The Hollowed

by Jay Caselberg

  He left himself enough time and then drove to the place, parking in a side street. The coffee shop was a local outfit, not one of the chains, with a dark blue painted exterior and broad windows looking out onto a pedestrianized section of the local shopping area. Inside were simple dark wooden tables and chairs covered with plain patterned tablecloths. Jason was already there, sitting at a table by the window sipping at a large mug of coffee, wearing the big chunky sweater that he seemed to prefer. He’d placed his silver-grey helmet on the seat beside him. Chris had a quick look around, but couldn’t see the scooter anywhere. He nodded to Jason as he passed the window and opened the door. A bell rang as he stepped in through the door, a quaint and slightly anachronous touch. A girl, black tee and white apron, appeared from the back at the sound of the bell and stood smiling behind the counter. Chris gave her a brief smile in return and a quick nod before crossing to Jason’s table to say hello before making his order.

  “How you doing?” he said.

  Jason put down his coffee cup. “Yeah, good.”

  “You all right there?” Chris said, pointing at Jason’s cup.

  Jason nodded.

  “Okay, just let me get a coffee,” said Chris. While he headed over and ordered, Jason turned back to watch the outside. Chris ferried his coffee back and sat opposite.

  “So…” said Jason.

  “Yeah, well,” said Chris, not really knowing where to start.

  Jason looked at him quizzically, waiting.

  Chris scratched at the back of his head and grimaced before beginning. “Um, thanks for coming,” he said. He was having difficulty meeting Jason’s eyes, on the verge of having second thoughts about telling him anything, but he’d come this far, so he thought he might as well take the bull by the horns.

  “Listen, Jason, I want to talk to you about some stuff. Do me a favor and hear me out, and then you can ask what you want. I’ve had some really weird shit going on and I needed to talk to someone about it, just to make sure that I wasn’t losing it.”

  “Okaaay,” said Jason. “What is this? Something with Stase?”

  “No, not really. Yeah, well, sort of. I don’t know. It has to do with Stase and it has to do with me, with both of us, but it’s more than that.”

  Jason lifted his eyebrows and took a sip of his coffee. Chris took his spoon and thoughtfully stirred his own. He took a steadying breath and then he began. Briefly, he recounted the incident with the girl at the bus shelter, the encounter with Patrick, the businessman on the street, the woman at the bus stop. He told him about the van and the night that he and Stase had argued. He told him about the middle-aged woman and the cab and trying to follow the van. He recounted his fears about his memories and the fog that seemed to slip over everything when he started really thinking about the things that had happened. And finally, he told him about the black bird. Jason listened to it all impassively, occasionally lifting his coffee and sipping while he listened, watching him over the rim of his mug.

  Chris’s rush of words trickled to a stop. “And that’s about it,” he said.

  Jason sat back and blinked a couple of times.

  “Okay,” said Chris. “You can tell me I’m fucking crazy, but that’s really not what I want to hear right now.”

  Jason shook his head slowly, and then grinned. “Now, would I do that?”

  Chris sighed with relief. “I thought you were going to get some sort of weird look on your face and make some excuse to get the hell out of here as fast as possible.”

  Jason chuckled again. “Hadn’t you better drink your coffee? It’s getting cold.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Chris. He lifted his cup, watching Jason for some sort of reaction.

  “Hang on,” said his friend. “I need to get another coffee. Maybe I should get one for you too.”

  Chris nodded. Jason stood and headed over to the counter, looking a little like a bear in his big sweater. He carried back the two coffees and sat down, shaking a little sugar packet, tearing the corner and pouring half of it into his cup before picking up his spoon and stirring.

  “So,” he said finally. “Of course I should tell you you’ve lost your mind, but I’m a little more open-minded than that. You know me, Chris; I like to investigate things, like to find stuff out. Now, whatever you’ve got going on, I’m intrigued.” He lifted his hands. “Even if I accept only half of what you’ve told me, I truly am interested.” He placed his hands flat on the table. “Jesus, even if you’re projecting something from some weird shit going on in your head, that’s got to be worth taking a look at.” He grinned. “I already know you’re a sick man.”

  Chris smiled in spite of himself. Jason was right; he always liked getting absorbed in twisting paths of his little investigations. “Okay, I’ve got an idea about what we need to do, but I want to keep it quiet from the girls,” Chris said.

  “Sure. So, tell me what you’ve got. Hit me.”

  “Well, next week I’m going to take another day off. Most of what I’ve seen has occurred in the city. Of course it could be happening in other places, probably is, but I think starting where I know this stuff is happening will be best. I need you to come with me. I’ll drive over, pick you up, and then we can head in to town. It might mean driving around for most of the day, but you never know. If it doesn’t work, we’ll spend another day.”

  “Yeah,” said Jason. “I’m up for it. And trust me, Claudia won’t know a thing.”

