The Perfect Father

by Nenny May

  As she’d rustled about in her petite one-wallkitchen gathering a mug, a half full container of Chamomile, a jar of honey and kettle from the bottom drawer, she’d brought the question of her survival against her disease more to the surface. She would have her first doctor’s appointment the following morning. She didn’t know what to expect, how would she? Michel hadn’t invited her to any of his appointments; she’d been too little to understand much anyway. She was too old now to remember much of that time. Though she couldn’t forget what it had felt like to lose him. To have Terrence and Olivia return to their home and tell her;

  “It’s over, he’s dead.” Olivia had been the one to break the news. She’d said it in a splintered tone. Terrence had been there too, by the door, he’d just observed almost looking out of place. Christina wasn’t sure she’d hugged her parents or not, but she was sure she’d remained silent. She wasn’t the type to react to negative news all that quickly. She’d rather let it settle in and crush her from the inside out.

  Flipping on the tap, she’d let the sink water run over her open kettle, relishing in the depth it added to her quiet home. Her neighbors weren’t fighting that evening. It was absurd considering they always had a reason to scream at one another. Three days ago, Christina recalled, they’d fought over who was more likely to cheat. That night, Christina had sat by the living room couch on her phone, betting that it would be the husband Mark. He was too impulsive, if anything, he would be the first to bring back a lover. Though it wasn’t her business what happened in their relationship she couldn’t help but tune in to their latest drama. Christina wondered if one day she would be in a relationship like Mark and Jessica from next door.

  As she blinked back into reality, she was aware of her overflowing kettle. She’d switched off the tap, poured out some water and trudged the kettle over to the stove and turned it on. Her mind and her phone were her only distraction. And even on her phone she would be reminded of her reality. The articles from the night Lawrence Harrington’s body was discovered hadn’t reduced in the slightest. No, if anything, they had multiplied. And this time, Terrence Gresham was front and center. The last article she’d stumbled upon had been on the subway on her way home. It had documented Terrence Gresham’s involvement in the Harrington murder case. There wasn’t much the media had tying him to it, much like the authorities, that didn’t mean they weren’t prowling for it.

  A soft penetrating whistle from the kettle startled her. She’d emptied the content into a mug mixed in her Chamomile and honey and stirred clutching the warm ceramic cup as she moved to the living room. Mark and Jessica weren’t even banging it out post-argument, and Christina wasn’t a pervert that would listen into their sexual noises, but as she sat in her hollow home, any sound would be better than the raging voices of her rampant thoughts. She’d gulped a quarter of the warm liquid not minding the blazing feel of it against her tongue.

  Placing the mug on the coffee table, Christina reached for her computer and pulled up Detective Harrington’s email containing Terrence’s law suit. She hadn’t had the time to go through it. At the very least, it would shed some light on Michel Gresham’s death. There were too many unanswered questions from her childhood she’d long overlooked. It would as well tell her who her father truly was, because the man she’d been speaking to the last few days seemed almost estranged to her.

  She’d read the document intensively, absorbed by terms like negligence and murder tossed about. Terrence had apparently faced charges of second degree murder as well as gross negligence with regards to a minor. The charges had however been dropped for want of evidence on behalf of the prosecutor.

  For a second time, she’d read the document, internalizing it.

  Second degree murder… She could feel it; the anxiety gushing in her veins…Terrence had taken Michel Gresham off life support... Her fingers trembled… The prosecutor hadn’t been able to prove that Michel had a chance of survival... Eyes of hickory sat almost submerged in a pool of tears…Gross negligence of a minor… Who was the man she’d called her father for many years? Terrence Gresham had known long before action had been taken, of Michel Gresham’s disease… Was he the perfect father?And despite this, the prosecutor hadn’t been able to prove that Terrence had known previously of his son’s disease… Or the perfect killer?

