Blackberry Cove

by Roxanne Snopek

  He pulled out the spiral-bound notebook he always carried in his back pocket. “I want the names of your doctors, all of them. The tests you’ve had, the results, the drugs you’re on. I want everything.”

  He’d put in a call to this neurologist, first thing in the morning. He didn’t care that Roman had already gotten a second opinion. Jon would get him a third, or fourth, however many were necessary. Surely there were options.

  Abby went into the other room, then returned with a stack of papers. “It’s all here. They’ve given him anywhere from six weeks to six months.” Abby swallowed. “I’m sorry, Jon.”

  He turned back and looked at her. She was sorry.

  Roman turned over one shaking palm, like a shrug. “It’ll take a while but you’ll come to terms with it, son. I did. At least I’m not in pain. Well, no more than I was. Ha.”

  Roman’s fingers fumbled at the side of the sofa for his cane. Chaos immediately scrambled to his feet, picked it up with his mouth, and put it into Roman’s hand.

  “Good boy,” Roman muttered, fondling the dog’s ears.

  For a moment, Jon could not breathe.

  With one hand on the cane and the other on the dog’s harness, Roman got to his feet. “I’m tired of all this jabbering. I’m going to my room. The pain in my head is reading eight out of ten and I’m not interested in seeing it go any higher.”

  “Can I get you anything?” Abby asked.

  “No, no. I’m sorry Jon called you from work for this,” Roman said and waved her away. “Tempest in a teapot.”

  Jon followed his dad into the bedroom and straightened sheets that didn’t need straightening. “We’ll get this sorted out. Don’t worry about a thing, okay?”

  “Ah, my boy.” Roman lifted one bony shoulder. “I knew this would be hard for you to accept. There’s nothing to handle. Now go. We’ll talk more later. If I’m still alive and kicking.”

  He gave a rough laugh that turned into a cough.

  “Not funny, Dad.” Jon took a step toward his father, wavered, then pulled him into a gentle and completely awkward hug. “Not funny at all.”

  * * *

  Roman absolutely, one hundred percent refused to see a new doctor. He did, after much badgering, give Jon permission to talk to the neurologist who’d provided the diagnosis.

  Jon had called the office and left a detailed message.

  Then, once Roman had gone to bed, he got out his laptop and began doing what he always did. Research.

  He shook his head to rid himself of the anger. He had to think objectively. Big picture. Sketch out the broad strokes. Then get into the details.

  It would all make sense then.

  Treatment for glioma, he learned, depended on the type, size, grade, and location of the tumor, as well as the age and overall health of the patient.

  Surgical removal was the first plan of attack, unless the tumor was located near sensitive areas of the brain, in which case surgery could be too risky.

  Which portion of the brain was not sensitive? he wondered. Where was the best place to get a glioma tumor?

  If Roman had undergone brain surgery, when would he have mentioned it to Jon? Or would he have left that to Abby?

  He knew his anger toward Abby was out of proportion, but his father was dying and therefore not an appropriate target.

  Surgery could result in a complete cure.

  It could also damage the part of Roman’s brain that controlled motor skills, speech, vision, and thinking. It could leave him blind, mute, paralyzed, in a persistent vegetative state, or he could die on the table.

  The most important thing was timing. The earlier the tumor was caught, the better the chance of a good outcome.

  “Damn it, Dad,” he muttered. “If only you’d have told me sooner.”

  But there were other options. There was targeted radiation therapy, using computer-directed high-energy beams to kill the tumor cells, while leaving the healthy tissue untouched. He read about protons, X-rays, stereotactic radiation therapy, gamma knife targeting, intensity-modulated radiation therapy. He took note of side effects, including fatigue, headaches, and burns to the scalp.

  Then there was chemotherapy. Poisons taken either orally, or intravenously, all of which was likely to produce nausea, vomiting, hair loss, headaches, fever, weakness, and none of which was guaranteed to add any quality time.

