Читать книгу Fallout - Mark Ethridge - Страница 16

With no breakfast to eat Monday morning, it was only a few minutes until they were headed to the bridge to Ohio thirty miles away.

A mist rose from the bottomland as they snaked north. Josh snapped on the Volvo’s yellow fog lights but was forced to slow. He read the clock on the dashboard and calculated. He had driven the route so damn many times with Sharon that he knew to the minute how long each segment should take, with variances calculated for every weather condition, every day of the week, every time of day. His math suggested that as long as the fog cleared by the time they crossed the river, they’d be okay. No, he thought. Not okay. On time.

So many times. All so futile. He looked at Katie sleeping in the seat beside him, covered in her mother’s throw. Maybe this time it would be different.

The Volvo neared an old steel bridge that reminded him of something built from an Erector set. On the West Virginia side was the familiar faded sign that still pointed the way to Betheltown, a long-abandoned community condemned to make way for the recycling plant. The quick-rising sun burned off the fog as they crossed the bridge into Ohio.

The western Appalachian foothills flattened quickly into rolling fields of young corn, endlessly repeating. Signs touting newly sprouted gas stations, fast-food restaurants and a cluster of chain hotels hovered just over the tree line. A parade of high-tension towers marched across the hilltops in the rearview mirror.

Josh set the cruise control for sixty-four miles an hour. Ohio cops didn’t mess with you if you were going less than sixty-five. He pinched his cheeks to stay awake. He yearned to turn on the radio but didn’t, not wanting to wake Katie. His eyes burned. His chin sank toward his chest on several occasions, but when he pulled the Volvo into the parking deck at the hospital, adrenalin kicked in.

Katie clutched his hand as they rode the elevator to the hospital’s entrance. “Daddy, I’m not going to miss camp, am I?”

Josh didn’t answer.

A security guard nodded as if he recognized Josh. Josh nodded back. Sad, he thought, when the hospital is where they know you best.

The building’s automatic doors opened and the bite of ammonia assaulted him, halting him in his tracks. Over the months of Sharon’s so-called treatments, the smell had been an ever-present reminder of the sickness growing inside her. It was the smell of hopelessness, of murdered dreams and despair. Today, it brought him to his senses like a blow to the face. Anger rose in him like a burning, caustic tide. He felt a fierce protectiveness toward Katie, a primal sense of possession. She was his daughter—his last tangible link to the woman he had shared his life with for more than fifteen years. All his hopes, wishes, everything he held dear were embodied in this thirteen-year-old girl. It was his duty, his sacred honor, to keep her from harm.

Like you did for Sharon. It came to him unbidden and he chased it back to the darkness where irrationality reigned and fear was a constant companion. After Sharon, he had hoped never to see this place again. But here he was and as much as he wanted to believe that everything would be okay, months of conditioning had left their mark. The old wounds were opening, oozing dread.

At least he was about to get some facts. He had been living in a world devoid of them. That had enabled him to avoid thinking about diagnoses, treatment options, even whether Katie could still go to camp. Having no facts had made optimism easier.

But having no facts was a professional contradiction. As a journalist, he lived for facts. He felt uncomfortable without them. With enough information, he believed, most problems could be solved. Given facts, one could at least take considered action, exert some measure of control. Despite their potential for horror, facts were where it all had to start.

Hours later, he still didn’t have any. The bureaucracy of insurance forms had taken forever, long enough for Katie to finish The Red Pony and many publications on the end tables in the main lobby. Then, infuriatingly, all the receptionists, office manager and other hospital personnel meandered off for a coffee break when he had a sick daughter and wanted answers. Josh fumed as one receptionist and the office manager stopped on an outside patio to smoke before they returned to work.

