Lightning

by Danielle Steel

  He flushed the toilet for her, and put the lid down, and after a little while, he laid her down on the pillow, and covered her with a blanket. She was grateful for all of it, and he sat with her the entire time, watching her, holding her hand, and saying nothing.

  It was almost an hour later when she finally spoke to him, in a soft voice. She was completely drained, and even talking was an effort. “I think I can get up now.”

  “Why don't you lie here for a while?” he said softly, and then he had a better idea. “I'm going to move you, Alex. Don't do anything. Just let yourself go.” She had stopped vomiting long enough to be moved to the other room, and with no effort at all, he scooped her up, surprised at how light she was for her size, and laid her down on the gray leather couch in her office. It felt wonderful to her, and he put the pillow under her head and the blanket over her. She was mildly ashamed of herself for giving up so completely, but she didn't really care. She was just grateful that he was there to help her.

  “Lock the door,” she whispered to him as he stood next to her, like a mother watching her baby.

  “Why?”

  “I don't want anyone to walk in and see me.” She had assured everyone that she was going to be able to work during chemotherapy, and this was hardly an auspicious beginning.

  He did what she asked, and then came to sit in a chair next to her. He didn't want to leave her alone, but she did look a little better.

  “Do you want me to take you home?” he asked cautiously, but she shook her head in answer to the question.

  “I'm staying.”

  “Do you want to sleep for a while?”

  “I'll just lie here. “¥bu work I'll get up in a few minutes.”

  “Are you serious?” He was amazed at her. He had never admired her more than at this moment. She refused to give up or to be beaten. She was a real trouper.

  “Tes,” she answered him. “You work …and Brock? …” She was whispering and so was he. “Thank you.”

  “Never mind. That's what friends are for.” It only saddened her to know that Sam couldn't do this.

  Brock turned off some of the lights, and she lay there for a while with her eyes closed, and then half an hour later, she got up and joined him at her desk. She looked a little rumpled and her hair was mussed, and her voice was hoarse, but she was ready to go back to work, and neither of them mentioned what had happened.

  He remembered to unlock the door, and Liz came in with tea and coffee and a snack, and no one was any the wiser. And at five o'clock Brock walked her to the elevator, and carried her briefcase.

  “I'll catch a cab for you, and then come back up,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “Don't you have anything else to do than help old ladies across the street?” she teased, but they had become friends that afternoon, and she knew she wouldn't forget it for a lifetime. She didn't know what she had done to deserve that kind of friendship from him, but it had made an enormous impression. “You must have been a Boy Scout.”

  “Matter of fact, I was. There was nothing else to do in Illinois. Besides, I've always had a soft spot for old ladies.”

  “Apparently,” she grinned at him. She felt about a thousand years old at that moment, but he thought she was remarkable.

  It took him a few minutes to catch a cab, and he told her to wait inside while he did. She was about to argue with him, but he didn't hang around to discuss it with her, and he was very firm in his directions. He had already paid the taxi for her, so no one else would hijack it, when he came back inside to get her.

  “All set.” He put her in and waved as she drove off, still amazed at all he'd done for her. She wondered how she would ever thank him. And by the time she got home to Annabelle, she felt like a dishrag. She would have liked to have a warm bath with her, but Annabelle still hadn't seen her scar, and she had no intention of letting her see it. So she had a bath by herself with her bathroom door locked, and sat at dinner with Annabelle, but ate nothing. She said she was going to eat later, with Daddy.

  He came home at seven o'clock just before Annabelle went to bed, and read her a story. And then he and Alex sat down to the dinner Carmen had left them. But Alex only picked at her food. In spite of making an effort to eat it, she just couldn't.

  “Did things get better today?” he asked, as solicitously as he could, although Alex clearly had the feeling he didn't really want to discuss it.

  “I was fine,” she said, eliminating totally the report that she had spent an hour on the bathroom floor of her office, and another half hour on the couch, with Brock Stevens holding her ice pack. “I have a lot of new cases.” It was what he wanted to hear, even if it was only part of the story.

  “So do we,” he smiled, trying to forget their argument of the night before and all the ugly things they had said to each other. “We have an awful lot of new clients, thanks to Simon.”

  “You don't suppose there's any hanky-panky there, do you, Sam?” she said suspiciously, a lot of new clients of that magnitude almost made her a little nervous.

  “Stop looking for problems in everything. Don't be such an attorney,” he chided her, none too gently.

  “Occupational hazard.” She smiled weakly at him, feeling nauseous again, just from the smell of his dinner.

  She cleaned up alone afterwards, but by the time she was through the little she had eaten had come back to haunt her. She wound up on her bathroom floor again, retching horribly, and this time there was no Brock Stevens with a pillow and an ice pack.

  “What's wrong with you?” Sam finally asked as he came to look at her. He had to admit, she looked awful. “Maybe it's not just the chemotherapy. Maybe you have appendicitis or something.” It was hard for him to believe the chemo would actually do that.

  “It's the chemo,” she said, sounding like the voice out of The Exorcist, and vomiting instantly again, and he left, unable to watch it.

