Poison

by Galt Niederhoffer

  “Dear God. I didn’t realize.”

  “It was 2004 in rural West Virginia. Cancer wasn’t understood then the way it is now. Wasn’t yet treated with these complicated cocktails. My parents ended up with two kids with cancer and only one income between them.”

  “So what did they do?”

  “They couldn’t do much. They certainly couldn’t pay for our treatment. So they applied for a grant and made noise until the NIH noticed.”

  “What do they think caused it?” Cass says. “For both of you to get it?”

  “Something in the water.”

  “Really?” She can’t tell if Marley is being facetious.

  “We grew up poor. Where poor people live, the EPA doesn’t notice until you make it their problem.”

  Cass stares at Marley, moved by her story. “But how? Did they ever figure it out? It couldn’t just be coincidence.”

  “Mining was the main economy where I grew up. When the earth is assaulted like that, metals in the earth’s crust seep into the water. It’s even worse with fracking. It was everywhere. In the wood. In the food. In the water. Nobody knew the extent.”

  “My God. That’s horrifying,” says Cass. The coincidence is noted. And perhaps because of it, she has more interest, more compassion. “How could a whole generation miss this?”

  “The seventies were the Dark Ages for environmental policy. And, as it turns out, a renaissance for the manufacture of toxic building materials. Think of all the ranch houses that cropped up for the boomers, all of them made of compressed wood, eat-in kitchens with particleboard cabinets, decks for outside-inside living treated with toxic chemicals. All the crappy wood they used. Decks, cabinets, floorboards. When your house is built with it, it’s in the air you’re breathing. It seeps into the ground. If you use a well, then it’s in the water you’re drinking.”

  “The ultimate irony,” Cass says. “Your home is actually your hell. Your haven is your coffin.”

  “So my parents made it their problem. Got us into a trial program for new medications. And two kids whose parents made about forty grand between them suddenly had the best medical care in the country. Paid for by good taxpaying citizens, people like you and your husband. Excuse me. Ex-husband.”

  Cass startles at Marley’s words, the sudden aggression, but she quickly forgives the slight. She is entitled to her indignation. She shakes her head, moved by the tale, shamed by the implication. “It’s an amazing story,” she says.

  “Just the life I’m living.”

  “And you and your sister recovered?”

  “As far as I can tell, we’re still standing.”

  “What’s the cure?”

  “There is no cure. You live with it forever. It’s always in your body, but you can slowly tamp it back. With drugs that kill everything in sight—the good cells and the bad cells. Taking them is living hell—nausea, hair loss, brain fog, vomit. It’s a full-frontal assault. But if they work, they work real good. There’s a reason the best-selling cancer drug is called Cytoxan.”

  “Chemo sounds just awful.”

  “It was worse when I was a kid. Now I barely notice. And the drugs have gotten better. But we made do in the hospital. You make friends. You draw. Learn to play the guitar. Get interested in medicine. You learn that someone’s always got it worse. And someone’s always got it better.”

  “God. You are incredible.”

  “I try not to say that.”

  “I don’t mean to be patronizing.”

  “No. G-O-D. You say it a lot.”

  “Oh,” says Cass. “I’m sorry.”

  “I try not to say the Lord’s name in vain.”

  “Oh, shit. I mean—I’ll try not to.”

  “No problem, ma’am.”

  “Oh, don’t call me ma’am.”

  “Sorry, I can’t help that one. Remember, I grew up in the South. Good manners are just habit. Especially when speaking to an older woman.”

  Cass stares at Marley now, at once offended and apologetic. Something odd has happened here, an unspoken reversal. But before she can give it further thought, she faces a new obligation. Sam barrels into her arms, waving his latest capture. His shadow is trapped in his pocket, fluttering like a wounded bird, and he wants his mother to see him grasp something so rare and elusive. Moved, she hoists her son to her arms and smothers him with kisses. She feels pride and pity both, pride in the victory he claims and pity for his inevitable disappointment.

