“C’mon, Mom.” Polly was elated. “I’ll drive you to the paint store right now and we’ll get what we need.”
“Scared I’ll change my mind, huh?” Isabelle grinned knowingly at her daughter. “Okay, I just have to put on some lipstick and then we’ll go. Clover, you want to come for a ride in Polly’s fancy car?”
Polly was annoyed at her mother for inviting the child along. She hoped the little girl would refuse, but instead Clover came trotting over from the dirt pile where she’d been digging with a garden fork. The knees of her pants were dirty, and her face and hands were streaked with grime.
“Better wash up before we go,” Polly instructed, wondering why she should feel such aversion to a four-year-old. She’d always liked kids, but this one irritated her. Feeling guilty, she smiled at Jerome. “We’ll take good care of her.”
“Thanks. It’s important for her to be with women. I think she misses her mother.”
The unpredictable rage that Polly thought was a thing of the past suddenly overcame her. The words she’d flung at Frannie so often in those weeks after Susannah’s death echoed in her brain. Why should she have lost her child, when there were women who didn’t even want theirs?
Isabelle was coming down the back steps, Clover close behind her, and the shameful thought couldn’t be suppressed as Polly stared at the little girl. Why couldn’t this child have died instead of Susannah? Clover’s mother didn’t care enough about her to even stick around. It was all she could do to stop herself from screaming the words. Polly could feel Jerome’s puzzled gaze as she turned abruptly away from him and walked to her car. She was trembling violently as she opened the car door and slid behind the wheel, and when her passengers got in beside her, the little girl’s high-pitched voice was like acid dripping into an open wound.
Michael had just finished with a patient and was writing details of the visit in the chart when Valerie knocked, then stuck her head in the door. “Dr. Gilbert’s on line two for you.”
Michael picked up the phone and greeted Luke warmly. He knew Luke Gilbert well. Luke and his wife, Morgan Jacobsen, were well known and highly respected obstetricians in Vancouver, and their paths and Michael’s had often crossed on the obstetrical ward at St. Joe’s.
“Michael, I wonder if you’d do me a favor.” Luke’s voice was tense, and Michael was surprised; Luke Gilbert was a self-contained Englishman, not given to revealing his feelings.
“Of course, Luke. What can I do for you?”
“It’s my grandson, Duncan Hendricks, my daughter Sophie’s boy.”
Just the somber tone of Luke’s voice told Michael the problem was serious. “He’s five years old. He’s been diagnosed with—” Luke stopped and cleared his throat, obviously having a difficult time speaking. “With astrocytoma of the main cerebral hemisphere, Grade Three.”
The same diagnosis as Susannah’s. A rush of conflicting emotion hit Michael like a fist in the gut. Uppermost was compassion for Luke and his family, the terrible understanding that only someone who’d lived this particular nightmare could feel for others trapped in the same situation. But there was also an immediate aversion, a certainty that he absolutely didn’t want any involvement in this case. He knew, however, this was exactly what Luke was asking of him.
“I spoke to Rosof at the Center for Integrated Therapy,” Luke went on. “He said that you’re the one he’d recommend to supervise Duncan’s treatment. You’re experienced both in traditional and alternative therapies. I wondered, Michael, would you take him on as a patient? I realize it’s asking a lot. I know it must bring back painful memories of your daughter.”
Michael struggled with the feelings roiling in him, and although he longed to refuse Luke, he knew he had no choice. This was a fellow doctor, a friend, asking a personal favor. There was no way to decline. He forced a heartiness he was far from feeling into his voice. “Of course I’ll do the very best I can for Duncan, Luke. I’ll have Valerie set up an immediate appointment. Is nine tomorrow morning a good time?”
Luke assured him it was, and for the next several minutes, Michael asked questions about Duncan, assimilating the answers Luke gave, assessing as objectively as he could the progress of the disease.
The tumor, like Susannah’s, was inoperable, situated too deep within the brain to make surgery possible. Duncan was undergoing a course of radiation.
