by Lydia Rowan
“Smart man,” Shayla said, and they laughed in unison.
“I don’t know about that, but my dad loves him.”
“I thought you were your father’s chief aide,” Shayla said.
“I was, but not anymore. Right now I work with him informally, but I’m pulling back on that as well. I want to do more in the community, and he needs someone who can be in his office in a full-time capacity. Greg’s been around for years, started out as a campaign volunteer and worked his way up. My dad thinks fondly of him, so it was a natural fit,” Charlotte finished with a smile.
“I see. Well, I’m glad you’re getting to focus on what you enjoy. And I know you’ll do a great job,” Shayla said.
They chatted for a few minutes more, but then Charlotte looked up and Shayla noticed that a pall had fallen over the assembled guests, the low murmur that had hummed through the room cutting off in almost an instant. She looked toward the atrium entrance, and her eyes widened at the sight of the newest addition to the room.
Elah Avakian had walked in, drawing the gaze of every single person in the room. Shayla had seen glimpses of him around the city but hadn’t met the man personally. Still, his reputation preceded him. A few tense seconds of silence followed and then the crowd seemed to release a collective exhale and began chatting again, though the undercurrent of tension had not dissipated.
Shayla looked at the man who stood alone at the entrance but seemed totally undisturbed by that fact. He was meticulously presented, from the top of his head with his neatly styled brown hair down to his polished loafers. He was also the most intimidating person she’d ever seen. He was enormous, tall, broad-shouldered, clearly heavily muscled, the cut of his suit doing nothing to disguise his powerful frame. It occurred to Shayla that he’d be right at home at one of those horrible cage fights. But as physically imposing as he was, it was his gaze that unnerved her. Neither hot nor cold, it was seemingly detached, uninterested, but Shayla had no doubt that the calm detachment was a facade and that he’d assessed every person in the room in the few seconds he’d been standing there. Shayla didn’t know if his reputation was earned, but she did know instinctively that this was not a man to be crossed. If Ian had somehow gotten on his bad side…
Her stomach clenched at the thought.
“Are you okay, Shayla?”
She looked back at the other woman and nodded.
“Yes. I’m fine. Umm…Lottie, may I ask you a question?”
“Of course!” she said, a smile brightening her face.
“Have you heard of…? I mean, do you know if…?”
Lottie waited expectantly, and Shayla considered what to say. Help! My brother has gotten mixed up in a fucking fight club, didn’t feel quite right, and she wasn’t sure how much to share, or whether she should share anything at all.
She considered another moment and then said, “Some of the regular ER patients have talked about a…place, where people fight each other for money.”
Lottie’s eyes widened.
“Have you heard of anything like that?”
“No,” Lottie said, “I haven’t, but that’s terrible. I can ask my dad about it if you’d like, though. He certainly wouldn’t condone such a thing, and I’m sure he’d be willing to check into it.”
“No!” Shayla said sharply. She took a deep, calming breath and started again. “I mean, no, that’s okay. No need to bother the councilman with idle gossip. I hear so many crazy stories in there it’s sometimes hard to figure out what’s what.”
“I can imagine,” Lottie said, “but let me know if you need anything. I know Daddy likes to keep an eye on what’s happening in the city, and he would be happy to help in any way he can.”
Lottie smiled, and as she did, she quickly glanced over Shayla’s shoulder, and after that brief look, her smile faltered a bit.
“So now it’s my turn to ask. You okay, Lottie?”
She glanced back down at Shayla.
“I’m fine, it’s just…everyone is treating that man like he has plague. His company donated a fairly substantial sum to this new wing, and it just doesn’t seem right to be so unfriendly. I think I’ll go talk to him.”
Shayla resisted the urge to look over her shoulder, a tiny bit afraid she might find Elah’s cold stare directed at her. She admired Lottie’s politeness, but there was no way in hell she’d go over there. She also knew there was little chance of deterring Lottie, so she reached up for a good-bye hug.
