“You told me they weren’t any good.”
“Well, I changed my mind. I mean, considering the way I look now.”
He looked up at her and held the photos to his chest. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered. “You’re both beautiful, and I’ll treasure this forever.”
Morgan felt awkward, as if he was intruding. “I got you something too,” Anne told Morgan. “Mrs. Hankins selected it, but I told her what to get.”
Morgan ripped open the box to find a heavy sweater of dark navy blue, along with a framed photo of Anne on Golden Star.
“Marti took it this summer and sent me the negative. I had it enlarged.”
He couldn’t take his eyes from it. She looked lovely and perfectly healthy. “Thank you,” was all he could manage.
“It was one of the best times of my life,” she said. “I’ll always be glad I went.”
“Aunt Maggie shipped this to me for you.” He fished around under the tree and dragged out the gift he had for Anne. He wanted Anne to like it, hoped she’d grasp what he really wanted to tell her, but couldn’t put into words.
She removed the paper slowly, with effort, because her hands ached so badly. Inside the box lay a pale buckskin dress, adorned with beads and feathers. “Remember, I told you that my great-great-great grandmother was a full-blooded Cheyenne?” Morgan asked.
The afternoon in the cemetery by the church sprang vividly into Anne’s mind. “I remember.”
“That’s a Cheyenne ceremonial wedding dress. I thought you might like to see what one looks like.”
She placed the soft deerskin against her cheek. She understood what he meant through the gift, what he couldn’t say in front of her father. A large lump swelled her throat shut as she gazed into the depths of his blue eyes. “The Cheyenne must have been wonderful people,” she said softly, “to have dressed their brides in such splendor.”
He wished he could tell her how special he thought she was. He wanted to thank her for allowing him into her life. He wanted to tell her that this was the best Christmas he’d known in years. “Cheyenne women are brave and beautiful,” he replied. “And I should know.”
Anne’s father served turkey with all the trimmings. Morgan ate heartily, to make up in part for Anne’s eating almost nothing. Afterward, he insisted she call Marti, who squealed with delight when she heard Anne’s voice. “Feliz Navidad,” Marti shouted.
Hearing Marti’s voice triggered a flood of memories. “Morgan tells me you’re going back to the ranch next summer,” Anne said.
“Oh, Anne, if only you could come back too.”
If only … “I’ll be with you in spirit.”
“I’m glad Morgan’s with you,” Marti said, her tone subdued. “I told you he liked you.”
“Have a wonderful life, Marti.”
“Te amo, Anne.”
“I love you too.” Anne hung up and wept softly. There were so many people she was going to miss.
“I didn’t want you to be sad,” Morgan said, apologetically.
“It’s all right. I’m glad I talked to her. You make sure Skip treats her right. Her old boyfriend didn’t. She deserves the best.”
Toward nightfall, Morgan went for a long walk alone. Snow had fallen, fresh and white, but had turned dingy in the streets. Everywhere he turned, there was traffic, noise, and people hurrying along the sidewalks. He began to miss the solitude and beauty of Colorado. Yet, he’d promised himself he would stay for as long as Anne was alive. He thought about trying to find a job, something to help Anne’s father with expenses. He wanted to contribute in some way.
By the time he returned to the apartment, it was late. Certain Anne was asleep, Morgan crept toward his sleeper sofa. A light coming from Dr. Wingate’s study caught his eye. He wondered why Anne’s father would be working on Christmas night, then decided to talk to him about getting work. Morgan tapped on the door, and entered after hearing a muffled, “Come in.”
He saw Anne sitting in front of her father’s computer. Surprised, Morgan blurted, “What are you doing up so late?”
She gave him a weary smile and gestured toward an empty chair beside the desk. “I’ve been touring various libraries,” she said.
“What?”
Anne tapped several computer keys, and the printer began clacking. “My father gave me the idea when he told me how he searched for the Emily Dickinson book. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”
“Think of what?”
