The Good Teacher

by Petronella McGovern

  ‘The clinic has never heard of Gracie,’ Curtis repeated, then paused. ‘Allison also told me she found some strange herbal pills. She says they came from you. Are these the same pills you got the letter about?’

  Maz reached down to her bag for her water bottle. Took a long gulp before answering. ‘No, they’re not the same ones.’

  Well, she didn’t think so. Would Curtis be obliged to haul her to the police? Thank God she’d taken the website down.

  ‘What are they then?’

  ‘The pills were to boost Gracie’s immune system. I only gave them to Luke on the condition that he get Dr Rawson’s approval. He promised me he had.’ She knew she sounded like a child, passing the blame, but it was true.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Luke didn’t tell Dr Mercado about them. He thought they wouldn’t take Gracie on the drug trial because of it. And now he’s worried the combination led to … her death.’

  Would Gracie be alive now if Maz hadn’t ordered those pills online?

  ‘But according to Allison, Dr Mercado never saw Gracie.’

  The schoolteacher was super kind and super caring but also bitter and distracted about her marriage break-up. Had Allison somehow gone to the wrong hospital or the wrong location? Luke had been so excited about Dr Mercado’s clinic.

  Allison had sent one message the other day saying she was flying to Chicago but nothing since. Maz wanted to commiserate with her—they had both loved Gracie—but the teacher hadn’t returned her call. Perhaps she’d already known about the pills then. Although, she’d always been a bit prickly with Maz. Was it because her husband had run off with another woman? Maz had tried to help her out, offering discount classes at the gym. Even though Allison wasn’t particularly overweight, she could do with more exercise, toning her arms and legs, getting some endorphins. And the camaraderie. ‘Come and join the gym family,’ Maz had said, but the teacher had stared daggers and muttered something under her breath.

  Or perhaps Allison knew Maz was selling supplements to her son. Oh shit, another client to contact.

  Curtis helped himself to an orange poppyseed muffin, and offered some to Maz as an afterthought. Normally she didn’t eat cake, but today she needed all the sustenance she could get.

  ‘Did you hear about that Chinese healer in Darwin?’ Curtis asked. ‘He’s been charged with manslaughter after he put a kid on a diet of herbs to cure a bad rash. The poor thing died from starvation.’

  Maz shook her head; the less she thought about alternative remedies, the better.

  ‘I’m just wondering …’ Curtis said. ‘Do you think Luke could have taken Gracie somewhere else?’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘A different kind of healing place. A wellness retreat that not everyone would approve of.’

  Gracie had been doing chemo for months and months, so Luke clearly believed in mainstream medicine—although the chemo had stopped working. Did he turn to something else then? Allison wouldn’t have agreed; she’d have labelled it wacky. Lots of people wouldn’t have donated.

  ‘Did he ever talk about anywhere like that?’ Curtis asked.

  Luke had talked about everything: health, food, exercise, marathons, medicine, the power of positive thinking. Had he ever discussed some other kind of therapy?

  ‘I can’t remember,’ she said. ‘But he was on the laptop all the time, researching things.’

  Curtis picked up his mobile. Maz could see that he had Luke’s name in his favourites list. When he dialled the number, it went through to voice message.

  ‘Can you give him a try?’ Curtis asked. ‘It’s still early evening over there.’

  But the same thing happened with Maz’s call. She left a message: Luke, it’s me, please ring. We’re worried about you. Love you lots, babe. Hang in there. They’d only been saying the L word for a few days and yet it felt so natural already.

  ‘I’m scared for him,’ Maz whispered. ‘He told me that, after his wife died, he only kept going for Gracie.’

  Nodding, Curtis tapped some more numbers into his mobile.

  ‘I rang Dr Rawson yesterday to get a quote about Gracie’s death. He didn’t ring back. I’ll try again now. Surely he must know what’s going on.’

  Maz remembered how Luke’s face had glowed whenever he’d mentioned the specialist, but his idol hadn’t managed to save his little girl. She listened to Curtis leave another message for Dr Rawson.