  Jon could read between the lines. He knew all about subtext. When someone talked about quality time, it usually meant that quantity time wasn’t an option.

  He closed his laptop, folded his arms on the table, and rested his head on them, too exhausted and overwhelmed to read anymore.

  The next morning, the neurologist returned his call. He confirmed everything Jon had read during the night and very kindly answered all of Jon’s questions.

  No, surgery was not a viable option.

  No, chemo and radiation were not likely to affect survival time.

  Yes, he’d urged Roman to tell him earlier.

  Finally, he was very sorry about the news.

  Everyone was sorry.

  * * *

  The first time Quinn and Abby accompanied Jamie to the school, they brought three dogs, a white standard poodle named Honey, Haylee’s terrier Cleo, and a young Cavalier King Charles spaniel named Lily that recently arrived at the shelter. Haylee stayed at the ranch to spend time with Jewel, who was fading quickly. Abby was there to provide an extra pair of hands if needed, and otherwise to stay out of the way. This was Quinn’s thing, not hers.

  Honey actually belonged to Gideon’s son, Blake, but when Blake was with his mother, the dog stayed on the ranch. Blake graciously allowed Jamie to let Honey visit other kids who might need her special brand of love.

  Blake was a cute kid.

  Jamie and Gideon were a cute couple.

  Abby and Jon were—

  “Hey, Abby!” Jamie broke into her thoughts. “I’d like you to supervise the one-on-one time with Lily. Quinn, you can take Honey to the reading corner while Cleo and I do some tricks over here.”

  Quinn’s eyes widened and flew to Abby’s.

  “Go ahead,” Abby said. “Honey knows what she’s doing. You’ll be fine.” She focused her attention on the little spaniel and the child who was eagerly awaiting a turn with the dog. Quinn was having first-time jitters, that’s all.

  The teacher, Mrs. Hill, took out a notepad she used while observing the children interacting with the dogs. “The kids look forward to this all week,” she said to Abby. “They earn time with the dogs by meeting the goals of their individualized learning plans. You should see them work!”

  Abby smiled. “I’m happy it helps.” She chucked little Lily under her feathery chin. Lily had soft, silky chestnut-and-white fur and big eyes that drew children to her like magnets. She was the gentlest creature Abby had ever known.

  On her first wellness visit, the veterinarian had discovered congenital heart disease so severe that she warned the breeder the pup likely wouldn’t live to see her first birthday. The breeder couldn’t in good conscience place her with a loving family, nor could she bear to euthanize a puppy that was, to all outward appearances, completely healthy. So she called the ranch. Haylee, unable to say no to such a sweet face, had agreed to let her live out whatever time she had with them.

  That had been eight months ago and while the heart murmur was as ghastly as ever, the puppy showed no signs of illness. So Haylee decided to include her in the dog visitation program. Lily had proven to be especially effective with children who weren’t comfortable around animals and had even won over some who’d been truly frightened of dogs.

  “She’s a little wonder, isn’t she?” Abby whispered to Mrs. Hill. A little girl named Farrah sat cross-legged on the floor, enjoying her ten scheduled minutes of Lily’s undivided attention. Lily wiggled and licked her face, then settled down in the girl’s lap to listen to her read.

  “She’s started participating in class,” Mrs. Hill whispered back. “F
arrah never raised her hand until Lily started coming. Never spoke unless I called on her, and even then, rarely more than a word or two. It’s wonderful, Abby.”

  Abby looked at the notepad in Mrs. Hill’s lap. She’d sketched out the room, with circles and initials and numbers scrawled in various spots.

  “That looks interesting,” she said, nodding toward the paper. She didn’t want to pry but Mrs. Hill was watching so intently and the indecipherable notations had piqued her interest.

  “This?” The teacher smiled. “I got a degree in mathematics before I went into teaching. Math and psychology, in fact. When I first started teaching remedial language arts, I never thought I’d be putting those early skills to use.”

  “And you are?” Abby replied, confused.

