected his physical condition. He chose quality of life over quantity of life.”
Even now, with Cash alive and breathing, with his heart beating and his brain synapses firing, Dr. Beckett speaks of him in the past tense. I want to punch him in the face for that. I want to throw my chair at him. I want to kick and scream and curse.
But most of all, I want to beg him to tell me it’s not true. To tell me there’s something to be done.
How can this be? Cash is so young. He’s so strong. He has so much left to offer the world. So much left to live for.
It’s not right. It can’t be right!
Blood roars in my ears. Maggie quakes in my arms. All I can think is… No! No, no, no!
But from some deep, dark corner of my mind, a voice whispers, Yes.
I know that voice. I heard it the night the police showed up at my door to tell me my father had died in a terrible car accident. I heard it in the cold, desolate mountains of Afghanistan when an enemy combatant forced my hand. And I heard it again when George Sullivan came out to the swamp.
I can’t see him, but he’s here. Like the monster in my closet when I was seven. He’s Death. And he’s come. For Cash. He’s in Beckett’s words without the doctor actually naming him.
My anger morphs into horror. That’s what death is. That’s what losing someone you love is. It’s a horror. An unspeakable travesty.
My eyes are hot and wet. My voice is tight with emotion I don’t dare release for fear there won’t be any end to it if I do. “How long does he have?”
“His latest MRI shows the original tumor has thrown off a dozen satellite tumors. Quite frankly, I’m amazed he’s lasted as long as he has, but—”
“How long, Doc?”
He adjusts his glasses again. “A few days. Maybe a week.”
“Good God Almighty.” Breath wheezes from me as icy shock sets in, chilling me to the bone and raising goose bumps along my arms.
A week? How? How can Cash have been laughing and giving us hell and drinking beer twelve hours ago, and now he’ll be dead in a week?
Maggie’s cheeks are streaked with tears. Her face is splotchy. “You knew when we came to see you about his drinking and his pain. You knew, and you didn’t tell us.”
“I advised Sergeant Armstrong against keeping it a secret.” Beckett’s tone is full of regret. “I told him it was better to be open about his prognosis so he could receive the support he needed. But he made me swear I wouldn’t reveal anything until he was near the end.”
The end. How can two seemingly benign words sound so merciless?
“What caused it?” I ask. “Was it on account of his father beating him? ’Cause he took too many punches to the head, or—”
“No.” Beckett shakes his head. “Glioblastoma cells are genetic mutations. They can be caused by exposure to certain chemicals or high doses of ionizing radiation. But most in the medical community agree they’re one of a number of inherited DNA defects.”
Maggie blinks up at me. “All this time, Luc… All this time, we thought he was being selfish and stupid, and he…he…” She doesn’t go on. She can’t go on. She covers her face with her hands and gives in to the sorrow I won’t allow myself to touch on.
I have to keep up the wall that’s holding back my emotions so I can stay strong. For Maggie. For Cash. It’s the only way I’ll get through this without breaking apart.
“I wanna see him,” I say.
“Of course.” Beckett stands and motions toward Cash’s hospital room door.
“Wait.” Maggie jumps to her feet. “I’m coming with you.”
Her expression is ravaged, but she firms her shoulders and lifts her chin. My beautiful, brave girl, ready to face the worst head-on.
I didn’t think I could love her more. Then she blows out a steadying breath, threads her fingers through mine, and says, “Let’s go see our boy.”
The inside of Cash’s room is typical for a hospital. Sparse and functional, it’s as devoid of character as I am of hope. There are no decorations except for the privacy curtain that can be pulled across the room to shield the bed from the door. It’s a faded shade of yellow, hinting that it might have been bright and cheerful once upon a time, a hue that probably reminded folks of sunny days and optimism. Now it simply looks anemic.
There’s the familiar smell of cleaning chemicals and bleach. But underneath it all is the more sinister aroma of death. Of cells dying. Tissue decaying. Again, I’m hit with one
thought, How can this be? It’s not fair! It’s not right!
“Why are all hospital rooms this awful shade of off-white?” Maggie complains. “It’s like, in an effort not to offend someone’s stylistic sensibilities, the powers that be choose a color that’s no color at all. And instead of that being comforting, it’s just depressing. I get why people bring flowers. Lord knows something is needed to liven up this space and—”
When I squeeze her shoulder, she stops midsentence. We both know she’s babbling. We both know why. She’s looking everywhere but at Cash.