  THIRTEEN

  A day and night have passed, and Cass is still standing. She has survived an attack on her life and the death of her marriage. She is now in a world without the man she’d planned would be her friend for life, her love, her partner. It is as though she has taken a flight and landed in the wrong country. But the rules of travel have changed. She has been banished from her home, condemned to indefinite exile, with no means of return, no money, no ticket, no passport. She has one cause for gratitude, and it is the thing for which she is most grateful. The only familiar facet of life is the most important. Her three children are in her grasp. They are shaken, confused from the weekend’s upheaval, but they are sturdy and resilient. And thankfully, Cass has Marley now, the mercy of her arrival. She will be held up by a circle of women, women who have also suffered. They will get through this together.

  Cass and Marley meet Alice and Pete at the school doors. The children greet Marley cautiously but only for a moment. Within minutes, they are deep in conversation, quizzing her about her tattoos, demanding that she teach them guitar, mimicking her accent. They race her back to the car, all of them yelling, “Shotgun!” Cass stops at the store on the way home, claiming she needs to restock milk. But the milk is just a prop. Instead, she buys supplies: vinegar, bleach, dish detergent, a stack of paper plates, and plastic utensils. And rubber gloves. Knowing little about what and where the toxin is, she cannot be too careful. She notes the bizarreness of this new world she has been thrust into, her crash course in household remediation: how to keep the family safe in a house that may be doused with unknown toxins.

  Marley helps them get back home, tending to the children while Cass makes dinner. She prepares a simple supper: mac ’n’ cheese from a box, broccoli, chicken nuggets. Today, this is the best that she can manage. The afternoon reveals a new flower in the bouquet of her symptoms. She sits on the toilet in her bathroom, huddled over her knees, waiting for the nausea to begin its cyclical recession. She reaches down and wipes to find the toilet paper is dyed a bright shade of red, the color of spring tulips—or blood from internal organs. Concern turns to panic when a wipe of her ass produces the same color. Bright red blood pools from her ass and vagina. Unnerved, she walks back downstairs to ask Marley if she can stay later. She needs to see a doctor.

  “Is there any way you can stay late?” says Cass. “I left something important at work and need to run back and get it.” No need to involve her in any more of the gory details.

  “Shoot,” says Marley. “I’m so sorry. Any other night, I would, but I promised my friend I’d walk her dog, and she’ll kill me if the dog has an accident.”

  “Oh, of course. No worries,” says Cass. It is too late now to say her real reason. Bracing herself, she signals the kids to head upstairs for bath time. She will have to go in the morning.

  Marley laces up her boots and gathers her belongings. Cass thanks her once again and closes the door behind her.

  In the bathroom, Cass fashions a homemade diaper using toilet paper, maxi pads, and several pair of underwear. She steadies herself as she runs the bath, shepherding the kids through their nighttime ritual. She observes them closely as they bathe, checks for any anomaly. They seem okay, if slightly riled by the sudden disappearance of their stepdad. Pete masks any concern with a convincing performance of indifference.

  Cass ushers the kids into her bed, piling everyone in for a story and snuggle. She will stand on ceremony tonight, rest on the power of ritual. She opens the book and begins to read in the lightest
tone she can manage, “Miss Puddleduck considered her nest to be the tidiest of her neighbors.” She barely finishes the sentence before Alice interrupts her.

  “Mom, is everything okay?” says Alice.

  “All is well,” says Cass. She nods in a definitive way, designed to feel conclusive.

  “What about the trip?” says Pete. “You promised, Mom. You said we were going.”

  “Pete, it’s been a challenging week. I promise to do my best. I’ll do some more research this weekend.” She turns back to the book, continues with the first paragraph. “Miss Puddleduck often said—”

  A door swings open downstairs. The rush of night and drizzle.

  “Daddy!” says Sam.

  They all turn toward the door.

  But it is only the cat downstairs, moving from the stairs to the kitchen.