“We all know what the track record is for this thing, Michael.” Luke sounded tired and desperate. “It’s simply not curable through orthodox methods. I’ve searched the literature. Is there any alternative therapy that might work?”
Michael would have given anything to reassure Luke, but he couldn’t do it. “Nothing,” he said heavily. “Some alternative treatments can help support the body, but nothing I know will cure this particular type of tumor.”
“That’s what I thought.” Luke’s sigh tore at Michael’s soul. “Duncan’s a bright kid. We’ve been as honest with him as we can be. We all feel it’s important to explain exactly what’s going on. The toughest thing for us is his optimism. He absolutely believes he’s going to get well. I dread the moment he figures out he’s not.”
“I understand.” Luke’s words brought memories to the surface, hurtful memories. Susannah, at nine, had also been a bright child. Michael had always been delighted and amused at her interest in his job. He’d always answered her questions honestly, without shielding her from the harsher aspects of his medical practice. When she became ill, she insisted Michael draw her pictures, show her the exact location of her tumor, tell her what to expect.
And he’d done all that. He’d also insisted that her doctors inform her of exactly what they were doing every step of the way; after all, it was her body.
And so it came about that Susannah herself had ultimately been the one to decide not to continue with orthodox treatment. Her decision had been incredibly difficult for Michael to accept.
First, she’d asked her neurologist Dr. Woodbine, point-blank whether the radiation would cure her. May Woodbine was a wonderful doctor, and she’d explained to Susannah that there were no guarantees; radiation was the best the medical profession had to offer. Susannah, being a doctor’s child, had pressed her for statistics.
Both May Woodbine and Michael knew the treatment didn’t offer any hope of cure. Its only purpose was to stave off the inevitable; the symptoms would improve temporarily, but the median survival rate for a glioma of the brainstem such as Susannah’s...and Duncan’s...was one year. That was where total honesty became impossible for Michael; he didn’t want his daughter to know that she had only a short time to live.
Susannah had guessed, however, and she decided not to go on with the radiation. Instead, she’d opted for a special diet and a number of other alternative treatments.
“We can always hope for spontaneous remission, Luke,” Michael said.
“Yes, of course.” Both doctors knew how rarely that occurred. “Well, thank you, Michael, more than I can say. Sophie and her husband, Jason Hendricks, will be in your office in the morning with Duncan.”
The first thing that struck Michael at that meeting was how surprisingly young the Hendrickses were to have a five-year-old son. They looked like teenagers, and he learned later that Sophie was only twenty, Jason twenty-two. They were an exceptionally good-looking couple, and their child was beautiful. He had perfectly symmetrical features, a deep cleft in his chin, eyes so large and intensely blue and utterly clear that Michael felt he was looking at a slice of the sky.
They were already waiting in his office when he hurried in, parents seated side by side, holding hands, with the little boy perched on his father’s knee.
Michael glanced at the clasped hands of Sophie and Jason and wondered how long it would be before the enormity of what was happening isolated them from each other, as it had Polly and him.
“Sorry I’m late,” he apologized, shaking hands with them and explaining that he’d been held up on rounds at the hospital.
; “I know how that happens,” Sophie said with a strained smile. “Dad’s always late. He barely even made it when my stepbrother Jacob was born.” Banked terror showed in the huge gray eyes of the blond, plump young woman.
Her husband, Jason, could have modeled as a college football player. He was tall, broad shouldered, muscular, with brown hair cropped in a crew cut. Although it wasn’t hot in the office, he was sweating, and a nerve beside his eye jerked uncontrollably. Though young in years, these two were already experienced in anguish.
Tension filled the room. Michael dragged a chair close to the little group and sat, wanting to ease the situation in any way he could. He smiled at Duncan, who gave him a searching look with those disconcertingly clear eyes, then put out his small hand trustingly when Michael offered his.
Duncan had lost his hair as a result of the radiation, but his baldness didn’t detract at all from his beauty. If anything, the stark skull emphasized the angelic face.