  “Oh, I am.” Mrs. Hill pulled open her desk drawer and handed another notepad to Abby. “See this? This is from last week.”

  The names of the students were all listed, with check marks, circles, and numbers beside them.

  “What does it mean?” Abby asked.

  “At the end of every Friday,” she explained, “I ask my students to write down the names of the student or students they would like to sit with next week. No more than four, but at least one. Only I can see the lists and they know that I may or may not implement their requests. I also ask them to nominate one student whom they think deserves special recognition for being an especially good class citizen. Then, I put my math brain to work and I look for patterns.”

  Mrs. Hill looked fondly over her group of children, all with something or other that made learning more difficult than usual for them. These were a challenging, and challenged, group. But she seemed to have genuine affection for them.

  “And what do you learn from that?” Abby asked. She wished Quinn would have had one teacher who’d have noticed her challenges. She wondered if having access to dogs in the classroom would have helped ease her sister’s anxiety.

  “I learn which children get requested often, and which ones never get requested.” The teacher’s eyes stopped on one small boy who sat slightly apart from the rest. “I learn which names never come up for nomination. I notice who had everyone wanting to sit with them one week, and no one the next. I don’t care who wants to sit where, Abby. What I want to know is which kids are being ostracized, which kids are being overlooked, which ones seem to be invisible to their peers.”

  Abby put a hand to her heart. She’d never forget the day Quinn had come home, shaken and scraped up because two mean girls decided to pick on her during recess. She’d gone all afternoon with bleeding knees and no one had noticed. Ten years old and not a single friend to come to her assistance.

  And no mother to console her at home.

  Was I enough for her? Or was I too busy mired in my own misery to help a little girl who needed so much?

  Which one thing had been the last straw for Quinn, that had shifted her from a quiet child to a young woman who kept herself apart from everyone, whose eyes were so empty some days that Abby feared asking what terrors lay behind them?

  Perhaps teachers had tried with Quinn.

  Social workers certainly had, but by then, it was too late.

  “I used to teach high school,” Mrs. Hill went on. “In Colorado. Math, biology, chemistry. A student came in one day with a gun.”

  Abby went cold. She looked at the little boy by the window.

  “I’d taught him,” the woman said. “I knew he was deeply, deeply troubled. We were lucky. He was disarmed before hurting anyone.”

  “Oh thank God,” said Abby.

  Mrs. Hill made a small humorless laugh. “He went home and shot himself in the head.”

  Abby swallowed.

  “I finished the year, but that was it for high school, for me. The damage to that poor young man had started years earlier. The signs were all there. I knew it, Abby. If someone had asked me which student is most likely to want to blow up the building, I’d have named him. We all saw it coming. And we did nothing. I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “No. It’s no one’s fault, of course.” She shook her head. “That’s how we comfort ourselves, but I couldn’t live with it. So I switched to children. Kids at risk. Kids in trouble. And I went back to my math roots. Every child wants attention, community, safety. Humans are pack animals. We all crave connection, and being alone, especially when surrounded by those who are not, can break a soul. Kids who are routinely left out, pushed to the sidelines, picked on, made fun of, or simply made to feel invisible and unworthy of love, will develop problems. I want to know which kids those are, before it gets to that stage. I’m with these kids twenty-five hours each week. There’s only one of me and eighteen of them, but by God, I will make sure that in this room, for the time we have together, they will know that they are all worthy. I will find the good in them and shine a spotlight on it so their peers see it. I will do what I can.”

  “You are amazing,” Abby said. “Have you told other teachers about this?”

  “Ah, you are idealistic, aren’t you? There are already so many rules and regulations in place about classroom behavior. Mandating something like this would instantly ruin it. It works for me because I believe in it and I want to do it.”

  She pointed to where the little girl was giving Lily a good-bye hug.

  “Do you see that? Farrah has been in three different foster homes this year alone. She has learned not to bond, not to care because she knows that it never lasts. But here, with Lily, she allows herself to care.”