  ‘Maybe the doctor’s feeling guilty because Gracie died?’ Maz said. ‘After all his efforts to get Gracie to America, it didn’t work.’

  If Maz could blame Dr Rawson, then she and Luke were off the hook. She texted him: It’s not your fault. Dr Rawson pushed for the wrong treatment. Maz had seen a comment on the blog questioning if it was the right drug and recommending a second opinion.

  ‘I’m sure Dr Rawson suggested what he thought was right. He sounded very competent and knowledgeable when I interviewed him. But it’s really weird that the clinic in Chicago has no record of Gracie. Hopefully, Luke will call. Or Allison.’

  Maz’s phone pinged and they both glanced down to check it. A text from Mum.

  Dad’s having the angiogram shortly. Come in at 3 p.m. Bring blue pyjamas and undies. xxxxx

  Would they have a diagnosis by the end of the day? As a distraction, Maz googled Dr Colin Simmons. He had his own private practice in St Leonards and worked at two different hospitals. Once a month, Colin travelled out west to consult in Dubbo. Oh God, clever and kind. Suddenly, Maz could see why Luke admired Dr Rawson so much.

  Blue pyjamas. Maz guessed she’d find them in Dad’s second drawer. She’d started texting Mum back when she remembered the night up in Avoca. Luke had been online looking at photos of a healing centre. Maz thought it was beautiful and spiritual. Serene, like her favourite beauty salon. He’d grinned when he saw the mantra on the wall—one of their sayings from the gym. Believe you deserve it and the universe will serve it.

  ‘Maybe that’s what Gracie needs,’ Luke had said, pointing at the screen. ‘A relaxation retreat. All this driving to and from the hospital—it’s exhausting her.’

  But then he hadn’t talked about the healing centre again. He’d been focused on the immunotherapy and Dr Mercado.

  What if Maz’s pills had made Gracie too sick for the trial?

  What if he’d taken her to a place of serenity to die?

  Maz’s mobile pinged again. She picked it up to read the message. Luke at last.

  Life’s impossible without Gracie. I’m so sorry but I can’t keep going. Thank you for your support & encouragement. You’re an awesome woman, Maz, & you have a great future. I’m sorry I won’t be here to see it. Love you forever, babe. xx

  30

  ALLISON

  After lunch, Allison went to the Children’s hospital around the corner, then the university research centre two blocks further north. Even though Violetta had called them, she decided to double-check. But neither had any record of Gracie. Luke hadn’t responded to her question: Where was Gracie treated?

  Now, Allison was lying on her hotel bed, wondering what the hell was going on and when she’d be allowed to see him. Presumably not this evening. On the small desk, her phone vibrated. Allison lunged sideways to answer it. Luke. Now he’d clear up this crazy confusion.

  Not a phone call but a text.

  Thank you for your love for Gracie and your support. I keep blaming myself. I’m sorry. I can’t go on.

  Bloody hell. NO! He couldn’t give up. That was why she’d come over—to help him get through this. With trembling fingers, she pushed the buttons to call him back. Luke didn’t answer. Leaving a long message, Allison promised him there was hope for the future. Next, she sent him a series of texts.

  Please don’t give up. It seems impossible now but the pain will lessen. We’ll never forget Gracie and she’ll always be a part of us. You need to survive for her memory.

  You have so much support from the Wirriga community. Friends who
love you. We’ll help guide you into the future.

  Your fundraising has done so much to publicise the need for research and treatment. Your donation to the children’s hospital will save lives. Gracie’s fight has made a difference to others.

  And then, finally, a text about herself.

  My life was broken when you and Gracie walked into it. You saved me. Now let me save you.

  Still no answer.

  Grabbing her handbag, Allison raced out of the hotel room and down to the street. Straight back to Chicago North, where she’d been that morning. But this time, she went to block D, fifth floor.

  The security guard refused to let her out of the lift.

  ‘You can’t come up here. It’s not visiting hours and it’s a restricted area.’

  ‘My friend is … dying.’

  ‘Sorry but you need to go back downstairs and ask them to call.’

  On the ground floor, the operator put her through to the ward but no-one could locate Luke Branson.

