Where the River Ends - Charles Martin [130]
Spend any time at all down here and you learn to differentiate people by the sound of their walk—the weight of their step, the length of their gait, the type of shoe they wear. Jesse tapped on the door with his stick, but that’s only because he’d seen it done in movies. A hand grenade wouldn’t knock that door off its hinges. He nodded to the guard behind the glass at the end of the hall, who punched a button numbered “217” and my door slid open. Jesse motioned with his stick. “Picasso, some people here to see you. Come on. You got twenty minutes.”
The senator walked in first, followed by three men in suits. Attorneys, I guessed. They set a tape recorder on the table. He spoke without looking at me. “I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re going to answer. If you don’t, you can go to hell.”
“You really think that matters to me?”
He laid a single-page printout on the table. “That’s my daughter’s toxicology report. There was enough narcotic in Abigail Grace’s blood system to kill each man in this room. Based on that alone, I can build a prison on top of you.”
“I happen to agree with you.”
“That’s all you have to say?”
“You walked in here with your mind made up. I can’t change that. You’re a pollster politician. Unlike you, Abbie never paid attention to the polls.”
“I’m suggesting they lead with the euthanasia charge.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Senator.”
He pointed at the recorder. “You could expedite this entire process by making a statement.”
“You mean a confession?”
“If that’s what you choose to call it.”
“I don’t really expect you to understand, but let me put it this way…For four years, I watched my Abbie shrink, grow, lose her hair, grow hair, get sick, vomit, bleed from her gums, bloat and gain fifty pounds on steroids, then vomit it all off. I saw her get stuck with more needles than I care to think about. And half of those needle pricks came under my hand. I watched more poison drip into her veins than any one person should have to endure. So, bring your threats and your lawyers. You could bury me under this place and it wouldn’t touch the hurt I feel inside.” The pain comes in waves. It, too, is tidal. I turned my wedding band around my finger.
A long silence.
“Cancer can do a lot. It can wreck your life, steal that which you hold dear, shatter dreams, crack your confidence, sever your soul and leave you wasted and wrung out. It can rob you of hope, whisper lies you learn to believe and dim the lights along the river. It’ll rob your voice, your health and your image of yourself. It’ll feed you with nausea, and cause you to know the difference between tired and fatigued. And when you think you can’t cope, and can’t think, it pours despair in like a blanket. Soon, it covers and colors everything. It’s an absolute bona fide hell. But—” I found myself standing, pounding on the table.
I sat down and spoke softly, “Hopelessness is a disease, more powerful than the one that stole Abbie’s life. Because it affects the heart…There is no vaccine, no one is immune. And only one weapon can battle it.” He looked up at me. “It is the weapon that says I will walk through hell with you—no matter what.” My echo settled across the room. “In the end, cancer only steals what you give it. I may die right here or in some prison not too far away, but I’ll die knowing this: I never gave it Abbie. And I never gave it us. Senator, there are worse things than dying.”
He laughed, the anger palpable. “Like what!”
“Like…living dead.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I shook my head. “Abbie didn’t die knowing her pain alone. The seat beside her was never empty. You may be angry at me for