  * * *

  By half past eight, the house is quiet. Again, the sound of life on hold. In. Out. In. Out. The children are safe and sleeping. Cass collapses on the bed, curling herself into a fist, hopeful that stillness of the body will result in the stillness of her thoughts. Where is her husband right now? Is he nearby, in a friend’s guest room, watching her downstairs lights go off? Or is he somewhere distant now? A new head resting on his chest? Or his, in a tangle of blackish hair, splitting open another woman?

  * * *

  There is one thing Cass needs right now, in addition to clarity about the crime, evidence, and medical attention: a new pair of jeans. Hell if she knows where and what is the toxin, but she’ll be damned before she becomes the next on the list to innocently don a dress only to croak from cardiac arrest minutes later, dying of “unknown causes.” Would that simple tasks like this were as easy as they had been a week prior. Driving to a boutique near school feels nearly insurmountable. Parking alone mystifies her. Her right and left sides seem to have reversed, or the impulse that connects her brain to physical actions.

  “Can I help you?” a graying lady asks as a jingling bell signals Cass’s entry. “All the jeans are half price today.”

  “Thanks,” says Cass. She walks to a neatly organized rack with an array of hanging apparel. As she palms through the various shades, she notes one of her hands is shaking. The jeans look intensely blue to her, and yet she cannot seem to distinguish the numbers for any of the sizes. She senses the stare of the saleslady, and realizes she is wondering if she can afford to shop here. Finally she locates a pair that resemble the approximate size of an old pair. She removes several hangers at once and walks directly to the desk to pay for them.

  Over the course of the week, Cass’s symptoms worsen: nausea, twitching in the hands, bleeding from the ass and vagina, a rash that spreads from her neck down her back, burning in her throat when she drinks, and most bizarre of all, sporadic inelegant belching. At night, in the bath, hair falls out in clumps. But worse than the physical manifestations, worse than these creepy and painful symptoms, she feels as though she has been drugged by a powerful substance that alternates between the effects of a black-market amphetamine and a hospital-grade sedative. The dizziness is pervasive. Simple movements make her seasick. The nausea is a constant. She is increasingly baffled by basic executive functions. A Google search of her symptoms alone reaps several accounts of cancer patients describing a round of chemo.

  It’s Wednesday, and Cass sits in the passenger seat of Nora’s family wagon. The Portland sky is a wall of gray, threatening rain or sunshine like a parent promising reward or punishment depending on the child’s behavior at the dinner table. Nora, helpful as ever, has convinced her doctor to see her friend despite his reluctance. She has spent the last few days doing her own research, scouring the internet, calling doctors. She dials a number on speaker with Cass in the car. Yet another doctor joins the chorus.

  “The Clearview emergency room has the best toxicology department in the state.”

  Cass shakes her head. No way. Not going.

  “Do you know any private doctors?” says Nora. “She says she’s not going back to an ER.”

  “Why not?” says the doctor.

  “Bad experience,” says Nora.

  “I see,” says the doctor. And in these words, Cass feels a shift in his perspective. “Your friend just walked into a minefield,” he says. He doesn’t know he is on speaker.

  “Why?” says Nora.

  “Two types of people show up in emergency rooms complaining of being poisoned.”

  “Who?”

  “Very unlucky people and paranoid schizophrenics.”

  Cass shrinks into the seat, deflated by his comment, and the now-familiar dismissal that is sure to follow. Nora senses all these things and prepares a succinct rebuttal. “Right, but what’s that phrase?” she says. “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean you’re not being followed.”

  “Those with paranoid thought disorders usually have other coinciding beliefs.”

  “Like what?” asks Nora.

  “Grandiosity. Ongoing suspicions of pursuit. Auditory hallucinations.”

  “Well, that’s good news,” Nora says. “She doesn’t think she’s the pope. Do you, Cass?”

  Cass musters a smile. “Nope. Not the pope,” she says. “Beleaguered saint, maybe. I’ve known Joan of Arc? St. Catherine?”

  “I’ve known this girl awhile,” Nora adds. “She can be a raving bitch, but she’s not a raving lunatic.”

  Cass turns to her friend, her eyes wet, grateful. In the span of three days, Nora has become an expert on the subject.