  Shutting her computer, Christina set it aside on the coffee tableand reached for her mug. It nearly spilled. She had to get a grip. The charges had been dropped for a reason. Though she needed closure on what had happened to Michel Gresham and she needed to know from Terrence directly. Though as she sat there unable to finish the content of her cup, her stomach churning, she’d managed to squeeze her eyes shut; a single droplet running down her cheeks unaccompanied. With eyes blurred she’d dumped her mug on the coffee table, it had tipped, its content soaking her warm computer.

  Shit! She’d stumbled to her feet, reached for a rag and picked up the device that of course refused to turn on. Shit! She didn’t have the money for another one, at least not yet. She needed to get back on her feet, especially now that a chunk of her savings would be hauled into chemotherapy, therapy and medication. But, For the love of God! All her information was on that computer. And she hadn’t bothered to back it up! Her lips wobbled violently. She tried to scream, but more than ever, her throat had run dry. So instead, she’d sobbed, quietly on her living room couch wondering just when everything would come to a stop.

  At the shatter of glass, her eyes fluttered open and scampered about her home. For a moment, she felt paralyzed in place, helpless as adrenaline gushed through her veins. She’d looked to her one-wall kitchen first, not particularly sure how she would respond to an intruder. It was a mess of unwashed dishes, but it was empty. A piercing shriek nearly sent her over the edge, but then she’d realized; the noises hadn’t come from her home, but from the apartment next door. Mark and Jessica were at it again. The previous night, before she’d cried herself to sleep, she’d needed their bickering. They hadn’t been there. But the morning after when she was in dire need of at least an extra hour of sleep they’d resumed whatever drama they’d kept on hold. She didn’t have it in her to make out what their fallout had been about. No, she’d glimpsed over at her computer, once again drenched to the bone with a wave of regret.

  And yet, in an attempt to look for the silver lining, Christina had reached for her phone, easily overlooking the accumulated texts from Grace Gresham and Steve Gresham. In the depths of her heart, she hoped her neglect to Grace didn’t have adverse effects on her cousin’s pregnancy. It couldn’t… could it? She wouldn’t be able to forgive herself if it did. Struck by a pang of guilt, Christina drafted up a half-assed message claiming that she was fine and overworked and she would call soon. She didn’t know how soon, soon would be, but she hoped it wasn’t soon enough. In Carter’s case, she was yet to get anything from him commenting on her release from Wellington & Turner. Perhaps Cohen hadn’t left her that evening to kiss and tell.

  But that hadn’t been why she’d reached for her phone in the first place. She’d pulled up the confirmation email from the appointment she’d booked with a specialist at Dan Marsons Medical Center. She couldn’t particularly retrieve much from the email; other then the address of the hospital and the time of her appointment that was gradually trudging closer and closer, Christina couldn’t get her hands on anything more. If only she’d been more careful with her computer. For someone who’d made a personal pact to ignore jolts of regret she wasn’t doing the best job.

  There was a thump against the wall, Christina had overlooked it. This was what Mark and Jessica’s antics were like. They would haul things at each other, they would scream at one another. For quiver of a second she’d wondered if the couple next door had considered a divorce. It wasn’t her business. And so, she’d risen to her feet, stumbled about, taking a shower and throwing on a pair of washed jeans. They were a pair from Rag & Bone, she’d taken Grace there on a spree to celebrate her cousin’s pregn
ancy announcement and she’d picked the pair for herself. She supposed the distance between the both of them had begun the day that dreaded medical report had found its way into her life. Or had the distance been there before? Had Christina been overcompensating the distance with shopping and spending on Grace? This wasn’t the time for such questions. She’d thrown over her head an old baggy shirt from her last relationship—nowhere near as abusive as Mark and Jessica’s, but it wasn’t something Christina had been willing to endure. As for shoes, she’d merely tossed on flip flops and scuttled to the kitchen for some toast. Chamomile tea had only gotten her so far the previous night; she wasn’t in the mood for it.

