As we pulled up in front, the first thing I noticed was that it was not a complex. It wasn’t much more than a hundred-year-old white-washed wooden building two stories tall with a green-shingled roof and a cupola. I found out later it had once been a Catholic boys’ school, and it still had that stern, unhappy look about it. The threat that you might get your knuckles rapped with a ruler seemed to hang in the air. The building cowered on a wide mound with a concrete walkway dissecting the healthy green front lawn.
I want to tell you that it was pitch dark, and I didn’t see a thing until the whole horrific building was exposed by a craggy bolt of lightning, but it didn’t happen that way. It was a little after seven in the evening and since it was the middle of summer, it was completely light out. So the whole arrival seemed weirdly normal. Well, normal-ish.
Across the street was a shaggy patch of beach and view of Lake Michigan that seemed to go on forever. My mom had pulled up along the curb-less curb and parked. I noticed a couple of other cars parked farther down.
“Don’t they have a parking lot?”
“I don’t see one, do you?” She got out of the car and went around to the back and opened the cargo door.
I stayed in my seat sitting on the two folded-up bath towels. I’d been away from Chicago exactly half a day and already I missed narrow streets and concrete and confined, controlled landscaping. In the last hour, we’d seen more trees than I’d seen in the last two years.
Not that we didn’t have actual wooded areas out in the burbs. We did. It’s just that they only went on for a few blocks. Here and there. And they called them “green spaces.” Northern Michigan seemed to be nothing but “green spaces.” And I could see the huge “green space” behind the Institute. A stand of thirty to forty-foot tall trees sulked at the back of the property, wild and poorly behaved, like a lurking gang of resentful teenagers straight off the CW.
Our neighbors in Niles had the restraint to have one or maybe two trees on their lots. These people, these Michiganders, let trees and underbrush grow at will into a random, riotous sea of green. I missed the control and order of cities, of suburbs.
I missed parking lots.
I struggled out of the seat belt and, with more effort than I’d like to admit, pushed the car door open. I shuffled around to the back of the Rav-4. My mom had taken out the two bags she’d packed for me.
“It’s late. Do you think Dr. Harry will see us?” I asked.
“I’m sure he’s gone for the day.”
“Gone?” I blurted out. “Then why are we here? Why don’t we go to a hotel?” I really wanted to lay down and watch something on cable. I wondered if she’d booked herself into a hotel that had the Food Channel.
“Jake, you’re staying here. I’m staying at a bed and breakfast.”
“But—” Tears came to my eyes and I felt ridiculous. I was a nineteen-year-old man, or at least a semi-man, who couldn’t spend the night alone without his mother. How pathetic was that? But then I thought about the me I’d seen in the mirror at the rest area. I was going to die. I was going to die soon. Maybe even that night. And my mom was dropping me off. Leaving me. With strangers. I might die and never see her again. And she still had my phone. I might die and never get to text my dad back.
Suddenly, I was pissed off. I wanted to be at home. I wanted to spend some normal time with my mom, even though I doubted she’d be able to pull that off. I wanted to see my dad and my stepmom and I even wanted to see the steplings and the halflings. I wanted to die in my own life. Not in some strange research institute with bad landscaping.
“Jake. This is what we need to do to make you better.”
I looked at her and said something I should have said hours before. “I have a fever. It’s really high.”
FIVE
She didn’t believe me, which I guess should not have been a surprise. It was clear I didn’t want to stay there, and a fever might land me in a real hospital or at least sleeping on the sofa at her bed and breakfast so she could keep an eye on me. Standing on her tippy-toes she put a hand onto my forehead and left it there for only a moment.
“Okay. It does feel high. Very high.”
“Use the GPS on my phone. Find a hospital.” Of course, she had her own phone, but if she used mine, I might be able to get her to give it back.
Walking to the front of the car, she grabbed her purse off the front seat. She was digging through it when she got back to me. Abruptly she stopped, bit her lip, and said, “Jake, we’re here. All we need to do is go inside. Leave the bags. I’ll get them later.”
“But you said the doctor was gone?”
“I’m sure someone can help us.” She reached over, pulled my arm around her shoulders, and began to lead me up the front walk. I wanted to tell her I was really fine and I could walk on my own, but the reality was I couldn’t. I had to lean on her so I didn’t end up facedown on the sidewalk. It was all I could do not to sprawl out in the soft-looking grass. I wanted to lay down that bad.
