Authors: Alex Ames
“Thank you, Joanne. And what a comeback
that
would be. A two-hundred-million-dollar budget! Next topic: Robert Downey Jr. to play the Dalai Lama? Coming right up, after the break!”
Charles muted the TV. “No way Louise would abandon
Five Ways of Solitude
for
Gone with the Wind
.”
Britta looked at him. “And you know this how?”
“First off,
Five Ways
is a much better book than
Gone with the Wind
.”
“You’ve read both?” Rick asked, not really expecting a negative answer.
“
Five Ways of Solitude with Sarah Lewis
is an instant classic. Modern, funny, and very sad underneath. A dream role for any actress. An almost guaranteed Oscar. And her production company paid a lot of money to get the rights. So why go for a weak rehash of a classic movie from the 1930s?”
“You memorized the
LA Times
review. And you watched the movie, too?”
“Netflix, parallel to reading the book. One of the few movies that is better than the book, by the way.”
“But what does that mean? In case you are right, of course,” Britta asked.
“Of course I am right,” Charles said without a doubt in his mind.
“What is Louise doing then? If you look at the feeds, there’s been no new posting about her for the last few days.” All literate Flint kids had Louise Waters Google News alerts configured on their mobile phones.
“Maybe she ran away with another man?” Charles suggested.
“Just talk about my former girlfriend as if I weren’t here, kids.” Rick groaned.
“Hey, you’re the one who switched over from
The Simpsons
rerun, Dad,” Britta said.
It was a kind of bantering they were having several times over the course of a week.
“Guys, time’s up, into your rooms, prepare for tomorrow. Last day of school before Christmas break.”
“Small mercies,” Britta muttered. Her grades had slid down considerably over the last term.
The truth came out early evening on Christmas. TMZ reported that Louise had been spotted in Baltimore’s Johns Hopkins Hospital by another patient there. The smartphone snapshot had been inconclusive, but the same day her management issued a statement on her social-media feeds.
Louise has been diagnosed with progressed leukemia and is now undergoing treatment for the disease. We wish her all the best in this difficult time and hope for a full recovery. We ask that you kindly respect her privacy in these very difficult times. If you’d like to show your support, instead of flowers or gifts, please donate to the American Cancer Society.
“Dad! You have to read this!” Agnes shouted and ran downstairs, where Britta and Rick were adjusting ornaments on the tree in the corner of the living room. “Louise has cancer!” She pushed the iPad under her dad’s nose, and he read the statement.
“That is terrible. Poor Lou.” Rick’s heart sank, and his stomach felt full of lead once more.
Why Louise?
“Does that mean that she will die?” Britta asked the obvious.
“We will all die, Bri,” Charles stated, not looking up from his own iPad, intensely reading the statistics of cancer survival rates and treatments. “But I know what you mean: will she die from her cancer? Chances are not too bad for cancers discovered early. In progressed stages, it’s worse.” He swallowed and decided to read some more, as it was better than to think about Louise.
“Thank you, doofus. That really builds up our confidence.” Britta turned to Rick. “We should call Louise and ask her how she is.”
“And show our support and ask her what she needs,” Agnes added.
“Make her laugh.” Dana didn’t understand what they were talking about but making someone laugh in her opinion was always a good thing. Especially if her friend Louise was sick.
“You are aware that she decided not to tell us.” Rick spread his hands. “Guys, realize that Louise is no longer in our lives and that we are no longer part of hers.”
The two teenagers crossed their arms and popped out one hip, eying their father critically. “Dad, you are such a wimp,” Agnes said.
“Go ahead then,” Rick said, his heart beating faster than it should. Almost to his relief, Louise’s number rang without neither answer nor voice mail.
“You have Izzy’s number, right?” Britta proposed.
“I might still have it, somewhere,” Rick dodged.
“Give it to me,” Britta demanded, holding out her hand. “Please?”
