NOTE: I would just like to thank everyone for continuing to tune in. FF-dot-net has been very uncooperative lately. I'm not sure why it hates me so much this week, but it does!
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Al wanted to check on the Penjas, but by the time he reached the trailer park it was two in the morning and their windows were dark. He parked the Corvette and took his bags out of the trunk. His shoulder was aching again, and he struggled with the tarp. With a little maneuvering he managed to get all of the baggage into his right hand, leaving his left with the task of getting the door unlocked and open. He stumbled a little in the darkened entryway, but won through to the kitchen, where he deposited his burden indiscriminately on the floor. Pausing for a moment over a strange scent in the air, Al was quickly distracted by something much more pressing and more pleasant.
There was a yelp of joy and the jangling of collar tags as Chester came careening into the room, panting and bouncing. Al dropped to his knees in the dark, feeling for the dog. He lifted him up so that the terrier's forepaws rested on the right crest of his collarbone. Chester licked his face affectionately. The faintly sour smell of unwashed fur told Al that Sharon had neglected to give him his weekly baths. Gone for twelve days and she couldn't even bathe the dog?
"Hey, buddy," he said quietly, relishing the feel of the rough little tongue affectionately lapping at his neck. "I missed you, too."
He got unsteadily to his feet. He hadn't realized how tired he was. Supporting Chester with his right arm, he groped for the light switch, and the familiar confines of his kitchen came gradually into focus as his eyes adapted to the brightness. What he saw froze him in his tracks.
From the looks of things, Sharon hadn't washed a single dish since he had left. Pots, plates, bowls and glasses were piled in the sink and scattered around the counters. An open bag of potato chips sat amid the detritus of two weeks worth of mail on the table. Jars of murky rinse water had somehow found their way out of the studio, and an expended tube of green oil paint was staining the melamine surface next to the toaster. The floor hadn't been swept, there were bread crusts on the counters, and every cupboard door hung ajar. Sharon had apparently undressed once or twice in this room, because a bra, used panties and a couple of shirts lay crumpled on various chairs, and there was a pair of skintight jeans balled up in the corner.
Al stood for a moment, frozen in consternation and surprise with Chester still obliviously snuffling fondly against his neck. Then he moved through to the living room and turned on the lamp there.
The disorder continued: an empty pizza box on the sofa, dishes on the end tables, plastic wrappers on the carpet. There were more clothes in here, dropped where they had been removed. A large sketchbook had been abandoned mid-drawing, and Sharon had left the sticks of charcoal on the rug.
All the fond thoughts Al had entertained about sneaking into bed in the dark and waking Sharon with the preludes of passion fled. With a sweeping motion that sent a fresh thrill of pain into his arm, he cleared the debris off of his armchair and set Chester on it. The terrier looked up in some confusion, brown eyes bewildered and adoring. Then he turned around three times and lay down with a satisfied huff. Al didn't spare him a second glance as he marched into the bedroom.
The overhead light came on with a snap, and Al strode towards the bed in which Sharon was lying, fast asleep. In the periphery of his vision he could see more abandoned clothing, art supplies, shopping bags and soiled dishes. He made sure he had a firm grip on the bedclothes.
"Get up!" he barked, using that voice so unique to a Naval officer—a voice that never failed to produce results. With a quick jerk of his good arm, he hauled the blankets off of the bed.
Sharon awoke with a squeal of surprise, jackknifing into a sitting position and instinctively covering herself with her arms as her eyes squinted against the light. "What the—"
"I said get up!" Al cried. "NOW!"
Sharon squirmed a little against the headboard, and a seductive smile crept over her face. "Hey, baby," she said, her eyes still rumpled tightly closed.
" 'Hey, baby?' " Al echoed in hoarse disbelief. "What the hell have you done to this house?"
"Uh?"
"I've never seen such a damned mess!" Al roared. "Get up and look at this!"
Sharon groaned and curled up on the denuded sheet. Al lunged forward, seized her wrist and pulled her onto her feet. Still half asleep, she stumbled after him into the living room.
"Look at this!" Al bellowed, gesturing enormously despite the pang of discomfort that resulted from the gesture. "Look at this mess! What the hell have you been doing?"
Sharon shrugged, blinking rapidly. "Kicking back and relaxing," she said. "So what?"
Al tried to parrot her, but he was choking on the words, unable to believe she had actually said them. Sharon was almost completely awake now, her arms crossed over her chest and a look of exasperation on her face.
"What's your problem?" she said.
Al just stared at her.
Sharon's brow knit into a frown of annoyance. "Well, if that's all you have to say, then I'm going back to bed!" she huffed. "If the mess bothers you that much, go ahead and clean it up."