  Eventually, she made it to their bed, and collapsed exhausted, while he glanced over at her in annoyance. “I know this is unsympathetic of me, but why is it that you were fine at work all day, and you get sick the minute you see me? Is this a bid for sympathy, or do I have this effect on you?” he asked, not realizing what she'd been through all day, and she didn't want to tell him she'd lied about what had happened at the office.

  “Very funny.”

  “Do you think you're reacting to this emotionally, or maybe you're allergic to this stuff?” He just couldn't understand it or believe it. He had never seen anyone throw up that violently or that often.

  “Trust me, it's the chemo,” she said again. “I have a sheet that tells you what to expect. Would you like to read it?”

  “Not really,” he said honestly, “I'll take your word for it.” And then, as though he were still trying to explain it, “You were never like this when you were pregnant.”

  “I didn't have cancer, and I wasn't having chemotherapy,” she said dryly, still trying to recover from the onslaught. “Maybe that made a difference.”

  “I think this is psychological. I really think you should call your doctor.”

  “I did. She said this is unfortunate, but normal.”

  “It doesn't seem normal to me.” He didn't want to understand it. He had complete denial.

  In the end, they went to sleep, and when she awoke the next morning, she was nauseous again, but she didn't vomit. They both went to work normally, and she took Annabelle to school, which made her feel better. Every little step toward normalcy was a victory suddenly, and she managed to get through an entire morning at work without feeling sick or being distracted.

  It was only that afternoon, working with Brock again, that her turkey sandwich got the better of her and she wound up back on her bathroom floor feeling like she was dying. He didn't hesitate to come in this time, and she was shocked to realize that he was holding her head and her shoulders while she vomited and she didn't even care. In fact, it was less frightening not to be alone and have him with her. She was ashamed for f
eeling that way, but when she lay against him afterwards, she looked up at him, wondering why he did it.

  “You should have been a doctor.” She grinned foolishly at him. This was certainly one way to establish a friendship.

  “I hate the sight of blood,” he confessed.

  “But not the sight of vomit? What is it with you, you like women who throw up?”

  “I love ‘em,” he laughed. “I ended a lot of dates like this in high school and college. I got pretty good at it. Things are supposed to be a little more sophisticated in New York, but maybe not, huh?”

  “You're crazy,” she was still too weak to move, and they were sitting on her bathroom floor again, as she leaned against him. “But I'm beginning to like you.” It was kind of like being married. There was no embarrassment, just her need, and his willingness to fill it. For a moment, she wondered if God had sent her just the right friend at just the right moment.

  And then Brock sounded more serious, when he spoke to her again. “My sister went through this.” He sounded very sad when he said it.

  “Chemotherapy?” She sounded surprised, as though no one had ever been through it before her.

  “Yeah. Breast cancer just like you. She almost gave up the treatment plenty of times. I was a junior in college, and I went home to take care of her. She was ten years older than I was.”

  “Was?” Alex asked nervously, and he smiled.

  “Is. She got through it. You'll get through it too. But you have to do the chemo, no matter how bad it gets, or how terrible it is, or how much you hate it. You've got to do it.”

  “I know. It scares the hell out of me. Six months seems like forever.”

  “It isn't,” he said, sounding older than he was. “Dead is forever.”

  “I get it. Honest.”

  “You can't screw around, Alex. You have to take the pills, no matter how sick they make you, and go for the treatments. I'll go with you if you want. I went with her. She hated them, and she was afraid of needles.”

  “I can't say I loved it either, but it didn't seem so bad, until I started puking my brains out. But then again, it's one way to meet friends.” She smiled up at him and he grinned. He wasn't wearing his glasses and his tie was askew. He had a blond boyish look, but at the same time, his eyes said he was much wiser. At thirty-two, he had seen a lot more than she knew. He had an old soul, and a good heart, and he really liked her.

  “Shall we go back to work?” she asked after a little while, and Liz was just putting some mail on her desk, and was surprised to see them both come out of the bathroom.

  “Hi,” Alex said casually, “we were having a meeting.”

  Liz laughed, and had no idea what they were doing in there, but it seemed funny to her as she went back to her desk.

  “People are going to think we're shooting up or snorting cocaine if we keep this up,” Alex laughed, “or having sex in the bathroom.”

  “I can think of worse rumors than that.” He laughed easily, and sat down across the desk from her. She was looking better.

  “Yeah. Me too.” She hadn't made love with Sam in almost two months and they weren't likely to be doing it again soon, from the look of things between them. But sex didn't seem much of an issue. Survival was more to the point. That was the only issue at the moment. They worked together all afternoon, and at the end of the day, he got her a cab again, although she insisted she felt fine. And on Friday, she managed to take Annabelle to ballet. Remarkably, she was doing everything she needed to. And she wasn't feeling great, but she wasn't totally out of commission either. And she was beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, she'd survive it. Whether or not her marriage would was another thing. She thought that a great deal less likely.

  Chapter 13

  Dr. Webber was very pleased with Alex's progress the following Monday. “You're doing fine,” she complimented her. Her blood count was good. And they were able to do the intravenous treatment, preceded by dextrose and water, which was a little less traumatic for Alex, now that she knew what to expect from the treatment.