Rick was torn. Louise and he hadn’t split on good terms, and many things were unresolved. For him, there had not been enough distance yet to have mended his heart. Starting this line of communication was opening up the wound again, and there was no way that he was going to do that. Sickness and all. And Louise had not let them know about this, which showed that she had turned to others for help. Still, the kids had really taken to Louise and liked her a lot. So he went over into the kitchen and got his phone. He called up the contact and handed the phone to Britta, who in turn almost threw it to Agnes. “I don’t know what to say, I will only stutter . . .”
“It’s only that crazy guy Izzy. Not the pope,” Agnes replied and then into the phone. “Agnes Flint for Izzy, please. I see. You remember who I was?”
“Remember who I am,” Charles muttered from his corner.
“Could you ask him to call me back? Any time, day or night. I’ll give you my other number, thanks. Do you know anything more? I appreciate it, thanks.” She ended the call. No one breathed, even Dana. “You guys look like you’re from Madame Tussaud’s.”
“And?” Britta whispered.
“I spoke to Arielle. She doesn’t know any more than what they put into the announcement. Izzy is playing it close to the vest. And he is currently in back-to-back calls with the media. She put me in position fifty-five of the callback list.”
“Can I sleep in your room tonight?” Britta asked Agnes.
“Count me in.” Charles raised his hand.
“Sleep in Aga’s room, too.” Dana decided.
“Am I given the right to refu—” Agnes said, but three pairs of folded arms stopped any discussion short. “I’ll fetch the inflatable mattresses from the attic.”
“Never mind me, guys!” Rick said to their backs as the gang ran upstairs.
The kids were up until very, very late, but the promised callback never came. In the morning, the kids slept in. Rick received the call on his own mobile. Izzy sounded hoarse and tired.
“Don’t tell me you were on the phone the whole night?” Rick asked.
“Sure, Rick-baby. The media world never sleeps; I kind of followed the sun. Or the moon.”
“The kids wanted to know how Louise is doing.”
“Then give me one of the kids, please. No, I am kidding. I’ll tell you and only you: I don’t know how she is. Last week she cut all ties to prepare for the treatment, and her doctor issued a statement on some of the specifics in her case to give the media some material. But she is facing this alone.”
“No visitors?”
“Just me and Floris to oversee security and lend a hand if needed.”
“All right, thanks for the info, Izzy.”
“No problem, Rick-baby. Tell the kids I said hi. Should they ever decide to form a pop band, they must call me first.”
“I doubt that will happen, Izzy. My daughter is joining the navy in half a year.”
“They have bands, too. You must be very proud of her!” Izzy said, meaning it.
“Eh . . .” Rick stalled.
“No? Rick-baby! There are much worse and dangerous things your daughter could do in life. Like getting into movies or become a musician, let me tell you.”
“If you say so.” Rick was not consoled.
Two days before Christmas, her roller-coaster ride was extended to five o’clock, as Dr. Singh had increased the dosage of the drug.
“I’ll never visit Six Flags again,” Louise muttered, after she felt the effects subside slowly, and Singh had joined her for her solid food, eating a homemade sandwich with his most famous patient. He broke the bread in two, offering Louise half. It tasted exotic but delicious. “Pav bhaji. The base is potatoes. My mother is from Mumbai, and it tastes of childhood and home.”
“Give my regards to your mother.”
“I might not—she’s the jealous type. And she already has a wife arranged for me in India,” Singh said. “I’ll meet my bride for the first time in June.”
“That still happens?”
“Sure. It’s a family thing. Where we come from, it is never even a consideration to not have the family find a wife for you. And, to be honest, it takes the pressure off yourself. All the excruciating evaluation, probing, disclosures—all done by your mother, aunts, and sisters. My mother and sisters know me like no other person, and I am convinced I will have the perfect wife who is a good girl with similar values and traditions. No dating disasters, no years of getting to know each other, no social compromises.”
“Amazing!” Louise said.
“Do you have family coming for Christmas?”
“I’m not a big Christmas person,” Louise admitted. “And I’m also not a big family person, so no visits. And not enough friends, either. At least not on the East Coast.”
“Didn’t I read somewhere that you were living with a family and had planned to retire from the movie business? What became of them?”
“I did something very stupid, he broke up with me, and I lost it all.”
“May I tell you something?”
“Can it be avoided?”