"Fine!" Al cried as she turned away and stomped back towards the bedroom. "Fine, then, I will!"
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By dawn he had restored some semblance of order to the trailer and his nervous energy was waning rapidly. Al moved through the once again livable living room into the bedroom he had tidied without regard for the whirlwind of destruction sleeping there. He dug out some loose, comfortable clothing and fresh underwear, which he dropped off in the bathroom. He stripped in the alcove just off the entrance to the trailer, adding his clothes to the load of laundry (three of seven, Sharon having neglected this chore, too) that was running right now. Then it was back to the bathroom for a blisteringly hot shower that took some of the ache out of his muscles and washed away the sweat of travel and labor.
Feeling like a new man, Al emerged ready to face the day. He routed through the pile of mail he had gathered from every corner of the building and began to go through it. There was a notice of alimony payment from his attorney, which he unceremoniously chucked. As long as his second wife got her money he didn't need to worry about it one way or another. Water bill, electricity bill. He set those aside to be dealt with later. A belated Christmas card from an old pal. Next was a letter, and Al grinned as he recognized the neat script. Ruthie!
He settled on the sofa, soon joined by Chester, and read. His third wife was well. The letter was filled with news about the kids: Ruthie had an abundance of nieces and nephews, all of whom Al had liked a great deal. Sometimes he missed those kids. Mostly he missed the sense of belonging to a family, instead of being the "gross" uncle nobody wanted to look at, much less actually spend time with.
He made a mental note to write back as soon as he had the chance, and resumed his perusing of his correspondence. There was a notice of the annual cost-of-living raise from the Navy, which was always good news. A friendly reminder from the vet that Chester was due for his check-up. Flyers from a couple of record clubs, which Sharon really could have taken the initiative to dispose of herself!
Next was an official-looking white envelope, which Al opened anxiously. A sigh of relief followed the realization that it was nothing more than a breakdown of Stevie's hospital charges. He perused the list academically, noting test after test that they still didn't have results for. When he got to the practitioners, though, his heart sprung to his throat. The doctor Stevie had actually liked was on there, with her qualifications and department listed.
Jessica D. Ananda, BSc.Pharm, M.D., Ph.D., it read. Pediatric Oncology.
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Al paced the office anxiously. It was a spacious room, handsomely decorated in cheerful colors. There was a box of toys on a flowered mat in one corner, a sofa and three armchairs in another, and a businesslike desk near the large window. A framed illustration from "Goodnight Moon", an oil painting of "The Owl and the Pussycat", and a photograph of a beautiful, round-faced baby girl adorned the walls, along with the usual degrees and licenses. It was a pleasant place: a pretty setting in which to impart devastating news.
He had been waiting for over an hour, but in all fairness the nurse at the station outside had warned him that Doctor Ananda was on her rounds, and would probably be a while. That didn't make it any easier: all it did was strip away any excuse Al might have had to be angry.
His thoughts were muddled, and he wished he had had the sense to bring some refreshment. He hadn't even stopped to grab breakfast, which he had had every intention of making this morning, too. His throat was dry and there was a palsy in his hands: a nervous twitch. Oncology. Pediatric oncology. A fancy euphemism for a hideous thing: childhood cancer.
Stevie had cancer. Al tried, but couldn't talk himself out of it. He tried to tell himself that all it meant was that they suspected cancer, that it could be a false alarm, that any number of problems might lead a physician to suspect something that wasn't really there. There was a word for it… differential diagnosis. Maybe this was a case of differential diagnosis.
The optimistic voice was tempting, but in reality Al knew better. Things never worked out right. You cared about somebody, and they walked out on you, or they got well and decided they didn't need you, or some bastard of a lawyer stole them away, or they got sick and died. He cared about Stevie. He had made the mistake of letting himself care, and because of that the poor little kid had to be stricken with an ugly and painful disease. Just like Pop.
Al's pacing grew more frenetic. He wanted to scream, or break something. Really he wanted to break down in tears of anxiety and desolation, but that wasn't happening. No way in hell would he let that happen. Instead he paced, from wall to wall. He ran his hand Doctor Ananda's bookshelf, his fingers rippling over The British Pharmacopeia and Gray's Anatomy. There was a copy of War and Peace, too, and, Al noticed with brief amusement, The Martian Chronicles. The lower shelves were filled with children's books, from The Hobbit to Green Eggs and Ham, placed within easy reach of the physician's young patients. Under other circumstances Al would have been impressed by the welcoming atmosphere of the vacant room. Now he was in too much anguish to do anything but take cursory notice and pace.
At last the door opened, and Al whirled around, unaware of how pale and wild-eyed he looked. Doctor Ananda froze with a gasp of surprise.