“Doing a computer search about Huntington’s chorea,” she said. “Sit down. I’ve discovered some very interesting information for you.”
Nineteen
MORGAN WENT HOT and cold all over. He wasn’t sure he wanted any more information about Huntington’s. “You should be resting,” he told Anne. “It isn’t good for you to be up this late.”
“I’ll have an eternity to rest,” she said matter-of-factly. “I only have now to be alive.”
“Don’t talk that way.”
“Sit down,” she repeated. “There are some things you need to know.” He sat. She tore off paper from the printer. “I researched medical magazines and newspaper articles. I’ve read and printed out the material for you. The interviews with people who are facing the prospect of Huntington’s are interesting.”
“Let me guess,” Morgan said dourly. “It’s tough to make plans.”
“First of all, I think you shouldn’t be afraid to take the test. The test wasn’t in use until 1986. I guess it’s like my AIDS problem. They started screening blood in eighty-five—too late for me.” She shook her head. “Anyway, the test is a predictor. It requires blood samples from your relatives, like you and your Aunt Maggie and your father. Is there anyone else in your father’s family?”
“I don’t think so. My grandparents died years ago.”
“The test looks for certain DNA markers on genes of groups of family members. If the marker’s found in any one person’s genes, it means the person will get Huntington’s. If it isn’t, he’s home free.”
“I know about the test. So what?”
Amazed by his lack of interest, Anne declared, “All it takes is a blood sample, and according to reports, the test is over ninety percent accurate.” She shuffled through the papers in her hand. “The testing is expensive, up to five thousand dollars, but it would settle the matter once and for all for you and your aunt.”
Morgan gave her a quizzical look. “And what if the test is positive? What if it tells me I’m going to get Huntington’s? I’d get to trade worrying about if the disease will strike for worrying about when. What kind of comfort is that?”
Anne was at a loss for words. She’d thought he’d be overjoyed to know he could stop living with uncertainty. “I figured you might want to know. You could prepare—”
Morgan bolted out of the chair. “Well, I don’t want to know. If it’s going to happen to me, then I’ll have years and years to think about ending up like my father. Plenty of time to contemplate turning into a maniac and living in an institution.”
“But you’d also have time to plan for your life.”
“What kind of plans does a person make when he knows he’s going to die a horrible death?” She stiffened, and instantly, he wished he’d minded his tongue. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Believe me, I know what it’s like to live with an automatic death sentence, Morgan. I know what it’s like to feel your life slipping away from you, and know that all the medical technology in the world can’t save you. But even so, you have choices. I chose to spend the summer in Colorado instead of the hospital. What I’m telling you is that you may not have to live with a death sentence. You have the opportunity to know if you can live a normal life or not.”
“What’s the point?”
“You don’t have to take such reckless chances with your life. You don’t have to keep courting death, daring it by living dangerously.”
“Now you sound like my aunt and uncle.”
“You can make plans for a future,” Anne pleaded.
“It isn’t that simple,” he insisted. “If the test is positive and people find out, how do you think they’ll treat me?”
Morgan had begun pacing. Suddenly, he walked over to the chair where Anne sat. “What if Aunt Maggie and I took this test, and I found out she’s going to get it but I’m not? How do you think that would make me feel? Or what if it’s the other way around?”
“You’d let guilt stand in the way of knowing the truth? Truth sets people free. Don’t you want to be free?”
He avoided Anne’s question. “My aunt’s been good to me. I don’t want to see her suffer.”
“Doesn’t she wonder if it’s going to happen to her?”
“Sure she does. She told me that every time she drops something, or trips, she wonders if it’s the start of Huntington’s for her.” He thought a moment, then asked, “Both of us would have to take it—isn’t that what your research says?”
“ ‘The larger the genetic sample, the more accurate the results,’ ” Anne quoted from one of the pages.
Morgan rocked back on his heels. “Does any of your research say there’s a cure yet for Huntington’s?”