“No, because you are still connected to the drip and can’t run away easily. I think you are doubly stupid. First because you did something stupid, and second because you didn’t fight for forgiveness,” Singh said with a full mouth. “If he really loves you, he will forgive you.”
“My, are you sure you’re an oncologist? You sound pretty touchy-feely to me.”
“I was bored at medical school and took psychology on the side. The curse of being a genius. Nice distraction by the way.”
“He was pretty insistent in the breakup.”
“Then you both were stupid. But no one can be stupid forever. So I suggest you call him up and tell him you love him and that you need him now.”
Louise crossed her arms and looked at Singh. “Change of topic. Read: I am no longer talking about my nonexistent love life. Can I ask what is planned for the kids in the cancer ward on Christmas?”
Singh blinked twice. “Apologies for my intrusion. I get carried away by your presence. The children’s cancer department, yes. Christmas evening we will erect a tree in the playroom, and the kids are asked to decorate it. With help of course. A board will be set up that acts as a mantelpiece with hooks where the kids can hang their stockings. On Christmas morning, there will be a joint ceremony with the families, and the kids will all get their presents. Why do you ask?”
“I started wandering down there, talking to some of the poor kids and their parents. I was wondering if there was anything I could do to make Christmas more enjoyable for the kids.”
“That is a kind thought, but we have managed well the last fifty years without VIP input. But if you show yourself, I think the kids and the families will like it. Anything that distracts them is fine. Can you maybe sing or dance or play an instrument? You Hollywood types are versatile, no?”
“I am a one-trick pony, acting all the way. But I decorate a mean Christmas tree,” Louise said.
The day before Christmas did not go well for Louise, as the increased dosage kept her down till six p.m., when the nausea finally ceased and hunger returned. She felt dead tired but did her daily exercise on the walker until the display showed two miles. After dinner, her nurse reminded her of the singing and festivities in the children’s center, so Louise made the short walk over, listened to some college student carolers, gave some autographs—no pictures anymore due to the sickness—and played with some of the kids. Various doctors and nurses came to the center to say hi and watch the excitement in the kids’ eyes shortly before Christmas.
Louise noticed a little commotion at the edge of the playroom, where a nurse walked briskly toward a group of doctors and pulled Dr. Singh aside. Both left with serious faces.
Did this young man ever sleep or have a private life?
Curious, Louise excused herself from the Yahtzee game she’d been playing with two kids and left the playroom. Dr. Singh and the nurse vanished around the corner, Louise at their heel.
The door to one patient’s room was open, and a little voice could be heard quietly crying. Louise peered around the corner. Singh was checking up on a boy of six or so who was white as sheet and had sunken black-rimmed eyes and no hair. Many of the kids with late-stage cancer looked like him, but he looked even sicker than the others. He shook his head from side to side—it was unclear whether from pain or from a seizure or simply from a dream that haunted him. Singh took his temperature, adjusted the drip, and read some numbers on a computer. He glanced at the nurse and shook his head with a face that looked twenty years older than his otherwise youthful appearance.
“You can come in, Ms. Waters. Little Marc needs some company.”
“Is he in pain?”
“He is not conscious, so I can’t say. He’s having some seizures where the tumors in his brain are short-circuiting some functions,” Singh explained.
Louise saw this little boy shaking and moving and then noticed the fasteners over his body for his own protection. It didn’t look good; it was as if something wanted to get out of this kid.
“Marc will have a hard night tonight,” Singh said softly.
Tears shot into Louise’s eyes. “Why is he alone?” she asked, sniffling.
“The parents were here earlier but left for home. Marc has three siblings who want to spend Christmas with their parents, too, and they had no babysitter tonight.”
“Can I stay with him?”
“It’s a bit late to adopt a kid, Louise, and Marc is pretty much out of it. I gave him as much pain medication as I dared to give without killing him.”
“That sounds like a sick joke,” Louise said and hiccupped, holding back her tears.
“It does, but it isn’t one. We are here to treat him. And if cure is out of reach, we’ll make his dying as comfortable as possible. It’s his god’s responsibility to take him, not ours.”