Her lips tremble when she glances up at me and voices aloud the thoughts in my head. “How can this be happening, Luc? How can he be dying?”
Because the world is a cruel and unfair place. Because no matter how much we pretend it’s not true, we’re all dying. Some of us are simply doing it faster than others. Because despite how much we wish life was just, that those who’ve suffered so greatly (those like Cash) might enjoy some peace here on earth, the reality is there is no justice. Only happenstance and chance and good luck and bad luck, so we each have to make our days count instead of counting our days.
But I don’t say any of this. The words are locked inside my bloodied heart. All I can manage is, “I wish I knew, sweetheart.”
“You can touch him,” Beckett says. “Talk to him. Studies have shown that the voice of a loved one can lower a sick person’s blood pressure.”
Maggie nods. Then, squaring her shoulders once again, she marches over to Cash’s bedside and gently takes his hand.
“Cash?” She smoothes the hair back from his face. “It’s me. It’s Maggie. Wake up so I can tell you how mad I am at you for keeping this a secret from us. Wake up so I can—” Her voice cracks. Tears slip down her cheeks and drip from her chin. “So I can tell you how much I love you.”
“Why isn’t he hooked up to more machines?” I ask Beckett. All I see are a couple of IVs. “Shouldn’t he have a heart monitor or a—”
“He’s DNR. Do not resuscitate,” Beckett explains. “He doesn’t want any life-saving measures.” He points to one of the IV bags. “We’re giving him fluids, steroids to bring down the swelling, and some pain medication. And that’s all we will give him,” he finishes meaningfully.
“Dear God.” I run a shaky hand through my hair, hating that Cash had to make all these terrible decisions on his own. Hating that I wasn’t there with him.
Why didn’t he tell me? I could have… Hell, I don’t know what I could have done. But I could have helped. I could have understood. I could have said important and heartfelt things instead of riding his ass about the drinking.
“I’ll give you some privacy.” Beckett quietly slips from the room.
My feet are concrete blocks as I make my way to the opposite side of Cash’s bed. When I take his hand, I feel the lack of flesh. Feel how his knuckles poke through the skin. Again, I’m overcome by guilt.
“Look how skinny he is,” Maggie whispers. “How did we miss that?”
“We didn’t miss it. We simply refused to see it.”
Her gaze jumps to my face. “Don’t do that, Luc.”
“Do what?”
“Blame yourself.”
My throat is full of sorrow, full of regret. “If not me, then who? Who’s to blame for this?”
She skirts the foot of the bed and wraps her arms around me. She’s small and delicate, and yet the comfort she offers is huge. “I think this is one of those things where there is no blame. Or, I don’t know. Maybe it’s Rick’s fault. Dr. Beckett said it could be genetic, and that seems about right. That his father would pass on to him something so awful.”
Except it was his mother who died of cancer. It was breast cancer, but still.
Cash moans, and Maggie runs around the bed to take his hand again.
“Cash?” I squeeze his shoulder. “Come on now. Wake up, man.”
His eyes slowly blink open, and there’s confusion in their green depths. “Where am—” He tries to sit up, but Maggie and I both force him to stay down.
“You’re in the hospital,” she says, wiping away the single tear that trickles down her cheek.
Cash focuses on her. Then he glances around the room before his eyes land on me. There’s a question in them. I reckon my face gives him the answer.
He says, “Well, fuck me,” and I almost grin. He’s still him even though his voice is weak. “I take it Dr. Beckett told you? So this is it, huh?”
“Oh, Cash.” Maggie bites her lip, trying to keep more tears from falling. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“There wasn’t a damn thing you could’ve done for me, so what would’ve been the point?”
“The point would’ve been so we could tell you every day how much we love you.”
He scoffs, then winces like the noise hurts his head. “It doesn’t take a brain tumor for me to know that.”
“Dammit, Cash.” My voice is raw. “You coulda at least tried therapy. I’ve never known you to run from a fight.”
And selfishly, now that it’s done, now that we’re at the end as Beckett says, all I want is more time with him. Another week. Another month. I just want more time.
“Didn’t run from this fight either. Just fought it my own way.” His gaze begs me to understand. Even though it kills me, I do. I understand living and dying on one’s own terms. “Wanted to spare you both this part,” he says. “But now I don’t know if I can. I don’t think I’ll have the strength to—” He stops and swallows, a muscle twitching beside his mouth.