“I gotta get out of here anyway. Catch up later?”
“Sure,” Lottie said with another genuine smile.
They both set off in the direction of the exit, Lottie’s strides strong and direct, her intent to approach Elah Avakian clear. Before she made it to him, however, Greg intercepted her. Lottie kept her pleasant smile in place, but Shayla had known the woman long enough that she could tell when she was annoyed. Greg stretched up to whisper in her ear, and when Lottie moved her lips to form what Shayla assumed was a protest, he spoke again and inclined his head toward one of the groups milling in the opposite corner. Lottie trailed her gaze in the direction Greg had indicated and gave a tight nod, face still blandly pleasant but eyes mutinous. She then walked toward the group, comprised of what Shayla assumed were hospital patrons.
Just as well probably, Shayla thought as she slipped out of the atrium. If Elah was involved in this mess with Ian, a nice lady like Lottie had no business talking to him anyway.
••••
“Are you sure this is okay, Nana? I can try to sneak away, or Ian can take you out if you want something different,” Shayla said an hour later as she, Nana, and Ian walked toward the cafeteria.
“No, this is fine, darlings. I love hospital food. It’s delicious.”
Both Ian and Shayla laughed. That was something only Ethel would say, and neither would challenge the statement, untrue as it might be. Ian had arrived about twenty minutes earlier and sat in the waiting room while Shayla worked, both anxious about seeing Nana.
After they’d settled at one of the cafeteria tables, they ate lunch in companionable silence, her the standard salad, Ian the cheeseburger and fries that were hospital staples, and Nana the loaded chili baked potato that made Shayla’s arteries twinge. The conversation to come hung in front of them, but neither Ian or Nana seemed compelled to rush it.
Nana had had an appointment with her pulmonologist, and now she casually ate her potato like she didn’t have a care in the world.
Her nonchalance broke something in Shayla. She could accept that her grandmother wanted privacy, but her reaction was far too calm, and Shayla’s nerves were alight with possible scenarios.
“Well?” she finally said.
Nana and Ian looked up from their plates.
“Well what, dear heart?”
Shayla, through some feat of magic, managed not to scream. Her grandmother could be infuriating, and Ian sitting there with doe-eyed innocence etched on his face, plan or not, didn’t help. Now she looked like the unbalanced one.
Figures.
“What did the doctor say?”
“Let her finish her meal, Shayla,” Ian said.
She’d never wanted to kill him more than she did in that very moment, or at the very least slap him silly, wipe that smug, superior grin that was apparently invisible to Nana clean off his face—which was saying something given their relationship in the last weeks—than she did in this very moment. He was taking the “good cop” role a step too far, so far in fact that he was hanging her out to dry. It took every ounce of her discipline, heart, and love for her grandmother to keep from stabbing him in the hand with the plastic fork. But she held the utensil tight, almost to the point of breaking, just in case she changed her mind.
She looked back at Nana, who still ate her lunch, seemingly in no hurry to respond, and leaned back. She’d had about enough of this shit.
She opened her mouth to say so, but instead, Nana said, with no inflection in her voice, “It’s spread. The next st
ep is—what did he call it?—multimodal treatment, a mix of chemotherapy and radiation. He hopes it will slow the disease, though for how long he wouldn’t say.”
Shayla sat up straight and launched into her questions, lamenting again that her stubborn grandmother hadn’t allowed her to come to the appointment. But she’d find the doctor later and get the information. That might be a slight breach of doctor-patient confidentiality, but oaths didn’t seem to mean much to her these days, and if she’d break it for Ian, there was no limit to what she’d do for Nana.
“When do you start? Did he say whether you’ll need round-the-clock care, at least initially? I’ll need to check into this treatment, make sure it is the best course for you and that the doctors here can perform it. It never hurts to have a second opinion.”
“Shayla,” Nana said quietly, her voice full of the weariness of age and illness, “I’m not doing it.”
