Conceiving (Subdue Book 3)

by Thomas S. Flowers

  Boris beamed. His shoulders seemed to relax a bit. He took her hand and kissed it, tenderly.

  “That, my dear,” he said, “sounds like a fantastic idea.”

  Chapter 6

  Malignant Growth

  Luna

  “Memaw, we need to go, we’re running late.” Luna tapped her flip-flopped foot against the floor, leaning most of her weight on the banister at the bottom of the staircase, glancing curiously among the framed photographs lining the wall. Tons of family and friends with smiling, glowing happy faces of which she had little to no memory of. All these faces and not a single one has had the decency to give any ounce of support. All but herself, ignoring perhaps the fact most of the photos seemed aged with orange tint. Still. It was odd the old woman was alone. Had she chased everyone away? Did she asked for no one to come around? To what purpose? Now was not the time for latent grudges.

  Ronna Blanch was no spring chicken, and time was certainly not on her side. She was sick, of this Luna had no doubt. Why else summon her when she hadn’t been here in years? To teach her something before she passed, perhaps. Or more simply, to see her granddaughter one last time. To say goodbye. Goodbye? Was she really dying? Was this the final curtain call for the old woman of the woods? Something was going on, of that she was sure.

  “Memaw?”

  From the above hallway came the unmistakable thud of her cane, the dark wooden sinister thing with the thick snake head handle, decorated in handmade carvings, drawings of keys without locks and diamonds with strange seeming letters inside them. A coiled snake tail etched near the bottom and eyes watching from the empty space where the hand found support.

  “Why you rushing me?” Memaw rounded the corner, peering down the staircase with a look of humor and dread. Her voice was croaked with phlegm.

  “We’re going to be late.”

  Ronna cleared her throat. “Late? What doctor was ever on time, Lulu?”

  Carefully and deliberately, Memaw made her way down the wood staircase, one leg at a time, keeping a hand on her cane, and the other on the banister.

  “But we still need to check you in and sign forms.” Luna’s hands found themselves resting on her hips with little registration of herself actually doing so. It was a stance her own mother had used on her a time or two, before the visions and the fatal car crash. When life was a little less painful.

  “We get there when we get there, no two ways about it.” Memaw made her way down. With near tear-filled eyes, she gazed at her granddaughter. “Some things, Lulu, they just happen when they’re supposed to. You can’t stop what comes.”

  Luna sidestepped to allow her grandmother passage. She watched, more than perplexed at the statement she’d made. Strange, she thought. “Are you okay?”

  No answer. Memaw did not hesitate venturing out to the car. Luna shrugged and followed. Her own memories of the woman were few and far between, as fragile, no doubt, as the old woman’s bones, made of dust and grit and particles of strange fantasies of what was. She recalled childhood visitations to the cabin in the woods like words stuck on the tip of your tongue; unable to truly define or grasp the pictures, in your head was only an understanding or feeling of what happened during those nearly forgotten summer months. Looking upon her now, it seemed incomprehensible how she’d survived all these years out here in the Delta forests, alone.

  Luna fiddled with her earlobe and climbed into her dark blue RAV4. Her grandmother sat on the passenger side, her withered hands resting on her hideous ancient cane, gaze fixed on the woods. Eyes narrowed and focused on some unspoken thought.

  Memaw often reminded Luna of those red foxes from children’s stories, those sly devils that outwit the hunters and the hounds in some merry clever chase. Perhaps giving even death itself a run for his money. But for how long? she wondered. For how long?

  The engine huffed and puffed in a haze of grey cancerous smoke. The SUV rattled, but only momentarily. Soon, all was calm. Shifting into drive, they started off toward Greenwood Family Practice.