  ‘Please help him,’ Allison begged.

  ‘He’s in safe care,’ the man on the other end of the line replied calmly.

  ‘But how would you know if you can’t find him? I’m not leaving here until I talk to Luke.’

  As Allison stood next to the reception desk waiting, she recognised a woman behind the counter—one of the ‘lovely ladies’ from the main building who’d made calls for her that morning. Allison waved and the woman beckoned her over.

  ‘Have you found where Gracie was treated?’ the woman asked.

  Allison shook her head.

  ‘You’re having a terrible time.’

  This receptionist was kind; she’d understand the need to see Luke immediately.

  ‘He’s lost his wife and his child. He can’t cope anymore. He’s giving up.’

  ‘Let me try,’ she said. ‘Luke Branson, is that the name? I’ll find out which room he’s in.’

  The receptionist looked it up on the computer then said, ‘I’ve got a Luke Branson, but he’s in the rehab ward after a hip replacement.’

  ‘No, Luke’s in isolation. He’s got a heart problem.’

  ‘Sixty-eight years old. Male. From Noble Square.’

  ‘What’s Noble Square?’

  ‘It’s a neighbourhood not too far from here.’

  ‘Well, that’s not him.’ Allison massaged her forehead. ‘He’s Australian. And he’s thirty, not sixty-eight.’

  ‘She was here this morning about a little girl,’ the receptionist explained to the other women at the desk. ‘We had no record of her either.’

  ‘I’ve come all the way from Australia.’ Allison could hear the shrillness in her own voice. ‘Gracie’s dead and now Luke’s going to die too. Just let me talk to him.’

  The woman looked sideways, then down. Anywhere apart from Allison’s face. She started typing something into the computer.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t think we can help you.’

  ‘Yes, you can. He’s in isolation on level five.’

  ‘He’s not here.’

  Could Luke have been transferred to a different hospital already? He’d said Brian was contacting another doctor, to move him away from the flu outbreak. They should have a record of his transfer. Was that what she should ask for? Allison was trying to figure it out when a security guard approached her.

  ‘This way, please, ma’am.’

  She stepped around his bulk and kept talking to the receptionist.

  ‘Luke’s going to hurt himself. Please help me find him. Could he have been transferred?’

  None of the women replied. The security guard steered her away from the counter. Allison shouted back at the receptionists as she was herded out of the automatic doors.

  ‘Is this hospital going to have another death on its hands?’

  In her hotel room, using the free wi-fi, Allison went through all the hospitals in Chicago. Phone call after phone call. Not one had a patient called Gracie Branson or Luke Branson. She googled ‘Chicago specialists’ along with ‘thymic carcinoma’. Could they have gone to a different type of medical clinic, rather than a hospital? Clicking open a page at random, Allison read about survival rates for this rare type of cancer. She scrolled down to another subheading: Your survivorship care plan. The medical world had a different language. Survivorship. She’d never heard it before. But it was what she needed now.

  Survivorship. For Luke. And for herself.

  After an hour, she boiled the kettle, dangled the teabag into a tiny cup. Spilt the milk as she poured it in. Tried to understand what was happening. She messaged Brian, introduced herself as Luke’s friend who had arrived in Chicago to help him. I can’t find the doctor who treated Gracie. I can’t find Luke. He says he can’t go on. Please help!

  Brian answered almost immediately. He sounded unhinged last time I spoke to him. Thanked me for my help but basically told me to get out of his life. I was angry after my brother died. But I got through with my wife’s help. I can’t imagine how he feels.

  She felt bad for dragging Brian into this but he was her only contact in America. Luke said you were phoning a doctor, trying to get him moved to another hospital. Did they transfer him?

  While she waited for Brian’s answer, she checked her WhatsApp and Messenger. Nothing from Luke. Was he dead already?

  I don’t know. I didn’t make any calls for him. But I’ve done some quick research for you. Try these two specialists—they work with patients with thymic carcinoma.

  Allison rang their numbers but, like everyone else, they’d never heard of Gracie or Luke Branson.

  Why would he make up a lie about Brian? To delay her? So he could die in peace?