“Sleep called to me, and so did its inhospitable cousin, death.” That thought made me giggle. It sounded Shakespearean. As though I was some poor tortured character rising up from the pile of dead people who littered Act Five, Scene Next to Last to utter my final words.
“What are you talking about?”
“Did I say that out loud?”
“Yes, you were talking about sleep and death.”
“I’m tired. It was just a thought scampering across my brain like a squirrel about to scoot up a tree.” I giggled again. My thoughts were getting weird, probably because they were scampering.
“I don’t think you’re getting enough oxygen to your brain,” she said, pushing the double doors open. Inside, a nurse sat at an enormous, antique mahogany reception desk. To one side was a wide arch, through which I glimpsed a ward with empty beds. To the other side, a couple of doors. Beyond the desk was a flight of stairs that led to a landing and, presumably, the second floor.
The nurse was in her late forties, with ashen hair tucked into a tight, torturous bun. She wore a dingy gray cardigan and a frown so sour I thought it must hurt.
“Are you the Margates?” she asked crisply. “We were expecting you hours—”
“He’s sick. Fever. Can you call the doctor?”
A floor-to-ceiling stained glass window dominated the landing, catching most of my attention as my mother haggled with the nurse. The window depicted Jesus Christ, draped in a sheet, the wound in his scrawny side clearly visible. He held a staff with some kind of banner or flag on it. We were not religious people, my mom and I, but even I knew it was the resurrection. Christ called back from the dead. He was an unhappy looking Christ, gray, gaunt. I had the funny thought that he looked like me. The me I’d seen at the rest stop. I saw my face floating over his and knew I was detaching, letting go of reality. I wasn’t sad about it. It wasn’t such a great reality, after all.
Even though I was still leaning on her, my mom seemed far away as she explained to the nurse what was going on with me. The explanation seemed to be taking a super long time.
I sped things along by fainting dead away.
SIX
No idea how long I was out. I came to on a vinyl-covered examining table. Someone had adjusted it so my head was elevated. I couldn’t see the rest of the room behind me or even any of the room. All I could see was a handsome man of about sixty hovering a few inches above me. His hair, which there was a lot of, was salt-and-pepper, though mainly salt. He wore a badly-trimmed beard and thick, smudged, black-framed glasses. His face was absolutely symmetrical, each feature perfectly formed and exactly the right size. He must have been incredibly good-looking when he was young, I thought. His faded beauty hung over him like a shroud.
Seeing I’d opened my eyes, he frowned. “You have a severe infection. I’m not sure where. I’m not sure it matters. We’ve put you on an antibiotic drip which is already helping you.” He stepped back, and I saw an intravenous line going into the back of my h
and.
“I have a Hickman line,” I said. “Why didn’t you—”
“Yes, I know. That could be the cause of your infection. We’ll be taking that out tomorrow or the next day.”
“Who are you?”
“Dr. Harry.”
“No. You’re not here.”
“I heard you were in trouble. I came back.”
“You have a silly name.” I didn’t exactly mean to say that, it just came out. Things in my head were still kind of wonky.
“I can assure you the silliness of my name was made apparent to me decades ago in grade school. And college. And medical school. And many times since.” There was no trace of humor in his voice. He studied a machine sitting slightly behind me and then readjusted a clip on my finger. “I don’t think you’re getting enough oxygen. Do you feel light-headed?”
“For the last five years.”
He stepped over to the door and opened it. “Miss Haggerty, could you get an oxygen setup from storage?”
As he did that, I had a moment to look around. Windows on one wall looked out at the front. It was darker now, but not so dark I couldn’t see my mom’s Rav-4 down at the curb-less curb. My bags were still sitting on the ground behind it. The opposite wall was lined with cabinets and a counter with a small sink. Next to the door was a mirror or mirrored cabinet, whichever. I could see my mom standing behind me. The look on her face was the one she got when I made her watch horror movies.
She caught me looking at her. “Just try to relax.” I could have said the same to her. “The antibiotic should improve things soon.”
Dr. Harry turned and said, “I think we should begin Jake’s treatment tonight.”