  She’d reached into the fridge and pulled out a loaf; two slices from it and a bottle of water. Would she be put on a new diet when she begun chemo? She didn’t know, but she knew, nevertheless, that something would have to be done to her hair. Everyone with cancer she’d heard of had walked about with a clean scalp. Though she was curious whether it would fall out on its own or she would have to hack it off herself?

  From the cabinet she’d tugged a zip-lock bag and reached for the warm slices after the beep of the toaster. She was going to miss her appointment if she endeavored to eat before heading out.

  Grabbing her bag where she’d shoved the zip-lock, her phone and keys, she’d momentarily deliberated reaching for the untouched box of L&M cigarettes. It had been quite a while since she’d lit one. She’d always carried it with her, just in case she couldn’t resist the urge. At Gresham Square, she’d been close to tugging out a stick, lighting it and melting into the harsh warmth of smoke in her lugs, burning her throat. It had been too long, and so she’d reached for it as well shoving everything into her bag and heading to Dan Marsons Medical Center on Park Avenue.

  Chapter SIX

  As she stared at the certificates on the biscuit walls, a droplet slid down the nape of her neck, a bitter chill nipped at her bones. Each thought of a hospital setting left her victim to tight knots and disconcerting rumbling in her gut. But it hadn’t been like this before. She hadn’t nurtured such dread towards hospitals in the past. Despite having cradled a child mentality that it was the hospital that killed her brother; she’d grown out of that. In her teenage years, she’d rather perceive medical centers as mere facilities to heal from whatever she’d come down with. After all, at the time all she’d been capable of contracting had been the common cold, or a fever here and there. This time was different. She had to admit it, she wasn’t much for hospitals anymore.

  She blinked yanking her eyes from the walls and all that adorned it. The room she’d found herself wasn’t all that big, but it wasn’t all that small either. It was bigger than what she’d had at Wellington & Turner that much was clear. However, she couldn’t compare the room she’d sat in with her former office; most especially knowing little about the conditions of the room and how it was acquired. For all she knew there were certificates up and about to hide hammer-holes, or chips and peelings in the paint. She’d come about her office at Wellington & Turner almost as a settlement for taking on a case many had overlooked. Her office had come at a price, one she’d woefully defaulted in paying. She didn’t know what the doctor; the specialist had gone through to get such a quality workspace.

  She could only imagine what a bill from such an office would compose of in the long-run. She would have to settle down and crunch the numbers. She couldn’t evade it. She was unemployed and had to cut-her-coat-according-to-her-size. She’d sought Dan Marsons Medical Center in lieu of the accumulated reviews singing praises to the facility. But those reviews would mean nothing if she couldn’t afford her treatment.

  With eyes that were neither pleased nor upset, she observed the woman who had the posture of a soldier, her specialist. Every action the lady took was precise and purposeful. She’d smiled in the cold and distant way professionals do.

  At the receiving end of that expression Christina felt frigid, shuddering just slightly beneath the thick fabric of her ex-fiancé’s shirt. He’d hardly worn it anyway, chucked it over to her after what-was-it, their third night together? She didn’t miss him, Rodger Greenwood, at least not anymore, even if she still found herself in his clothing.

  "Autologous stem cell transplantation involves harvesting, or retrieving, noncancerous stem cells from the patient's own body and freezing them." Doctor Georgia Tucker explained. She wasn't a stranger to the concept of new patients wanting to do everything in their power to estrange themselves from their disease. She'd met patients willing to pay limitless costs to have unspeakable medical experiments carried out on them, all in the name of erasing the mark cancer had left on them. She wasn't willing to be a party to those requests. "The cells are then returned to the patient's body after receiving intensive chemotherapy. But the procedure is only appropriate for certain patients." She concluded glumly.

  Christina was stabbed by a pang of irritation. Was she being segregated? Who classified as certain patients?

