Cat's Paw

by Mollie Hunt

“It’s taking a little longer because of the Fourth of July holiday. Dr. Connor said Tuesday or Wednesday.”

  “Well, try not to worry. I’m sure everything will be fine. One of the cousins had a bout with hepatitis some years back. He was quite sick for a while but made a complete recovery.” Ember could almost see the forced smile on her aunt’s round face. “He figured he must have caught it at that Hot Meal in Beaverton, you know—‌the shoddy little place he used to go to when he was working out there? Needless to say he hasn’t been back since.

  “You never ate there, did you?” she added in sudden alarm.

  “This is a different form of hepatitis, Aunt Syl. You don’t get it from poor hygiene. And this type is chronic. That means it never goes away.”

  “I know what ‘chronic’ means. But Emmy, where could you possibly have picked up such a thing? I thought only...” Ember’s aunt paused searching for word more delicate than drug addict or degenerate. “...only reckless people contracted diseases like that.”

  Ember didn’t answer; she had no idea where her hep C had originated. Dr. Connor had asked her all the usual questions for a blood-borne virus: Had she used intravenous drugs? Had she had a transfusion? Was she in the health-care profession, where the possibility of exposure to contaminated medical equipment is high? She had said no to them all. A statistically less likely source was sexual promiscuity, but Ember, though no saint, had been far too busy in college to mess around much, and after a short and not-so-sweet failed marriage, she had steered clear of relationships, turning her energy toward her job instead. She loved being a journalist for The Oregonian, Portland’s daily newspaper, so her lack of a social life hadn’t seemed much of a hardship.

  It had been difficult to recall her exact actions fifteen years previous—‌the amount of time Dr. Connor figured she had been carrying the virus—‌but for a while when she was going to Portland State, she had lived in a group house. The bathrooms were communal and disorganized to say the least. She supposed someone could have grabbed her razor by mistake. A toothbrush? Yuck! but it could have happened. Or a nail file, a sewing needle, a pair of cuticle scissors, a pen knife—‌anything that could have drawn blood, first from the carrier and then from her. Ember couldn’t imagine any of those vibrant young ladies doing anything reckless, as Aunt Syl put it, but you never knew.

  Ember’s little phone gave out a loud warning beep. Ember pulled it away from her ear and checked the screen.

  “Oh-oh,” she said when she saw her battery icon registering zero.

  “Emmy? Are you still there?”

  “I’m here, but my phone’s about to die. Let me call you back when I get it recharged.”

  The obnoxious blast sounded again.

  “Okay, dear. Just remember I’m here for you. And don’t spend this beautiful day worrying. Worry isn’t going to solve anything. Call me when you can. I love you.”

  “I love you too, Aunt Syl. I’ll call. Bye.”

  Ember put the dying phone down on the table and dug in her bag for the charger. When she didn’t find it and suddenly visualized the thin two-headed cord lying on the kitchen table at home—‌where it obviously still remained—‌she was surprised how little she cared. Actually she liked the idea of being incommunicado for the next few days. No more unexpected disruptions and no more compulsion to check in with the doctor’s office one more time!

  Still, it had been nice to talk with Aunt Syl. And her aunt was right about one thing: worry was futile. What will be, will be. She would find out soon enough what the remainder of her life held for her. Whether she would live or die; be healthy or an invalid. Whether she was going to have the bright and fulfilling future she had been working toward, or be adding her name to the liver transplant list.

  As she stuffed her phone back in her bag, she caught her reflection in the full length mirror that hung on the back of the bathroom door. Though she was nearing the dreaded forty-mark, she had managed to keep the same weight she had been in college. The proportions may have shifted a little with gravity, but she was still lovely. Five-foot-six and curvaceous, she struck an imposing figure when she put her mind to it. She didn’t look sick—‌maybe a little tired around the eyes. She peered closer. There was none of that tell-tale yellow tinge detracting from the azure blue, but with hep C, the symptoms of liver failure were often hard to define.

  Until it was too late, that is.

  With a brutal sigh, Ember tore her gaze from the deceitful image. She picked up a nubby sweater and dove for the door. She was going out for a nice healthy walk in the woods, even if it killed her!

  As she bounded down the plank steps into the soft grass, a late-afternoon sunbeam fell across her face, momentarily blinding her with its warm brilliance. It felt good. Suddenly she knew she was lucky to be there.

  Because after all, next summer I may be too sick.... the voice in her head began all over again.