Where the River Ends - Charles Martin [5]
Silence again, while she studied a fingernail absent of polish. Finally she looked at me. “Oregon?”
The Oregon Health & Science University, or OHSU, was on the cutting edge of developing some new systemic therapy that targeted cancer at the cellular level. Real front-lines stuff. We’d been in contact with them for several months, hoping for some sort of clinical trial in which we could participate. Yesterday, they had established the parameters for the trial. Because her disease had moved out of her organ of origination, Abbie didn’t qualify. I shook my head.
“Can they make an exception?”
I shook my head a second time.
“Did you ask?”
It had taken so much. And yet, all I could do was sit back and watch. While I held her hand, fed her soup, bathed her or combed her hair, it had no quit. No matter what you threw at it.
I wanted to take it back. Wanted to kill it. Slice it into a thousand painful pieces, then stamp it into the earth, grind it into nothing and eradicate its scent from the planet. But it didn’t get here because it was stupid. It never shows its face and it’s hard to kill something you can’t see.
“Yes.”
“And M. D. Anderson in Houston?” I didn’t answer. She asked again.
I managed a whisper. “They called and…they’re still two, maybe three, weeks from a decision. The uhh”—I snapped my fingers—“oversight committee couldn’t meet for some reason. Some of the doctors were on vacation…” Looking away, I shook my head.
She rolled her eyes. “Another holding pattern.”
I nodded. A single piece of yellow legal paper lay folded in thirds on the bedside table. Abbie’s handwriting shone through, covering the entire page. Beneath it sat a blank envelope. A silver Parker ballpoint pen rested at ten o’clock and served as a paperweight.
Eyes lost out over the harbor, she was quiet a long time. She said, “When was the last time you slept?” I shrugged. She pulled on me and I leaned back where she placed her head on my chest. When I opened my eyes again, it was 3 a.m.
Her whisper broke the silence. “Doss?” Her gown had fallen off one shoulder. Another reminder of what had been stolen. “I’ve been thinking.” A horse-drawn carriage rolled down the cobblestone beneath the window.
I’m not a vengeful person. I don’t anger easily and most will tell you I’ve got a rather long fuse. Patience is something I have a good bit of. If you have asthma, you understand. Maybe that’s why so many people ask me to take them fishing.
She stared at the framed newspaper article, hanging on the wall, yellowed from the sun.
IT WAS SIX MONTHS AGO. The Charleston paper was writing some feel-good stories about local celebrities and their New Year’s resolutions. Thought it might jump start the rest of us. They called and asked Abbie if they could interview her.
The reporter came to the house and we sat out on the porch watching the tide roll out. Pen in hand, he expected her to rattle off the fantastic. Her responses surprised him. He sat back, studied his writing and turned up his list. “But…?”
She sat up and leaned toward him, backing him off. “Did you ever see the beginning of the Jetsons cartoon?”
He looked surprised. “Yeah, sure.”
“Remember when George and Astro hop on the treadmill?” He nodded. “That’s been us for four years.” She tapped his legal pad. “This list is my best shot at cutting the leash.”
He shrugged. “But there’s nothing…”
“Extraordinary?” She finished his sentence. “I know. In fact, it’s entirely normal. Which is the point. ‘Normal’ is a memory.” She looked at me. “The last few years have purged us of extraordinary.” She slid on her sunglasses. “You spend enough time flailing just to keep your head above water and you’ll discover what you truly care about. This list is my way of fighting back. That’s all. It doesn’t include climbing Mount Everest, running with the bulls in Pamplona or circling the world in a balloon.”
She sat back and palmed the tears running off her face. “I need”—she grabbed my hand—“to sit on a breeze-swept beach, sip from little drinks decorated with umbrellas and worry about color