  Chris felt like a huge weight had just been lifted from his shoulders. He gave a little half smile and lifted his coffee.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Life Has a Way of Sticking in Your Throat

  The planning thing came and went, seeming to pass into a place where Stase was able to put it away from her. They’d been denied. Okay, there was the appeal to deal with—and they were going to appeal—but their life seemed as though it had returned to something reminiscent of what it was before. Chris was a little confused by that. There should have been lingering tension between them, but it almost seemed to have gone away, trickled away to insignificance. They still had arguments about the whole thing, but in comparison to the previous ones these were mild, healthy and impassioned discussions of what the next steps were and what they needed to do. For some reason, the cold, stark chill that had huddled between them had been warmed by her need to push forward. If she could deliver the perfect house, everything would be all right, and as a result, everything between them would be all right.

  In the meantime, the neighbor who had put in the original objection became the enemy. Stase, with her back-yard vigils had focused her aggression on the house next door. Everything between Chris and Stase was not exactly rosy—there wasn’t the passion that their relationship had once had, and she was still a little distant in that regard. They barely made love anymore, and when they did it was as though it was automatic, programmed, something they were supposed to do—but the naked hostility had dwindled or at least refocused.

  She was still concentrating on the house, on putting in the appeal and winning whatever the cost, but where Chris had previously in some way been the enemy because he didn’t quite understand her driven needs, now he was ally, confidante, someone she could rely on for support to achieve her ultimate goals.

  The magazines, the renovation programs, the evening conversations with Michael the builder, all continued, but there was a new positive undercurrent to everything she was doing. That was, if he made the effort of will to ignore the continuing sessions late at night in the backyard, with her staring up at those blank windows of the house next door.

  Stase had a weekly appointment at one of those trendy natural therapy day spas, a small luxury in the austerity of their hollow shell existence. She’d head off, get a facial, a massage and whatever else went on in the secret female sanctum that Chris had no real desire to understand or investigate. One day she came back, and instead of the newly relaxed demeanor she normally sported on her return, she looked troubled.


  She was quiet for most of the evening and then later, just before they retired, she showered, changed and appeared in the white toweling robe she often wore.

  “Chris, can you come over here for a minute?”

  “Sure,” he said and moved to join her.

  “Will you look at my neck?” She tilted her head back, arching her neck so he could see.

  Chris shook his head. “What am I supposed to see?”

  She stroked the skin at the base of her neck. “Here. Do you see something unusual?”

  He leaned in closer. “Um, I don’t know. What am I supposed to be looking at?”

  “You don’t see anything?”

  Chris shook his head. The light wasn’t great, and he wasn’t sure what he was meant to be seeing. Stase walked over to the mirror and tilted her head one way then the other, probing at her throat with the ends of her fingers. She beckoned him over. “See, here.”

  “Tell me what I’m looking for.”

  “Does that look swollen to you?”

  “Hmm, I suppose. A little. Why?”

  “Oh, it was just something the girl said while I was getting my massage. It doesn’t matter.”

  She said nothing more about it until two days later. Chris came back that night to see her looking even more drawn than she had over the past few weeks.

  “I want you to sit down,” she said, as soon as he came through the door.

  “What is it, Stase?”

  “I went to the doctor’s today. He thinks I may have cancer. He’s given me a referral to a specialist. I have to have some tests.”

  Cancer? But how was that possible? Stase was young. Young people didn’t get cancer.

  “What do you mean? I don’t understand,” he said.

  She laughed. “I always knew I’d get cancer. Two of my uncles died from it. I had three aunts die from it. My mother had cancer. What are the odds, hey?” She laughed again. It was a short, hollow laugh.

  Chris stood and walked over to the couch, his mind reeling. He went down on his knees and took her hand. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  She looked down at him and her eyes welled with tears. She nodded slowly.

  He moved up to join her on the couch. “It’s not certain though, is it? I mean, you have to have tests. You don’t know anything yet.”

  “I know,” she said quietly.

  “Jesus, Stase,” he said. “Jesus.”

  If she was totally convinced that she had the dread disease, he felt that there was no real possibility that she wouldn’t. People can convince themselves to get sick. Sometimes, that’s like a kind of enforced life redundancy. He remembered his grandfather, who, after retiring from his country-town accounting practice, had developed cancer within eighteen months. He just had nothing left to do, and within two years, he had died. Stase’s statement that she always knew was troubling. Perhaps she had always known.

  “Shouldn’t you tell your parents?”

  Her gaze flashed briefly, then she shook her head. “I can’t do that. My mother would freak.”

  Chris nodded. “Okay. When are you seeing the specialist?” he said.

  “I have to go in on Tuesday. The doctor said we shouldn’t waste time. It’s the leading cancer hospital around and the guy I have to see is one of the best oncologists there is, or so he says. Of course he could have just been saying that to make me feel better.”

  “I doubt that,” he said and stroked the back of her hand. “Jesus, Stase.”

  She was threatening to cry, but she never quite did. Chris chewed at his lip, not really sure what he was supposed to say. He could make as many reassuring noises as he could come up with, but that was going to do little to alleviate the problem or the way she must be feeling. They’d just have to wait.

  The next week came and went. Stase went in for her appointment with the oncologist and Chris tagged along. The doctor looked, had tests done, confirmed the suspicion and booked her in for exploratory surgery at the start of the following week. They took a biopsy and the results came back.