Katie left in search of more to read. Josh strolled to the unmanned reception desk in hopes of spotting a schedule, a sign-in sheet, anything that might give him a hint about when they might be seen. Nothing. Lured by a table with a stack of slick magazines, he wandered into an empty waiting area in administration. Disappointed when all the magazines turned out to be trade publications devoted to arcane aspects of hospital management, he killed time by practicing a skill at which he had once been legendarily proficient—reading things that were upside down. In his heyday, they had been memos and letters and papers on the desks of the New South business leaders and politicians and their secretaries across from him—documents that sometimes led to exciting scoops that no one could understand how he’d gotten. Today it was purely an exercise, a chance to see if he still “had it,” the memos, apparently awaiting approval, as meaningless to him as the articles in Hospital Manager Today—one about how a cutback in Medicaid reimbursements meant the Hospital Authority would have to start charging employees for parking; a six-month-old directive about switching to UPS for isotope deliveries to the departments of Radiation Oncology and Nuclear Medicine; a new memo about blood sterilizer inventory; and a badly-in-need-of-editing letter from the hospital’s legal department to the admitting desks about rights and responsibilities in dealing with undocumented, Spanish-speaking patients with no insurance. Josh could have summarized it in two sentences: Don’t ask for proof of citizenship. Do get cash or a credit card up front.

He drifted back to the waiting room where Katie was looking bored and miserable. Josh was past fuming. He was exhausted, frustrated and ready to fight anything interfering with help for his daughter.

At last, a nurse called them and led them down a hallway decorated with bright stencils of circus animals and child-sized furniture. “I don’t think a kid room is gonna work for you,” the nurse said over her shoulder. “Let’s use this one.” She ushered them into an examination room and closed the door.

Seconds later, an impossibly young man with short dark hair breezed in carrying an oversize file. He wore a blue oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a black plastic runner’s watch, khaki pants, and boat shoes. He ignored Josh, went straight to where Katie sat and knelt so that his face was level with hers and said, “Hi, Katie. I’m Doctor Pepper.”

Katie grinned. Pepper thumbed the blue stitching on his white lab coat. “Seriously. Peter Pepper, M.D. Doctor Pepper—just like the soft drink they named after me.”

Josh smiled. The guy was good with kids.

Pepper continued, “Katie, we’re going to do some tests today to find out what’s going on with that leg. Your dad and I are going to talk for a few minutes then I’ll be right back. Okay?”

Katie nodded.

“Fingers crossed,” Josh whispered and instantly regretted it. How many times had he whispered the same thing to Sharon? Always whispered, for to voice such things aloud was to invite the notice of arbitrary and capricious forces. It was a fact that hospitals, beacons of scientific and technological progress, resurrected faith in the most primal fears and superstitions. ‘Fingers crossed’ had shown itself to be powerless. “Good luck,” he amended.

Pepper led Josh to a brown-carpeted room where they sat at a small conference table. Josh noticed a book open face-down on a side table. It’s Time To Go: Preparing for the Death of Your Child. Josh scooted his chair closer to the doctor.

“Mr. Gibbs,” Pepper said, “I’m sorry for the circumstances that have brought Katie here but I want you to know that I am optimistic.”

“Good,” Josh answered cautiously. He felt himself relax.

Pepper slipped on a pair of glasses and aged ten years. “When did Katie first start complaining of leg pain?”

“Six week ago. I figured it was just something from soccer.”

Pepper withdrew an x-ray film from a folder and snapped it onto a light box on the wall. “Yes, there it is.” Josh looked but had no idea what he was supposed to see and Pepper didn’t bother to explain. Pepper shoved the x-ray back in the file, fished out another film and slid it on to the box. “See that?” Pepper pointed to just below the knee.

Josh couldn’t control his irritation. “Dr. Pepper, I didn’t see anything when I looked at these in Winston and I don’t see anything now. I am not here for an anatomy lesson. I am here to get some facts about what is wrong with my daughter.”

Pepper raised his hand. “I’m sorry.” His face softened. “I’m not sure what Dr. Wright told you, but that isn’t at issue. My specialty is pediatric oncology. The orthopedic surgeons and I have looked at the x-rays and we agree. Your daughter has osteogenic sarcoma. It’s one of the most common bone cancers among children . . .”