  "And what does that mean? Certain patients like who?" Christina voiced, fiddling with her fingers beneath the table, yet her eyes never left the doctor who despite her professional standpoint, was beginning to trudge on Christina Gresham's nerves. What did that mean? That she couldn't qualify for the Autologous stem cell transplant? Was it money they needed? She didn’t quite have the money, but she could get her hands on it. She could reach out to Terrence… No, things were tough for him. And he might have questions; she wasn’t ready to answer questions. Did she need to be of a certain age? She hoped not, she didn’t want to live with her disease another day, she wanted it out of her as soon as possible.

  "We're looking at multiple factors as a hospital Miss. Gresham, for one, the patient's overall health is a determining factor, as well as the chances that chemotherapy alone will cure the AML, we're looking into the type of abnormal changes to the chromosomes and cells, and many more factors."Christina itched the bridge of her nose. She was healthy wasn’t she? Sure she’d entertained a drink now and then, and she’d been tempted to relish in a cigarette, but she wasn’t too sick for the treatment!"I know how much you want this disease gone, Miss. Gresham, but you can live with it. I can offer multiple opportunities that seem like nothing now, but you'll grow to cherish them." Georgia Tucker enumerated, offering a series of pamphlets. What was Christina to do with those? The thought of attending a support group meeting startled her, suffocated her. Therapy was one thing, one-on-one. Her matters and concerns were confidential. A support group was another. What was she going to tell the members of the group? Her twin brother had cancer and was taken off life support by her negligent father and now she has the same disease? No, she couldn’t.

  All at once she was claustrophobic, trapped in a small room she couldn't escape, cancer inked over the walls, dripping in crimson. She didn't want this. She wanted to escape, to be out of her own body for at least a day and not feel like she had numerous pills to take. Pills she knew if she didn’t find a job, she wouldn’t be able to afford in the long run. She didn’t want to feel like her hair was falling out each day in the shower. It was, not a lot, but it was. And once again her question from that morning by the toaster resurfaced. Was she going to have to cut it out on her own or wait for it all to fall completely out? "I know it's a lot, but just give them a try, there's a meeting tomorrow afternoon." Despite her daze, Christina found herself nodding. "In any case, our care team will perform regular blood tests and other diagnostic tests to check for recurring leukemia cells and make modifications to your treatment as needed."

  "Modify?" Christina Gresham croaked.

  "If in the scenario chemotherapy has little an effect on you, we might have to introduce you to radiation therapy, but we're hoping it doesn't get to that." Christina frowned. She'd heard about cancer treatments, read about them for cases involving clients with the plaguing disease, but never had she been sitting at the other end of a doctor's desk being told all the ways her cancer can be cured. Her cancer. Why did the thought give h
er chills? Why did it all sound so morbid?

  "And what does that entail?" She heard a voice say. That couldn't have been hers, so distant, scratched, foreign.

  "Radiation therapy just uses high-energy radiation to kill cancer cells. It is nothing to be worried about, but it is only used where chemotherapy has failed." If it was that simple, why then did Christina Gresham feel there was more to radiation therapy than her doctor was willing to let on?

  Plastering a rubber smileon her diamond face, Georgia Tucker picked up her earlier drafted prescription along with a collection of orange pamphlets, her hand outstretched. "You're going to be fine, Christina, just come back at the end of every week for a blood test, leukemia only kills if you let it." Her words lingered. Christina doubted that. If that were the case, she would have to delve deeper into Terrence Gresham’s murder charges. She’d intended to. How wouldn’t she when her father had been faced with claims of second degree murder and gross negligence. Had he let Michel Gresham’s leukemia get the best of him? And why couldn’t the prosecution prove this? Surely if they’d looked deep enough something would have come to light.

  Rising to her feet, it was then clear that there was nothing Christina could do, there wasn't a surgery that would get rid of the cancerous cells in her body, at least not without her getting used to her new lifestyle.This wasn't supposed to happen. Not to her, nothing ever happened to her, why now?