  Abby pressed a knuckle against her lip and fought back tears. This is why Haylee started the program. This is what the ranch was about. What everyone on the ranch was about.

  “Love is about connection, Abby.” Mrs. Hill’s wise eyes evaluated her. “You and your sister are lucky to have each other.”

  “I know.”

  “Don’t put me on a pedestal. This is how I’ve made peace with what happened, that’s all.”

  She glanced at the clock and clapped her hands. “Students, it’s time to switch circles. Everyone gets their turn.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Jon guessed that Roman had been using all his energy to hide his symptoms. Now that he no longer had to do that, he was at ease, and the full extent of his illness roared to the forefront.

  One week ago, he had been able to walk, with help, through his garden, admiring the vegetables even if he could no longer eat them, and checking on apple sets that wouldn’t mature until after he was gone.

  Then, overnight it seemed, he wasn’t able to leave his chair. He was down to a semi-liquid diet of applesauce, juice, and pudding and even eating that exhausted him. His skin was loose and gray, his eyes sunken, and the tremor in his hands had worsened.

  The end was coming, and as much as Jon thought he was prepared, he found himself panicking at odd moments. He found it difficult to be inside the house, crowded as it was with the rented hospital bed, the oxygen bottles, the bottles of pills and bags of fluids, the extra pillows and towels and sheets.

  Abby tiptoed around them both. He was angry with her for not telling him the truth earlier. He’d lost time with his father, time he’d never get back. Now, all that was left was the dying time.

  Some of his anger was toward himself, he admitted. The signs had been there, had he chosen to see them.

  Everything changed once he learned about his father’s condition. His feelings toward Abby weren’t simple anymore. He wanted to trust her. He knew that Roman had put her in an impossible position, that it wasn’t her fault.

  But she was here and his anger had to go somewhere, though he did his best not to show it.

  Abby was doing everything she could now to help. She’d convinced Roman to hire a palliative care nurse and, since he steadfastly refused to go to the hospital, Jon was grateful.

  When Roman was sleeping or Abby or the nurse was with him, Jon escaped to the outdoors. He’d developed an appreciation for the
work Abby had done in the yard and garden. It was truly an oasis and he was grateful that Roman’s last view would be of the place where he’d found joy, peace, and purpose.

  He wished he’d realized sooner how much this place meant to Roman and deeply regretted pushing so hard for him to move. He could barely remember why it had seemed so important. His job was just a job and not even a particularly good one. He’d enjoyed freelancing far more than he had reporting on town hall meetings and whether or not rezoning proposals had been voted in.

  He’d been thinking of his own needs, thinking that he had years and years of guilt-ridden trips down the coast highway to visit his father when in fact, they were almost over.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered to a big tree swishing softly in the breeze. His chest felt like it wasn’t big enough to contain everything he was feeling, not if he wanted to keep breathing.

  He hadn’t expected grief to feel so odd, he thought, bracing his palm against the rough trunk as his head spun. He’d be walking outside and suddenly the green grass zoomed in and became more vivid while the sky grew paler and more distant. He could pick out individual voices of birds, see a ray of sunshine refract into a rainbow off a bead of dew. He could hear the rush of blood through his body and feel the pulse of life in his fingertips.

  He stood still, waiting for his balance to return, feeling the raw heat inside his rib cage.

  Roman’s spark was growing dimmer. His spirit was ebbing away and soon he would disappear, leaving nothing but a shell. How was that possible? Where did that energy go?

  Perhaps in those moments when nature twisted into a macabre fun-house carnival, Jon was being given a glimpse behind the curtain between this world and the next. Maybe the universe was preparing him for that which the human mind cannot accept.

  Footsteps sounded behind him and he pushed himself away from the tree.

  “Abby,” he said.

  Her face was white, her eyes huge, stricken. She stopped six feet away from him and simply stood there, her hands hanging loosely at her side, as if she didn’t know what to do with them.