“Except for your blue eyes, I think you look exactly like your grandpa Luke, Duncan,” Michael commented. The resemblance to handsome Luke Gilbert was striking, down to the deep cleft in Duncan’s small strong chin.
“You know my grandpa Luke?” The boy’s eyes lit up.
“I sure do. All us doctors know one another.”
“My grandpa Luke’s a baby doctor, and so’s Morgan. She’s my grandma, but she lets me call her Morgan anyway. Her and Grandpa Luke help babies get born,” Duncan said in a husky voice brimming with pride. “What kind of doctor are you?”
“I’m what’s called a general practitioner. That means I get to do a little bit of all sorts of different medicine.”
“You make people better, right?”
Michael’s heart twisted. “Whenever I can, that’s what I do.” He braced himself for what he feared would be the next question, but it didn’t come.
Instead, Duncan said, “When I grow up, I’m either gonna be a baby doctor or a carpenter. My other grandpa, Grandpa Andy, shows me how to make stuff outa wood.”
When I grow up... At that moment Michael wished he were a carpenter himself instead of a doctor.“ Maybe you could do both, Duncan,” he forced himself to say in a cheerful tone.
“Yeah. First I gotta get this tumor in my head better, though,” the boy responded matter-of-factly, adding, “Are you gonna have to stick me a lot? ’Cause I really don’t like needles.”
“Nope. We may have to down the road, but certainly not today. All I’m gonna do this morning is talk to you and your mom and dad and have a look at you. Then I’ll read this chart you brought me, and then you and I’ll figure out how best we can make you feel better.” If only it were possible to heal you, child, I would.
“Good.” The boy nodded and grinned with relief. “I sure don’t like getting sticks all the time. I don’t like my treatments, either. They make me feel real sick.”
“I know. Radiation can do that.”
“Morgan gave me a fish. His name’s Oscar.”
Duncan had obviously had enough talk about illness.
“Is he a goldfish?” It was impossible not to respond to this irresistible child.
“Yup. He’s fat. He eats lots when I feed him and then he poops in the water.” Duncan’s giggle was infectious.
Michael chatted about fish for a few moments, then turned his attention to Sophie and Jason, asking questions about the onset of the tumor, the symptoms Duncan had, the other doctors they’d seen, the medications he was taking, his appetite, his diet, his daily routine.
Whenever possible, Michael asked Duncan questions directly, and he was impressed with how these parents encouraged their son to answer for himself.
During the physical examination, the boy was totally cooperative. The disease had affected his motor skills and his reflexes, just as Michael would have expected.
“What I’m going to do is suggest a number of alternative therapies that will make you feel better, Duncan,” Michael explained when everything else was completed. “I’ll begin by recommending that the whole family change to a diet composed of natural foods.” He wrote the titles of several cookbooks and the name of an experienced practitioner who would help with the transition.
He listed the other treatments that might prove helpful: Essiac, mixed respiratory virus vaccine, grape seed extract, green tea. He gave information on visualization and positive imagery and answered any questions they had.
As they were leaving the office, Sophie waited until Jerome and Duncan were out of earshot, then she blurted the question that Michael most dreaded.
“Is there a chance that all this stuffs going to make Duncan better, Doctor?”
Her gaze silently begged Michael for reassurance that he couldn’t give.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It took enormous effort for Michael to keep his voice steady, his words professional. “No one can answer that, Sophie. There aren’t any guarantees. The best thing we can do for Duncan is believe he will get better and help him believe it, as well.” Even though it’s a lie, an anguished part of his soul reminded him.
“But he does.” Her face crumpled. “He absolutely believes he’s going to get through this, and that’s what breaks my heart. I know what his chances are. And sometimes...” She gulped and with her fingers rubbed at the tears coursing down her cheeks. “Sometimes I can hardly bear it, it hurts me so much.”
“I understand.” Michael knew he should put an arm around her, comfort her somehow, but he just couldn’t do it. He felt as if something fragile in his chest would break if he touched her, that he’d do something humiliating, like start to cry. In self-defense he retreated behind his desk, where he fiddled with papers, waiting silently until she regained control.