“No. It’s like AIDS—no cure.”
“Then we’re back to square one, aren’t we? What’s the point?”
Anne felt frustrated. Why was he being so stubborn? He was allowing his irrational fears to direct the course of his life. “So, you don’t want to know? You don’t want to ever take the test?”
Morgan leaned down over her chair. “So long as I don’t know, I have hope it won’t strike me. Without hope, what else is there?”
“That’s not hope—that’s gambling, playing the odds.” She reached up and touched his cheek. “I knew that I had no hope of living—of beating AIDS. But it didn’t keep me from wanting to live every moment I had left. If I hadn’t wanted that, I would never have met you.”
Morgan felt a heaviness in his chest. He wanted to hit something with his fist. He wanted to tear something apart with his bare hands. He looked down into Anne’s upturned face and forced the anger down. He pulled her to her feet and gently wrapped her thin, frail body in his arms.
She lay her cheek against his chest and felt his lips move in her hair. She heard his voice come softly from above her. “Anne, I appreciate all you’ve tried to do for me, all the time and energy you spent on this project. I can’t face it the way you have. I wish I could, but I can’t. Please understand.”
She clung to him fiercely. “I understand,” she whispered sadly, knowing that she didn’t.
Christmas was the last good day Anne remembered having. She ran a fever which rose steadily, and began to cough. The home-care nurse listened to her lungs. “She should be in the hospital,” the nurse told Anne’s father.
Racked with pain, Anne turned glazed eyes toward him. “No hospital,” she wheezed. “You promised. It’s my choice.”
Her father’s face looked ashen and tortured. “Isn’t there anything we can do for her at home?”
“Oxygen, of course,” the nurse said in resignation.
A portable tank was brought in, and a mask slipped over Anne’s mouth and nose. More medications were ordered, and an IV was inserted into her arm to maintain proper nutrition. She slept propped up on a stack of pillows.
Morgan acted like a caged cat. He paced, went out on endless walks, but would suddenly panic, thinking that Anne had died and he hadn’t been with her.
Then he’d turn and run down the sidewalk like a madman all the way back to the apartment. Heart pounding, he would rush inside and to her room; only when he saw her, heard her labored breathing, would he calm himself.
He felt that there was something left unfinished between them. He couldn’t determine what. He only knew their differing viewpoints about the test for Huntington’s had become some sort of wedge. Anne was too ill for them to discuss it again, but he thought about it constantly. He wanted to be at peace with her, wanted her to know how much he loved her and would miss her.
One afternoon, he stole quietly into her room. Her eyes were closed, and the book of poetry her father had given her for Christmas lay across her lap. He watched her chest heave, listened to the hiss of the oxygen tank. Her eyelids fluttered open. “Hi,” he said.
She smiled weakly. “Hi, yourself. I was having a dream.”
“About me?”
“You’re so vain. I was dreaming about my mother. I was a little girl again, and we were together.” Morgan swallowed against the thick knot in his throat. “I’ll see her soon,” Anne continued.
“Please, don’t …”
“No tears in heaven, Morgan. Remember that.”
He turned his head, not wanting her to see the tears in his eyes. He took a long, shuddering breath. “Were you reading?” he asked, pointing to the book.
“Trying to. My vision keeps blurring. Very annoying. I know most of her poems by heart anyway, so I guess it shouldn’t matter.”
He picked up the book and dragged a stool beside her bed. “Want me to read to you?”
“You told me you don’t like to read.”
“I don’t mind.” He leaned forward. “Just don’t tell Skip!”
“Your secret’s safe with me.”
He thumped through the slim volume of verses. “I forgot how depressing Emily was.”
“A poet par excellence,” Anne said. The effort cost her, but she felt a sense of peace come over her. How wonderful it was to have Morgan holding her book, doing this kindness for her that went against his rugged nature.
“Which poem?” he asked.