  ***

  The doctor’s office smelled as stale white, bleach, and all too sterile as the hospital Luna’s grandfather, Pappy, had passed away in oh-so-many years before. The only difference to any other clinic she’d ever been was the walls. The walls were made of wood, or maybe it was wood paneling, that thin wood-esk stuff that was popular back in the 1970s. The clinic must have been a house at one point, refurbished now as a local family practice. Everything looked gutted and replaced with modernity. Only the walls, those dark oak looking walls, remained. Everything else was very much what a hospital would be: the floor tiles, white and pristine, smelling of potent cleaning solution, the kind that stings the eyes a bit. The desks were sleek stone. And the equipment, the theater lights, and ventilators, and trolleys, syringe pumps, defibrillators, pulse oximeters, delivery beds, exam lamps, and labs with monocular and binocular microscopes, and centrifuges, sterilizers, and bacteriological lights, and patient rooms with multiple exam beds and tubes and pumps and beeps and pings and piss pans, and moans and laughter and tears and frustration swirling together in a coagulated odor of technological health care. This small family clinic with the fancy custom made chiseled ‘Greenwood Family Practice’ sign, was however both rurally quant and sophistically modern. Comfortable but not altogether pleasant. A place of birth and recovery as life and death waited behind every curtain.

  Luna sat beside her grandmother, waiting, tapping her flip-flops to some unknown hymnal song. The nurse had already been in and out, taking the old lady’s vitals, jotting them on her clipboard, smiling (or as much a one that could pass as a smile), and then disappearing back outside. Most hospitals were always cold, but this one, here the air felt as humid as outside. Sweat trickled down her back. Goosebumps crawled and itched her skin. There was no clock on the wall. She didn’t own a cell phone, as odd as that seems in this day and age, but then again, she had never considered herself connected to this day and age. Her mind was always on other things. Perhaps there was a time when she once was, back when she was a kid, before her parents died; before her dreams became what they would later be with all its terrible vividness.

  Memaw sat motionless. Her wrinkled dark skin pulled back in a smile, laughing at a joke no one told, humming some wonderful song belonging no doubt to her own generation.

  Luna shifted her legs.

  “Easy. The doctor will show when he shows.” Her grandmother placed a warm hand on her flower-skirt-covered knee, halting her rapid tapping.

  “We were late. That’s why we’re waiting so long.” Luna shifted again in her chair, crisscrossing her legs, folding her arms across her chest.

  “We got here when we did.”

  “And we were late.”

  “This was all your idea, Lulu.”

  “You said you needed to see a doctor.”

  “When did I say that?”

  “Months ago! You said your stomach was hurting. We went to see Doctor Clifford…they drew some blood. Did an ultrasound on your stomach. Did a biopsy.” Luna looked at her grandmother, feeling more worried than annoyed.

  “Yes.” Memaw was still smiling her secret joke grin.

  “And we made an appointment, don’t you remember?”

  Memaw laughed. “Ain’t nothing wrong with my mind, Lulu. But I never asked for no doctor.”

  “You asked me to come.”

  “Yes.”

  “You wrote to me. Said things were bad. You were getting sick…?” Luna wiped away the brim of sweat collecting along her forehead. Her thoughts muddied. Confusion for her grandmother, fear she was slipping into dementia or worse, maybe Alzheimer’s. God…not that…not that. And then more thoughts clouded her mind, thoughts of what she’d left in Texas, thoughts of werewolf soldiers, thoughts of Bobby Weeks.

  “I asked you to come, Lulu, but I never asked for no doctor.” Memaw looked at her, her gaze as strong and determined and rational as best she could ever recall. Her frail hands held firm to her wicke
d looking cane. There was strength still in her and her mind didn’t seem to be fading.

  “But you’re sick, Memaw…right?”

  “There ain’t anything anyone can do about that now.”

  “Memaw…?” Luna reached to touch her grandmother’s shoulder, her eyes wet.

  There was a knock on the door. Just as soon as the rapping ceased, a tall, pale looking fellow, no more than fifty-something with greying long hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing oval glasses and a long bellowing white lab white and denim jeans came hurriedly into the exam room. He plopped down hard into the swivel chair normally designated as “the doctor’s chair,” looking at the clipboard the nurse before had used.

  “Mrs. Blanche—”

  “Please, call me Ronna. My husband died too long for me to remember anyone ever calling me ‘Mrs.’”

  Luna looked at her grandmother. She never knew her grandfather, he’d died years before she was born. Daddy never talked about him…How long have you been alone, Memaw?