"Captain Calavicci," she exclaimed, closing the door. "Have a seat."
"Stevie," Al said. "He's got cancer."
She pressed her lips together. "Captain, we could have discussed this on Wednesday," she said softly.
"Wednesday?"
"Yes. Esteban's appointment. I scheduled it with his mother and your wife. She seemed to think it wouldn't be a problem."
Al felt a tiny flush of shame at barging in here like this when others had already made the arrangements. "I've been out of town," he said.
"Yes, that's what Mrs. Calavicci said. However, since you're here now we might as well talk. Have you arranged for power of attorney?" Ananda asked, setting her stethoscope on the desk and hanging her lab coat on a peg affixed to the back of the door.
"No," Al said. "I had no idea, until I opened this…" He took the invoice from his pocket. "I thought you specialized in Downs syndrome kids."
"I do," she said. "I did my doctoral thesis on ALL chemotherapy complications and adverse drug reactions in children borne with Trisomy 21."
"Which in English means?" Al asked.
A small smile visited the physician's oval face. "In English, I studied the problems that leukemia treatment causes for children like Esteban."
"Leukemia?" Al choked. "Blood cancer?"
She nodded.
"Stevie has blood cancer?" He was aware that that was a leap in logic, but he wasn't feeling very logical today.
"Yes," she said.
There was a stunned silence. Al stared at the physician, then at his hands, and then back at Ananda. "That's it? Just 'yes'? Like it isn't a big deal?" he blustered.
"Captain, it is a big deal. It's a huge, life-changing thing. We're talking about a disease that can be fatal within months of diagnosis. Esteban is a very ill little boy."
The calmness in her voice was infuriating. Al sprung to his feet, agitated and out of control. "Months? When were you going to tell us? At the funeral?" he roared.
She blinked once, exquisitely tranquil. "On Wednesday. The appointment was made as soon as I was sure of the diagnosis." She reached out and took his hand, guiding him back down into the chair. "Esteban has acute lymphoblastic leukemia. It's one of the most common pediatric cancers, and it's endemic among Downs syndrome children in particular."
Al could hardly speak. His throat was starting to close. "What does it mean for Stevie?" he croaked.
"His body is making abnormal white blood cells," she explained. "He's going to need chemotherapy treatments."
"And he's going to die."
"Captain, his chances of survival are very good. We can achieve remission in up to ninety percent of patients. One in two is cured outright. Esteban's still asymptomatic: if we hadn't had him in here for his appendectomy, we wouldn't even know yet that he was sick. The earlier you treat cancer, the better the chances," intoned the doctor. "With the right medical care, there's absolutely no reason Esteban shouldn't live a good many years yet."
"That's what you say," Al muttered.
"Yes, that's what I say. I know leukemia, Captain Calavicci. Esteban's chances are very good."
"Yeah? Well, if you're such an expert why are you working at Wickenburg General instead of Sick Kids in Phoenix?" he challenged.
"I'm at Sick Kids three days a week," she said with a small smile. "And I work here because there are children who need me here. Children whose parents can't afford inpatient therapy."
"Well, Stevie can!" Al said. "Anything he needs. I'm not going to lose him!"
She smiled. "That's the right attitude, Captain. We aren't going to lose him."
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"To Phoenix?" Celestina said, frowning in confusion. "Esteban goes to Phoenix?"
"To the Children's Hospital," Al said. This was the hardest conversation he had ever had. "He can get treatment—"
"Treatment," she said. "For cancer."
"Yes," Al said firmly.
Celestina shook her head. "He gets treatment here," she said. "Señor Andriuk, his sister have cancer. She go to hospital in the day, come home at night. Not go to Phoenix."
"He can get better care in Phoenix," Al said. "There are specialists there. People who know—"
"Good doctors here!" Celestina said fiercely. "Good doctors fix appen-dicts. They help him here. Not go to Phoenix."
"But Celestina—"
"No! Esteban not go to Phoenix! Stay here, here where his Mama is, where kind Señor Calavicci is. Esteban stay here!"
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By the end of the day it was settled. In a week's time, Esteban would be admitted for his first round of chemotherapy under Doctor Ananda's supervision. He wouldn't go to Phoenix. Al didn't like that; not in the least. Yet he couldn't argue with Celestina. Now he cursed his neglecting of the legal recourse the doctor had suggested at New Year's. But he hadn't imagined, not even in his worst nightmares, that Stevie was so seriously ill.
He returned home that evening heartsick, discouraged and exhausted after running around madly and living horrors he hadn't expected to have to relive. Sharon was out, probably with some of her damned friends. Al drained half a bottle of whiskey before crawling into bed.