“What?” she said, brows lifting. “You’ve heard of some other treatment?”
“No, but I’m not doing it. Any of it. I’ll live the rest of my life the best I can, but no more hoops for me. Sometimes you gotta let go. I’m letting go,” she said with a finality that couldn’t be questioned.
Shayla sat for a long moment, mouth gaping like a fish’s as she looked first at Ethel and then Ian, searching for support.
“It’s her choice, Shay,” Ian said, leaning over to wrap his arm around Nana in a show of support. It was her undoing.
“Fuck you, you scumbag. You’re just happy you’ll get your little inheritance sooner. You are a fucking useless scoundrel.”
Nana looked stunned, but Shayla couldn’t stop now.
“And, Nana, you’re quitting on us. You don’t care enough to even fight. You always told us to try, never give up. I guess that was a lie too.”
She stood and stormed out of the cafeteria, unable to look back, wiping the angry tears that clouded her vision as she went.
••••
Thankfully, the after-lunch emergency-room crowd was steady, and once she took a few minutes to compose herself, Shayla was able to immerse herself in her work. There were no serious injuries—two broken arms, a sinus infection, a couple of patients with chest pains, but the distraction was sufficient, allowing her to put Ian and Nana and everything else out of her mind and do what she did best. The afternoon flew, and when her shift ended, she was tired but not ready to go home, and she was way too wound up to call a friend, knowing she’d make terrible company, so she just went home and stewed, too grumpy to even eat.
Shayla eventually went to bed hungry and annoyed, and woke up the same. It was Wednesday, her cherished day off, and she was too distracted to enjoy it. Between the disastrous lunch with Nana, and the fleeting thoughts of Demon that sneaked in whenever she wasn’t thinking about Nana, she was a mess. She moved from her bed to her couch and then onto the balcony three times before she gave in. The guy, well, he was an unwanted distraction, but her mind couldn’t let go of what Nana had said yesterday, and she knew there’d be no rest until she cleared it up.
That thought in mind, she called Dr. Humphries, Nana’s pulmonologist.
“Dr. Humphries, hello, it’s Dr. Rodgers.”
“Shayla, hello. Are you in today?”
“No, but I did have a question. Do you have a few minutes?”
“Sure, what’s up?”
His voice was warm, comforting, and she was reminded again of why he was one of the most respected and well-liked physicians at the hospital.
“You’re treating my grandmother, Ethel Rodgers.”
“Umm…Dr. Rodgers,” he said, the hesitation in his voice and his use of her title warning her that he was uncomfortable with the direction of this conversation, “you know I can’t discuss my patients, not that I’m confirming that Mrs. Rodgers is indeed a patient.”
“I know, I know. I wouldn’t ask you to violate confidentiality”—that was exactly what she was doing and he knew it as well as she did—“but I had some general questions about the condition.”
“Okay, I can answer some general questions.”
“So, what’s the prognosis for someone with her—I mean someone at stage IV of the disease?”
“You know mesothelioma is a progressive disease, Shayla. The prognosis is poor.”
His tone was warm but still firm, reminiscent of the one she used when delivering devastating news, attempting to straddle the line so that the gravity of the illness was clear but without killing every glimmer of hope. She hated it.
“There’s no course of treatment?”
“Oh yes, there are several, including a multimodal protocol that attacks with both radiation and chemotherapy,” he said, mirroring the language that Nana had used.
“And surgery’s not an option?” Shayla said, already knowing the answer.
“No. I’m afraid not. Surgery can be successful if we catch mesothelioma early, but once it metastasizes, surgery is no longer an option. And in infirm or elderly patients”—like your grandmother went unsaid, though Shayla got the message loud and clear—“it’s an especially poor option. The surgery is risky and hard on even the healthiest of patients. And there’s a chance we won’t get all of the tumor anyway. The risk is too great and the likelihood of success too little, I’m afraid.”