  Chris and Stase went back in to see him to get the results. The doctor was late, and they spent forty-five minutes in the waiting room, nervous and on edge. There were roughly fifteen other people in the waiting room, women, men, children, old and young. Chris looked around at the faces, the different people, feeling awkward and out of place. He couldn’t meet any of their eyes. This was cancer. This was the stuff you didn’t talk about. He watched them surreptitiously, wondering what it was that singled you out to be one of the file of people who came here. They said cancer was the modern disease, but how did they know? Was cancer always there, just under different guises? He’d remembered seeing old woodcut engravings of people with goiters, so at least that form had been around for a while. The image had been so bizarre that it had stuck with him. He’d done his own research, despite the fact that Stase had not wanted to know. As far as he could see, there was nothing to distinguish any of the people sitting around the ranks of chairs, flipping through magazines, occasionally heading to the coffee machine. There were no visible signs that he could tell showing that the disease worked within any of these people. That was the thing about cancer, wasn’t it? It worked away inside, silent, unseen.

  After the minutes stretched on to almost an hour after their appointment time, they were called into the inner sanctum. The doctor was very solemn when they went back in to see him. Chris wasn’t filled with confidence. The doctor had grizzled unkempt hair and a strangely vague look in his eyes. It was as if the things he had to deal with every day had placed a distance between him and the rest of the world.

  “The tests have come back,” he told Stase. He didn’t look at Chris. “I can confirm that you have cancer of the thyroid. Now, generally that strikes women in your age group, and it is treatable, and normally the prognosis is positive.”

  “But what does that mean?” said Stase.

  The doctor fixed her with a steady gaze, the apparent vagueness suddenly gone. “We’re going to have to operate to remove the growth. It’s lucky that we caught it as early as we did. If we don’t operate, the cancer will spread and take over your whole body. You’re lucky. You’re young and we caught it in time. Of course, the operation will necessitate removal of the cancerous area of the thyroid, and until we operate, we won’t know how much of the gland is affected. It may be half, it may be all.”

  “And what happens then?”

  “Well, assuming the operation is successful, and we don’t have to go in again, you will have to have regular tests, and depending upon how much of the gland we have to remove, you’ll be required to take medication to balance your system from then on.”

  Stase frowned. “What do you mean, medication?” She hated pills of any sort and had problems swallowing them at the best of times. She would physically gag as she tried to force the pills down, with or without the requisite glass of water.

  The doctor held her gaze. “The thyroid is responsible for producing a chemical secretion that helps to balance the way your body functions. Without the medication, your body would be out of balance. Eventually it would harm you greatly. Depending what happens with our operation, as I say, we may have to try for a little while to balance the dosage until we get it just right, but we won’t know any of that until we’ve done the surgery.”

  Stase’s hand fluttered to her neck. “Will you be performing the operation?”

  “No. That will be up to the surgeon. He’s one of the best. He specializes in this sort of procedure.”

  “And do I get to meet him?” she asked.

  “You’ll meet him on the day of the operation.”

  Chris and she were very quiet on the way home. There wasn’t a lot to say. Their healthcare covered the procedure and the appointment had already been made. Stase would go in to have her throat cut open in eight days’ time. In the meantime, there was little else to do but worry.

  That evening, Chris cooked them a simple meal. They ate in silence.
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  Afterward, as he cleared away the dishes, he tried to bolster her. “The guy seemed fairly positive. It was almost as if this was routine for them. Do you want me to look up some information for you on the web?”

  Stase shook her head. “No, I’d rather not know.”

  “It’ll be okay, Stase,” he said, pausing in the doorway.

  “You don’t understand,” she said, eyes shining damply again. “It’s my throat. I love my throat. It’s one of my best features.” She was quiet for a moment. “I guess I’ll just have to get some scarves and chokers.” She gave that short hollow laugh again. “Start a new fashion trend. This is real cancer chic.”

  Chris bit his lip and headed for the kitchen, carrying the plates through the darkened hallway. As he stacked them away in the dishwasher, he shook his head. How would he be reacting in the same situation, if he was the one who had cancer? He really didn’t know. He couldn’t even imagine it.

  At the appointed time, he helped her pack a few clothes, toiletries and things, and headed for the hospital. Stase had not eaten the previous evening on doctor’s orders and she was tired and irritable. She hadn’t slept well. They stopped on the way in and bought a stack of magazines.

  The hospital room was quiet, private; together, they put her things away. Stase changed and climbed into the bed. A nurse came in and told them that Mr. Walters would be in soon to see them. Stase dragged a magazine from the stack by the bed and started flicking through it, while Chris sat mute beside her, holding her hand. He hated hospitals, didn’t really like doctors, and he felt uncomfortable sitting there in silence with the disinfectant smells washing over him. Even though he felt ill at ease, he knew he had to be there. This wasn’t about him. It was about them, together, about Chris supporting her.

  The surgeon, Mr. Walters, breezed into the room about twenty minutes later. He was a big, good-looking man, with square face and curly light-brown hair. He wore a pale blue shirt under his white coat. He walked quickly up to the side of the bed.