“Is there anything we can do for you?” Maggie asks. “Anything we can get you?”
“You can get me the hell out of here. Don’t want to die in a hospital.”
Her nostrils flare as she continues to fight tears. “We’ll talk to Dr. Beckett about taking you home.”
“No.” He shakes his head against the pillow. “Don’t want to die at the cottage either. That’s a place for life, not death.”
“You wanna go to the swamp house.” I say it as a statement, not a question. I recall what he told me when he stayed there with me the night his father died. I didn’t think much of his words at the time. Reckoned he was being introspective and a bit fanciful. But now I know better.
This place is so calm, he said. Peaceful. A person could die happy out here in the cool and the quiet.
Now he searches my eyes. “Would that be okay?”
It’s hard to speak past the lump in my throat, but I manage a raspy, “Yeah, man. That’s okay.”
Wetness pools in his eyes as he squeezes my hand. “Thank you.”
Maggie loses the battle with her own tears. A giant sob escapes her.
“Maggie.” Cash turns to her. “Don’t be afraid. It’s okay. I’m okay. I—”
Something strange passes over his face, and then his eyes roll back in his head. When he starts convulsing again, I run for the door, yelling for a nurse.
Chapter Eighty-nine
______________________________________
Maggie
No one tells you how horrible—and yet oddly mundane—it is to wait for someone to die.
It’s been nine days since we moved Cash from the hospital to the swamp house. Nine days of him never regaining consciousness. Nine days of him lying in that big, brass bed slowly slipping away. Of hospice caretakers going in and out. Of sleeping with Luc in a tent on the front porch so Jasmine, the night nurse, can have the couch. Of breakfasts and lunches and dinners. Of laundry, work, errands, and all the details of life that must go on despite the looming specter of death.
Talk to him, one of the nurses told us on the first day. Hearing is the last sense to go. Talk to him about anything and nothing at all.
That’s what we’ve done. We’ve said all the things, all of them, until we’ve run out of words. We’ve reminisced about the good times and absolved each other for the bad. Luc has played his guitar, all of Cash’s favorite songs. And I’ve read aloud each of the letters I wrote to him and
those I wrote to Luc too.
For the first few days, I could feel him in the room with us. Even though he never opened his eyes. Even though he never smiled or spoke. His life force was there. Big and powerful. A presence.
But as the days have worn on, all the big and small things that made him him, that made him special and wonderful and unlike any other, have slowly drifted away until all that remains is the husk of his body and a yawning Cash-shaped chasm in the center of my heart.
I’ve watched Luc hold his hand for hours. Sitting there, keeping vigil, as if he doesn’t care if he ever does anything else. Giving all of himself. Nothing held back. And my love for him has grown in direct proportion with my sadness.
You really get to see a person in times like these, past all the hooey and hogwash to the heart of them. Even though I’ve always known Luc’s heart is a wonder, I didn’t realize what a miracle it truly is until these past nine days.
Then there’s Cash’s heart…
“It’s strong,” Jasmine told us only yesterday evening after listening to it through her stethoscope. “It hasn’t skipped a beat.”
“I’m not surprised.” Luc sighed heavily. “It’s always been his best quality. Now maybe it’s his curse. It’s keeping him hanging on even after the rest of him has given up.”
“Do not go gentle into that good night, but rage, rage against the dying of the light,” Jasmine quoted Dylan Thomas, having picked up on Luc’s love for poetry. “I didn’t know Cash in life. But in death, he’s a rager.”
That made Luc smile. If nothing else, even if she hadn’t been so kind to us and so gentle and attentive to Cash, I would have loved her for that.
“He was a rager in life too,” Luc assured her.
This morning, I woke up before Luc—a rarity—and pushed up on my elbow to watch him sleep. The interior of the tent was cold, but I was warm, thanks to his immense body heat. He’s pretty much the equivalent of a living, breathing, human blast furnace.
Seeing him so relaxed, his heartbreak and worries momentarily wiped from his brow—Luc doesn’t grow more boyish in sleep, he looks even more manly, more solid, if that’s possible—I felt a tug under my left breast. Like a string had attached my ribs to my heart, and every breath, every beat was connected. One to the other. Like Luc’s connected to me. Like I’m connected to him.
Volume Three: In Moonlight and Memories, #3 Page 21