Shayla weighed his words, the reality of them inescapable, but she was not yet willing to give in.
“So what’s the benefit of the multimodal approach?”
Shayla felt silly asking, but somehow, having someone else walk her through this was comforting.
“It’s purely palliative care. There’s no cure, but the treatment can prolong lives, and as we learn more about what works and what doesn’t, more and more people are having full, longer lives, longer than they would have otherwise.”
“But?” she asked, picking up on the hesitation in his voice.
“But, frankly, it’s a crapshoot. At that stage of the disease, there’s no real way to predict how a specific patient will respond, and it’s a hard, painful road.”
She knew this already, but hearing him say it hit with the force of a body slam.
“But there’s still a path.” She clung to the thread of hope that ran through her chest.
“Yes. For some patients there is,” Ned said with a sigh.
“Okay. Thank you, Dr. Humphries. Maybe we can grab lunch next week?”
“Sure, Shayla. And good luck.”
He hung up, and Shayla sat in the silence of her living room, mind churning over the conversation. Dr. Humphries had been honest, almost grim, but there was a chance. They still had options. She clung to those. She did a quick Internet search and printed off treatment information for Nana to read, formulating a plan as she went. Reenergized and as optimistic as possible under the circumstances, she quickly dressed and hopped into her car to drive to Nana’s.
The trip was uneventful, but Shayla found the drive comforting, and her spirits were buoyed as she parked and walked up the stoop and let herself in. She hadn’t called in advance, wanting to see Nana face-to-face when they spoke.
“Nana, you up?” she called as she walked through the formal dining room and into the den that was the hub of the house.
“Shayla? I’m in here, darling,” Nana said, her voice light with the affection. Shayla felt no trace of their earlier disagreement, which was not a surprise since Nana rarely held a grudge.
Nana’s voice filled her with warmth, and she was reminded of all the good times they’d had, the years she and Ian had spent here after school, on summer breaks, and for Sunday dinners. The feeling was only intensified when she walked in and saw Nana settled in her recliner, dry toast and cup of instant coffee on the tea table beside her. It could have been 1987, 1997, 2007, or any year in between. The picture would have been the same. Her nana, her rock, the one who’d been there no matter what, providing the love and support when her parents had been unable, from birth all the way through medical school and her residency, when she’d
been so tired she hadn’t had the energy do anything but work, study, and sleep. She couldn’t count the number of times she’d come home, almost comatose with exhaustion, to find clean laundry or a decent meal waiting for her. Nana had slowed down over the years, but that love and support had never wavered.
Her gaze snagged on the oxygen tank, a relatively new and thoroughly unwelcome addition, and she saw the thin plastic tube leading to Nana’s nose, almost transparent against her brown skin in the low light of the den. But now that she’d seen it, acknowledged it was there, it was a sight she was unable to unsee, a physical manifestation of the fragility that she’d tried to ignore but that would no longer be denied.
Her grip loosened, and she was faintly aware of the papers she held slipping through her fingers and falling to the floor. And then her vision was blurred, clouded by tears that she didn’t try to control.
“You can’t. I won’t let you,” Shayla said around the tears.
Nana smiled the smile she had used all through Shayla’s life. “You can’t stop it, dear. Neither can I.”
“But you can’t just quit, give up! You always told me not to quit, not ever to quit!” she practically screeched.
“I also told you to pick your battles. I’ve picked mine, and I’m at peace with it.”
“I’m not,” she said as she walked across the room and settled at Nana’s feet as she had so many times in the past.
Nana patted her head. “You will be.”
Shayla again heard the finality in her voice and couldn’t bear to look up.
“What can I do?”
“Just be with me while you can. And take care of your brother like you always have.”
“I will, Nana. I promise.”
Chapter Seven
Thwack.
The violent sound of fist hitting flesh rang loud, loud enough to be heard over the roar of the crowd, and the bright red spray of blood that flew from the combatant’s mouth only made the roars louder.