  “I’m sure that’s true,” the doctor says. The phone scratches through a hazy part of reception. “I’m just telling you what you’re up against. And what she may encounter.”

  A pause.

  “Let me put it this way,” he adds. “The first question on the psych eval is ‘Who are the enemies against you?’ Followed by ‘Are you being poisoned?’”

  Cass makes a mental note: look out for leading questions.

  Nora thanks the doctor for his time, and the call is ended. A moment passes in silence, bay passing, sun shining. When Nora turns to Cass, her tone is different.

  “I think we should go to Clearview,” she says. “He says they have the best toxicology department in the state of Maine.”

  “I need to find a toxicologist with a private practice.” Cass looks at her friend with sincere adoration. Hardship amplifies emotion. Sadness deepens one’s reserves, the depths of compassion. Nora has a friendly profile, snug features, and businesslike freckles. She drives as she does most things, with an air of authority that is soothing to all around her.

  “No,” says Nora. She takes a sharp breath, the breath of someone who expects a reaction. “I spent all morning looking. They only work in emergency rooms. Turns out there is no such thing as a toxicologist with a private practice.”

  “Sorry. No. I can’t,” says Cass. This is her new reflex. Trauma turns even lesser scares into full-blown emergencies.

  “Then you won’t find an expert,” Nora says.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t risk it. Not after Sunday.”

  “Suit yourself, Cass, but I’ve put a lot of time into this, and I can tell you now, you’re not going to find a better option.”

  Cass considers Nora’s advice, the shrill of rising tension. As much as she hates to let down her friend, she simply cannot risk another accidental incarceration. The terror was too great. The dangers too uncertain. The possibility for some impermeable shift, being driven to the actual brink by the supposition that she might already be there. The sound of the locking door too fresh, metal turning on metal. The narcotic seep of terror, like water freezing in a damp root. Her panic driving her to yell or scratch in defiance, only to confirm their diagnosis, invite their binds, their own narcotics. No, this was not a risk she could take; neither she nor her children could afford the worst-case scenario. Better to stanch the flow of blood with homemade diapers and count on her body’s inherent strength, its innate impulse for cleansing, excretion.

  *
* *

  Cass is sitting with yet another doctor. Nora has outdone herself and found a new expert. This is not a toxicologist per se but an oncologist; her family friend told her he is likely to know about toxic substances due to his work with chemo and radiation. His office is decorated with inscrutable abstract art, an explosion of jewel tones. A prim Filipino nurse leads them through the office warren. An older male doctor sits at a desk, waiting for Cass to be seated.

  “I have good news for you,” he says. “Your blood work is basically normal.”

  Cass’s face falls. She tries to smile but knows her feigned relief only betrays her disappointment. “What do you mean by basically?” Cass says.

  “Well.” He shrugs. “Your CBC is essentially the CBC of a healthy person. A CBC is a complete blood count.”

  “I know what it is,” says Cass.

  Nora, sensing her friend’s anger, puts her hand on Cass’s shoulder. “She’s very well-informed.”

  “Right, good. Your CBC is normal but for a few minor irregularities that could be nothing at all, and basically fall into the standard deviation.”

  “What irregularities?” says Cass.

  “Your monocytes are a little off.”

  “What are monocytes?” she asks. “And how off are they?”

  “Just a bit,” he said. “Your potassium is below the norm. And there’s a slight abnormality in the hemoglobin, but it’s likely nothing. Nothing more than standard deviation.”

  “Oh,” says Cass.

  “You sound disappointed.”

  “No,” says Cass. She is becoming incensed, but she tempers her reaction for the sake of Nora. Her friend has devoted the last week to her care. “It’s not that. It’s just that I was looking for some sort of…”

  “Evidence?”

  “No,” says Cass. “A path forward. Some sort of clear direction. What are monocytes?” she asks again.

  He exhales. “Monocytes are a type, or rather a part of the white blood cell.”

  “What could cause them to be low?” Cass presses this point despite his clear annoyance. She is regaining her inner strength, her reporter’s instinct.