  This time she got just as sick, but it didn't come as big a surprise to her. And Brock continued to nurse her, and Liz to watch her like a guardian angel.

  “I'm starting to feel guilty about this,” she said to Brock, as they sat on her bathroom floor again the day after her second treatment.

  “Why?” He looked puzzled.

  “Because you're not having chemotherapy, I am. Why should you have to go through all this? You're not married to me. This is my nightmare, not yours. You don't have to do this.” She couldn't understand why he was so kind to her. There was no reason for it, though it certainly helped her. He was the only person who was really there for her at the moment.

  “Why not share it?” he said simply. “Why not let someone else help you? It could happen to any of us. Lightning can strike any one of us at any moment. No one's exempt. And if I'm here for you, maybe someone will be there for me one day, if it ever happens.”

  “I will,” she said gently. “I'll be there for you, Brock. I'll never forget this.” And they both knew she meant it.

  “I'm actually doing this for a raise,” he said laughingly, as he helped her up. They had been there for an hour. It had been a very rough morning.

  “I figured you had to have an ulterior motive,” she grinned. She was a lot more tired this week after the treatment. And Thanksgiving was in two days. It exhausted her just thinking about doing the turkey. “Why not take my job?” she said jokingly as they sat down again. “You'd be great at it.”

  “I'd rather work with you.” He looked at her as he said it, and for an odd moment she felt something different between them. She wasn't sure what it meant, or if she should acknowledge it. But she looked away, embarrassed for a moment. She was so open with him now, so free, and she wondered if maybe she shouldn't. Maybe they were getting too close. After all, she was a married woman. But he was also just a kid, as she reminded herself, he was ten years younger than she was.

  “I like working with you too, Brock,” she said kindly, treating him like her junior again, and then she laughed at herself, which was one of the things he loved about her, “when I'm not throwing up all over you.”

  “I'm very careful to stand behind you,” he said in the way that only people who had been through what they had together could get away with.

  “You're disgusting.”

  They talked about their Thanksgiving plans late that afternoon. He was going to friends in Connecticut, and she was staying home with Annabelle and Sam. She confessed to him then that she wasn't enthusiastic about doing the cooking.

  “Why doesn't he do it then? Can he cook?”

  “Well enough, but Thanksgiving is my specialty.” And then she admitted something she hadn't told anyone else. “I feel like I have to prove something to him. He's very angry about all this. Sometimes I think he hates me for it. I need to show him that I can still do everything I used to, that nothing's changed.” It sounded so pathetic when she said it, but he seemed to understand perfectly. Better than Sam did.

  “It's only changed temporarily. Can't he understand that? Even if you can't do it now, you will later.”

  “He's still too angry to see that.”

  “That's rough on you.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it.”

  “How's your little one holding up?”

  “She's doing okay. She gets worried when I'm sick, and I try to keep it away from her as much as possible. None of this is easy.”

  “You need good friends to help you through it,” he said warmly.

  “I'm lucky to have you.” She smiled at him. And the night before Thanksgiving, she gave him a hug and told him that she was thankful for him this year. They went downstairs together, and for an odd instant, she felt sad when she left him. She could be so honest and outspoken with him. While she sat throwing up next to him, she had come to rely on him, and on being able to tell him her feelings. Suddenly a four-day holiday without
talking to him seemed very lonely.

  And when she got home, she saw the turkey in the refrigerator, and thought of all the work she had to do the next day, making stuffing and yams, and popovers, and vegetables and mashed potatoes. And Sam always liked both pumpkin and mince pie, and Annabelle liked apple. And she had promised to make pureed chestnuts this year, and homemade cranberry sauce. It made her feel ill just thinking about it, but she knew that this year, more than any year, she really had to. She felt as though her relationship with Sam was resting on it, and how much she could prove to him that she could still do it.

  He had had his own tender partings at the office too. Daphne was going to Washington, D.C., that night to visit friends, and he felt an ache of loneliness when he took her to the train and watched her leave. He was getting more and more attached to her, and more and more unhappy whenever he didn't see her. It frightened him to know he would be alone with Alex for four days, but he acknowledged that maybe it would do them good. But as soon as he got home that night, he realized that it wasn't going to be easy to pretend that things were the way they always had been.

  She was lying on their bed with an ice pack on her head, and she had just thrown up, Annabelle told him.

  “Mommy's sick,” she said quietly, “will we still have turkey?”

  “Of course we will,” he reassured her, and put her to bed, and then came back to look at his wife, stretched out miserably on their bed. “Do you want to go to a restaurant tomorrow and just forget it?” he asked, with a tone of accusation.

  “Don't be silly,” Alex said, wishing they could forget the whole thing, but of course they couldn't. “I'll be fine.”

  “You don't look fine.” He was always torn between thinking she was exaggerating, and it was really psychological, and feeling sorry for her. It was hard for him to know what to think. “Can I get you anything? Ginger ale? Coke? Something to settle your stomach?” She was guzzling whole bottles of Maalox these days, but nothing helped her.