“Thank you so much for seeing us,” she said after a moment.
And Michael hated himself for being distant. He did his best to give her a facsimile of a smile, feeling like the worst of hypocrites.
“You can be certain we’ll do absolutely everything you suggest, Dr. Forsythe.”
“That’s good. That’s very important. Tell Valerie to make regular weekly appointments for Duncan. We’ll all do the best we can for him, Sophie.”
She nodded, and when the door closed behind her, Michael sank into his leather chair. His heart was hammering; he felt icy cold and nauseous. His hands knotted into fists and he longed to smash something. He forced himself to study Duncan’s chart, concentrate on the results of the numerous tests. It was all sickeningly familiar—the CAT scans, the blood tests. He had no idea how long it was before Valerie tapped on the door to remind him his next patient was waiting. With a supreme effort, he forced himself out of his chair, shoved the emotions into a dark place in his mind and somehow got on with being a doctor.
It was after seven that evening when Michael closed his own front door behind him. The long day had taken its toll, and it felt good to be home. Something smelled delicious and there was music playing, rock and roll. Polly hadn’t played rock and roll for a very long time.
“Hi, Michael. I'm in the kitchen.”
He hung his tweed jacket in the closet and made his way down the hall. Polly was stirring something on the stove, and she turned her head to smile at him.
“Long day, huh, Doc?” She sounded cheerful. Although she looked disheveled, she was still terribly pretty in a narrow gray ankle-length skirt and a deep-green silky tunic that skimmed her slender hips. Her short, spiky hair was still a surprise to him.
“Very long day.” There was a smear of tomato paste on her cheek. Michael rubbed it off with his thumb and then kissed her quickly on the lips. "What’re you making?”
She tasted sweet. Polly always tasted good, smelled good. That she managed to be fresh no matter what the occasion surprised him still. Coming home to such pleasant smells, such vibrant good health, after a day spent around illness was always such a pleasure.
“Vegetable stew and hot biscuits, and there’s salad in the fridge.” Her amber eyes shone with excitement. �
�Michael, you’ll never guess what happened today.”
“Tell me.” Judging by her tone and her sparkling eyes, it was something good. A little of the weight lifted from his heart.
“Mom decided she wants Jerome to paint the outside of the house as well as clean up the rubbish. Can you believe that? She and I actually went out and bought the paint this afternoon—white, with green for the trim. She wanted turquoise, but I talked her out of it.”
“Hey, that’s wonderful, Pol.” Michael leaned against the counter and smiled down at her. “I’m really glad she likes Jerome. Getting more work is good for him, too.”
Polly nodded. “And guess what else? I'm going to help him. I’m going to paint with him. We’re starting day after tomorrow, as long as it doesn’t rain. Isn’t that great? I called Norah and she can’t believe this is happening, Mom changing her mind like this.”
“You’re going to paint the house with Jerome?” Michael frowned, not liking the idea at all. “Are you sure you want to do that, Polly? Painting a house is hard physical labor, you know. You’ll have to be working up on ladders. I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
Polly shot him a disbelieving look and rolled her eyes heavenward. “For gosh sake, Michael.” Her good humor evaporated. She threw down the spoon she’d been stirring the pot with and turned on him, eyes blazing. “This is something I want to do. Can’t you understand that? I need to do this. I need something to do that’s creative.”
“What about your art? Why not get involved in that again?” He gestured toward the closed door of the studio, and even as he did he knew it was the wrong thing to suggest. Damn. Almost everything he said to her these days was the wrong thing. Anger flared in him, mixed with frustration, at her, at himself.
Her voice was tense. “I can’t draw anymore. I thought you knew that. Whatever talent I might have had is gone.” She glared at him. “You don’t get it, Michael. You just go off to work every single day. Your life has purpose and...and direction, and focus. Well, mine doesn’t. Not anymore.” He knew what was coming and he didn’t want to listen, didn’t want to hear it because of the pain it caused, because he couldn’t do anything about it.
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