“You choose,” she said.
He flipped a few more pages, then settled on the one he knew she liked best. In his deep, voice, he read, “ ‘Because I could not stop for Death— / He kindly stopped for me— / The Carriage held but just Ourselves— / And Immortality.…’ ”
Twenty
“ANNE, ANNE!” MORGAN was awakened from a sound sleep by the voice of Anne’s father shouting her name. Morgan rushed to Anne’s room. Dr. Wingate was frantically trying to get her to respond, desperately trying to find a pulse. “Call nine-one-one!” he yelled at Morgan.
The emergency squad arrived in minutes, and although the team tried to resuscitate her, they couldn’t. Morgan hung in the hall, feeling numb and cold. He couldn’t see her body for all the people surrounding her bed. He didn’t want to, really. He wanted to remember Anne as she’d been in life, with a smile on her lips, her eyes closed, listening to him read her favorite poetry. Death had come for Anne Wingate. Morgan hoped that her final journey had been painless.
Once the body had been taken away, Dr. Wingate sat on the sofa and stared at the floor with red-rimmed eyes. Morgan called Mrs. Hankins and told her. “Oh, my poor, dear girl,” she cried. “I’d come to love her like a daughter.” The older woman sniffed and added, “It was a merciful way for her to die, you know … to simply slip away into heaven in her sleep. I’ve seen AIDS patients die much more horribly.”
Morgan took little comfort in her words. Anne was gone. Nothing could bring her back. “Dr. Wingate wants to have a memorial service here after Anne’s funeral,” Morgan said. “He wants all the people who cared for her to come here instead of to the cemetery.”
“I’ll make some calls,” Mrs. Hankins offered. “You make sure the professor takes care of himself.”
Over the next two days, Morgan and Anne’s father worked silently, side by side, taking care of necessary arrangements. They dressed Anne in the Cheyenne wedding dress. She looked beautiful lying on a bed of white satin, in the soft buckskin decorated with feathers and beads. In the coffin with her, Dr. Wingate placed a photo of Anne’s mother and the One Last Wish letter. “It gave her so much joy,” he explained to Morgan.
“Did you ever learn who JWC is?”
“No. In a way, I don’t want to know. I’d like to believe that this JWC is part of life’s mystery—someone who is kin
d and good. He or she is probably somewhere in the world doing other generous things for good people like Anne right now. It helps balance out a world where someone gets AIDS and dies before her time.”
At the memorial service, Morgan realized it was comforting to sit around with the people who had known and loved Anne and hear them share memories of her. When Marti called from Los Angeles he was grateful to hear her voice.
By the end of the week, Morgan started packing his things. He folded shirts and jeans, stuffing them along with his Christmas gifts into two duffel bags. Since he hated good-byes, he’d planned to be gone before Anne’s father returned from teaching his morning classes. Morgan wrote him a note and thanked him for allowing him to be a part of Anne’s final weeks.
Anne’s father came in just as Morgan was finishing. “I didn’t expect you back so early,” Morgan said.
“Today was my last class till the fall,” Dr. Wingate replied. “The head of my department told me to take my sabbatical early. Anne and I were planning to visit England next summer, you know.” He struggled to keep his voice even. “Anyway, they told me to go on now, so I am. I’ll be going to London.”
Morgan felt sorry for him. “I’m sure the time off will be good for you,” he said.
“Are you leaving now?”
“I don’t want to wear out my welcome.”
“You won’t, Morgan.” The tall man rested his hand on Morgan’s shoulder. “I know I didn’t exactly welcome you here with open arms when you first came, but I’m glad you’ve been here. I truly appreciate all you gave to my Anne.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Anne was very fond of you. You made the time she had left special. I’ll always be grateful.”
Morgan swallowed against the thick lump in his throat. So far, he’d kept his tears private, and he didn’t want to lose it now. “I’ll never forget her.”
Sixteen and Dying Page 10