  “Okay then.” Doctor Clifford smiled, looking at his notes again before continuing. His warm features dissolved quickly. “We have your test results back from the lab at the University.”

  “Why did you send the lab there?” Luna leaned forward. Glancing down, she realized her grandmother had found her hand, squeezing.

  Doctor Clifford smiled. His marble eyes narrowed behind his oval glasses. “Unfortunately, we’re not set up here to run the kind of tests we needed for your grandmother.”

  “So you let Ole Miss run the test?”

  “Yes. They have an impressive lab.”

  “Why?”

  “Lulu, let the man say what he came here to say.”

  “I’m just curious, Memaw. It just seems strange to me.”

  “It’s quite all right, Mrs. Blanche…I’m sorry, Ronna. There is nothing wrong with a healthy dose of curiosity.” Dr. Clifford turned more towards Luna. “University of Mississippi is better equipped and we have a rapport with them and because of that rapport we were able to get our results much faster than sending the tests out somewhere else. For some things, you want to know sooner rather than later, don’t you think?”

  “Yes. Sorry.”

  “As I said, quite all right.” Dr. Clifford looked back at the clipboard. “Now. Ronna, your test results have come back from Ole Miss and your results do not look good. The pain in your abdomen is, as we feared, cancerous, stage four metastatic ovarian cancer, to be exact. Aggressive. Very aggressive.”

  Luna felt cold all over. Her hand shrunk from her grandmother’s. Without looking at the doctor, she asked, “What can we do?”

  Dr. Clifford seemed to ponder his next words carefully. He shifted in his swivel chair, crossing his legs. A frail long finger scratching his thin and tediously manicured grey beard.

  “Typically, I’d recommend treatment right away. Surgery, followed by an equally aggressive dose of chemotherapy. But—”

  “But nothing. We need to do that. Now. Now.”

  “Lulu…”

  “No Memaw. This isn’t fair. Don’t be this way, we can fight this.”

  “It’s too late for that, sweet girl.”

  “Memaw…?”

  “I’m afraid she’s right, Ms. Blanche. Treatment is used to either prolong life or used with hope of curing the patient. But with your grandmother…well, this is a very aggressive cancer, and according to her CT scan it has already spread into her liver. Long term survival for this type of cancer is less than ten percent.”

  “So that’s it then. We’re not going to do a damn thing? That it?”

  “I can recommend some places in the area that can help make her feel comfortable.” Dr. Clifford scribbled something on the clipboard. As he wrote he glanced at his watch.

  “You mean hospice.”

  Dr. Clifford nodded without looking up.

  Memaw stood, wincing as she braced most of her weight on her gnarled cane. Despite hearing she had stage four untreatable cancer, that she was in fact going to die, soon, she was smiling. Smiling as if she’d been given the best news imaginable, as if she’d won the lottery or something.

  “Thank you, Doctor Clifford, for your time. You have a blessed day, son.” Memaw smiled and headed for the door.

  Luna watched her, unsure if she was really leaving or she herself was have a stroke and hallucinating watching her grandmother leave the exam room without so much as a question or a follow up or knowing how long she had, for Christ’s sake. She’s not even going to fight this? She’s going to…no. She’s got to. She’s got to.

  Clifford was scribbling again.

  Luna stood and went after her grandmother, but something was holding her back. She looked down at the thin white hand of Doctor Clifford holding her forearm.

  “I’ve written a few prescriptions for your grandmother. There’s no guarantee of prolongment. The best thing you can do is make her comfortable.” Dr. Clifford handed her a squared sheet of paper, slightly larger than a post-it note.

  Luna read the list. Anexsia. OxyContin. Tramadol. Trileptal. Naproxen. And a half other dozen medications she couldn’t pronounce. “Thanks,” she muttered without really knowing why. What was there to be thankful for?

  “When her condition worsens, please do not hesitate to call our nursing staff. Okay?”

  “Sure, whatever you say.”

  Luna disappeared out into the hall, looking for her grandmother.

  She was nowhere to be found.

  Peering into the waiting area, Luna continued outside. Temporarily blinded by the bright yellow white sun, she shielded her eyes, searching. Memaw stood by the RAV4, still smiling, as if untouched by the medical death sentence. Unfazed. As if she already knew. Had known. And was planning for.