  Ten minutes later, Brian sent another message. I got in touch with TN from Gracie’s website—the guy who questioned the clinical trial. Turns out he wanted to apply for that trial. He was kinda hoping Gracie would give up her place for him.

  Oh God, the desperation. Everyone desperate to find a magic pill.

  Allison lay back on the hotel bed and closed her eyes. Forced herself to sit up, have another cup of tea. Avoided spilling the milk this time. Then she rang Cook County Morgue. They suggested she ring the police.

  ‘Have you registered a missing persons report?’

  Maybe she should involve the police; Luke and Gracie were definitely missing.

  This bewilderment was similar to how she’d felt when Tony had left—off balance, staggering along an uneven path with the facts she thought she knew crumbling underfoot. Opening Luke’s blog, Allison wondered if he’d left a clue on there. She scrolled through the old posts from months ago. When she’d finished reading, she called Curtis.

  Initially, she’d felt disloyal telling Curtis about Dr Mercado. But given the latest text, they needed to find Luke as quickly as possible.

  ‘You know how we wrote that blog post about alternative remedies—did Luke get you to research any specific healing places?’

  ‘There was one centre. Maz remembers him mentioning it,’ he said. ‘Maz said it was serene and had beautiful gardens.’

  Over the phone, she could hear Curtis tapping away.

  ‘I’m looking at the map—it’s a few suburbs north of the hospital there. An all-natural healing centre called The Happy Place.’

  ‘Do you think he could’ve taken Gracie there?’

  ‘Maybe. They said a thirteen-year-old boy had been healed and was now cancer-free. Luke thought it sounded amazing. I’ll text you the contact details.’

  Whenever Allison had ranted about non-conventional treatments, Luke had been quick to agree with her. Too quick. While he’d been saying yes to Allison, he’d also been saying yes to Maz with her herbal products and pseudo-science.

  ‘You shouldn’t be so down on the herbs,’ Maz had argued with her during their fundraising campaign. ‘Some of our medicines started out that way. Aspirin came from willow bark and sweet wormwood is used to treat malaria.’

  ‘Two success stories don’t justify a
ll the other hocus-pocus crap. And those ones were properly tested. You’re not to give Gracie any herbal stuff,’ Allison had instructed, as if Gracie were her own daughter.

  Had Luke skipped conventional medicine all together in America?

  Allison called the number that Curtis had sent through. The recorded message said The Happy Place was closed for the day and would open again at nine in the morning. The website showed a vast array of so-called treatments—green enemas, raw food, mud spas, urine therapy, meditation, oxygen, light, music and electromagnetic waves. Urine therapy: what the hell was that? She texted Luke: Are you at the healing centre? I understand. Stay strong and I’ll see you tomorrow.

  Curtis was right—the Wirriga community would not have donated for mud spas and urine therapy. And Allison certainly wouldn’t have led a fundraising drive.

  When she put the name of The Happy Place into a web search, an article popped up from the Chicago Tribune.

  FRENCH FAMILY SUES HEALING CENTRE AFTER SON’S DEATH.

  An image of the centre’s entrance gates accompanied the article, along with a photo of a young boy.

  The Happy Place is facing legal action after the death of a ten-year-old boy. His family from Marseilles, France, paid $15,000 for three weeks of controversial therapies to cure his leukaemia. They believed it was a last-ditch effort to save their son’s life. In their correspondence, the centre had encouraged the family to cease conventional treatment. The boy’s haematologist said he would have survived with chemotherapy.

  ‘I’m heartbroken by the preventable loss of this beautiful boy,’ his doctor said. ‘We are happy to combine medicine with alternative therapies, but these therapies must be scientifically proven.’

  If Gracie had died at this centre, Luke would definitely be unable to live with himself.

  31

  On the cab ride home from her hotel, Allison wondered if The Happy Place might be in lockdown after the newspaper article, but as they pulled up at the entrance, the big white gates automatically opened, and the car drove Allison along the driveway, right to the front door. She counted out the fare quickly, too muddled to be able to convert it into Australian dollars.