Christmas at Timberwoods - Fern Michaels [89]
Carol Andretti squared her thin shoulders. She drew in her breath. “Will she live through Christmas?”
“There’s always—”
“Hope? I know there’s hope. Doctor, I’m asking you for your medical opinion. Will Maria live to see Christmas?”
“I don’t know. In cases like hers, we do see patients occasionally experience a remarkably swift remission, but not often. And it’s not something we can predict with certainty.”
“How long does she have? Tomorrow, the next day, Christmas Eve? When?”
“She could have a lifetime. Or only days, Mrs. Andretti. A lot depends on how her body responds after the bone marrow transplant.” His shoulders slumped. All the little girl wanted was to talk to Santa. He couldn’t deny her that. He could only explain as best he could and let it go at that. With childhood cancer, no one was ever prepared.
“Thank you, Dr. Tucker. And the answer to your question is, yes, I am taking her to Timberwoods. I have to let her see her special miracle. Don’t you see? It’s all she has left. It’s all I have left.”
He nodded in acquiescence and went over the necessity of keeping the sick little girl away from others and not over-tiring her. Carol Andretti seemed to understand. Dr. Tucker left the hospital room convinced that he was going to change his field of medicine. Dermatology—that was fairly safe. In the new year he would look into it. Acne and psoriasis weren’t all that bad. At least patients with those complaints stayed alive. You smeared a little ointment on them and hoped for the best. Just acne and psoriasis, he promised himself for the thousandth time since entering medical school.
“You want to know something, old buddy? That was the worst lunch I ever ate,” Mary complained as she crumpled up her paper napkin. “Our only hope is to buy those Jordan almonds for Susie’s wedding favors and stuff ourselves.”
“If it was so terrible, why did you eat it?” Cheryl asked testily.
“Because you paid for it, that’s why. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“Since when did you ever worry about my feelings? I thought the lunch was good.”
“That’s because your taste buds are warped.”
“I would have thought that anyone who can eat pickled herring with ketchup has warped taste buds.” Cheryl’s voice dripped honey.
“Are you going to start a fight?” Mary demanded, her elfin face full of mischief.
“I’m too tired to fight. We’ve been here since ten o’clock. It’s now two thirty and we haven’t bought anything. That’s four and a half hours. Remind me—what the hell did we come to Timberwoods for?” Cheryl protested indignantly.
“It’s not my fault you want to buy all the wrong things. I bought you a foot massage, and I expect something of equal value.”
“Ah, the true meaning of Christmas,” Cheryl snorted. “How can I buy you something when all you keep saying is that you don’t want that under your Christmas tree? If you aren’t careful, I’m going to stuff you into one of those sequined stockings with a tag that says Don’t Open Until . . . and I’m going to leave the year blank!”
“What’s bugging you, old buddy? We came out for the day to have fun. All you’ve done is complain. And you haven’t even bought my present.”
Cheryl sighed. She knew when to quit. “Why don’t I ever win?” she asked her friend, a winsome smile on her face.
“You always win! You won seventy-five dollars at bingo. Pay the bill and let’s go.”
“Okay, okay,” Cheryl grumbled as she struggled out of the narrow booth. “I suppose that means I have to leave the tip, too.”
“Suit yourself. The food was lousy and the service was worse. I wouldn’t leave a tip. Do you want me to write a complaint on the napkin?”
“No, I’ll take care of it,” Cheryl answered through clenched teeth. She pulled two coins out of her wallet and left them on the table in plain sight so that anyone seeing them before the waitress picked them up would know what kind of service they’d received.