  Luna crumpled up the prescription sheet, stuffing the wad into her purse, and stormed toward her SUV.

  Chapter 7

  Unemployed

  Bobby Weeks

  His Nirvana smiley face t-shirt stuck against his wet skin. He’d just finished loading the last trailer when Mr. Bryant, known to those on payroll as Vinny, came waddling into the warehouse, his greasy blond hair slicked back, wearing baggy jeans and a large maroon polo with the company logo stenciled on the right breast pocket.. Beyond tired, Bobby looked out through the open bay as the sun above was peeking through some clouds drifting west. It was going to be a muggy day for sure, he could tell. Especially if it decided to rain later. In Houston, it was always a sort cornucopia of atmospheric conditions. Turning back to Bryant, the warehouse owner had a look about him, as if he’d eaten something that didn’t quite agree with his stomach. With a manila envelope in hand, Bryant waved a chubby hand.

  “Great work, Bobby. Really.” Bryant gave a fake-looking smile, looking around the warehouse, the empty floor space ready for the next turnaround.

  “Wasn’t nothing.” Bobby joined the owner’s gaze around the empty warehouse and at the loaded trailers ready for the drivers to arrive to take the loads out into the mainland.

  “Really, Bob. It was a lot, I know.”

  “I like to keep busy, anyhow.”

  “Good. Good to keep busy.” Bryant shifted on his feet, crumping the manila envelope in his plump hands. He was looking at everything in the warehouse, all but for Bobby.

  “What’s up?” Bobby sniffed deep, controlled. Trying not to be noticeable, taking in the scent between them. The warehouse smelled as it always did. Stale. Oily. Bryant typically smelled of whatever he’d eaten last, typically potato chips, of the salty variety. But now something stronger was coming off him, like heat off the pavement in the hot July sun, a smell Bobby was very familiar with. Fear.

  “Well, Bobby…” Bryant puttered.

  “You come to fire me, Mr. Bryant?” He spoke calmly, though his gut kindled, tasting his bosses fear and feeling the same resentment he’d felt and seen coming home from Iraq, he knew the job wouldn’t last. Tossed aside, once again. And for what? What? ’Cause he was different? ’Caus
e he didn’t fit in with the breakroom crowd? He didn’t gossip at the water cooler? Despite feeling that old rage that was becoming more and more common place, taking root in the veins of his heart, he remained stoic and calm.

  “Look—”

  “Did I do something?”

  Bryant finally looked Bobby in the eye. “Bob, you’re the hardest working guy I’ve got here, but…”

  Bobby tasted that pungent salt-fear again. “But I’m not exactly on payroll, is that it?”

  Bryant nodded his head, looking to the floor.

  Bobby pressed. “And someone is complaining about me being here.”

  The cumbersome manager owner slowly handed Bobby the manila envelope. “I’m sorry, Bob, I really am. You are a hard worker. Never moan like some of the other guys. If I could somehow bring you on permanently…all I would need is your driver’s license and I can get Shirley to help fill out your W-2. I’d even waive the residency and references. I’d still have to do a background check, though.”

  Looking away, Bobby could feel his own fear bubbling within the rage and anger and disappointment and regret and heartbreak. A real job? In the system…? Could I risk it? Could I cope? No…no, too dangerous. Better to walk away. Better that than to get complacent. Complacency breeds laziness. Lazy will get someone killed. And what if someone did get hurt? Then they would know, they would all know my terrible other. The monster. The wolf. Devil eyes. And maybe then, the men in blue suits driving Government Issue sedans would show and I’d be caged forever or worse, a lab monkey.

  “Well, Bob? How about it?” Bryant leaned toward, hopeful.

  Bobby took the manila envelope. “I can’t. Sorry.”

  Bryant huffed. “I’m not going to pry, but then you know I got no choice, Bob.” Gesturing at the envelop, he said, “There’s tonight’s pay, plus some extra. To get you by. I wish I had something more for you, something lined up, but all these kinds of jobs are usually unionized. Pain in my ass, let me tell you.”