“Tonight?” I blurted. “But, I mean, when I’ve had chemo before the doctor’s wanted to make sure…um, I need to be healthy. Or, you know, healthi-er.”
“Perhaps it is better to wait until he’s stable,” my mother added.
“You’re assuming he’s going to become stable. I think that’s unlikely. If he dies tonight, then we’ve lost our chance.” It was the verbal equivalent of a bucket of cold water. Two actually. One for my mom and one for me. This was not the way doctors talked to us. Doctors talked about whether they were optimistic or not optimistic. They talked about percentiles and success rates. They didn’t say things like, “if he dies tonight.”
I was stunned for a moment, and I assumed my mother was, too. I couldn’t see her because she’d moved, but she was still somewhere behind me. Her silence meant she was taken aback. Finally, I heard her say, “Yes, all right. Go ahead.”
“Actually, it’s not up to you. Your son is of age, and he’s conscious. He needs to be the one making decisions about his health.”
Shit. Why did I have to be conscious? Dying was easier when you didn’t have to be the one making decisions. In fact, it was really easy if you weren’t even there. I kind of wanted to pass out again. Instead, I forced myself to focus on the dilemma at hand. The doctor wanted to give me something that might—though probably wouldn’t— save my life or might—and probably would—end my life.
On the one hand, I wasn’t sure it mattered either way. On the other hand, it mattered a whole lot to my mom who’d already decided I should take the treatment. If I said no, she’d spend whatever was left of my short life trying to convince me to take whatever the treatment turned out to be. And if I never took it and died, she’d blame herself for not convincing me. That left me without much choice. Or did it? It was my life. What did I want? Could it really save me? And did I want to do whatever I had to do to make that happen?
I don’t know whether he picked up on my dilemma or not, but Dr. Harry said to my mom, “It would be better if you’d wait outside.”
“No, it wouldn’t be. He’s my son. Jake, you want me here, don’t you?” My mom asked as she came around to face me. She looked so scared and worried I realized there was another hand I hadn’t even thought about. What if I took the treatment and it killed me? My mom had been pushing for me to do it. She might blame herself. Shit. Now I had a dilemma with three hands. Which might have been funny if they didn’t mostly end with me being dead.
“It’s okay, Mom. I can make the decision.”
“No, Jake you need me—”
“You should go check into your B&B. You don’t want to lose your room.”
“No! What if—?”
“Don’t fight with me. I’m sick, okay? The doctor just said the treatment will keep me alive.”
Actually, he’d only implied that, but he didn’t correct me the way most doctors would have. Instead, he took that as my agreement to take the treatment.
“I’ll go get everything we need. I’ll be back in a minute or two.”
When he was gone, I took my mom’s hand and said, “I want to do this. Whatever happens it’s on me.”
“I’m your mom. Whatever happens is on me. It’s always on me.”
“I don’t want you to blame yourself.”
“Then live. If you’re alive, there’s no reason to blame anyone.”
God she’s stubborn, I thought. At that particular moment I really hoped there was no such thing as guilt after death because she’d just saddled me with a ton of it. “Go check into your B&B. I promise not to die. How’s that?”
“I don’t know, Jake.”
“Go. Get some sleep. Come back in the morning.”
I don’t know why I wanted her to go so badly. I mean, I’d been pissed she was planning to leave me all alone. Even I could see I’d changed my mind pretty quick. But one thing I’d learned about being ill was that sometimes when a thing actually happened, you didn’t want what you thought you’d want. Now that it was entirely possible I was about to die, I wasn’t sure I wanted to do it in front of my mom. In fact, I sort of knew I didn’t want to do it in front of her.
I’d imagined my death all sorts of ways. Kind of like my life was some weird Syfy series with three or four different endings. And my mom was always there in my imagination. But so were a lot of other people. She wasn’t alone. We weren’t in some strange place, and I was leaving her with people who liked her, at least a little. People who’d take care of her. I’d never thought about dying with just her there. That seemed mean. Or rude. Or, I don’t know just wrong.
My mom took her phone out of her purse. “I’ll just call the B&B. Tell them I’m going to be late. That was a good idea, Jake.” She did that a lot. Pretended that her ideas were actually my ideas. She frowned at the phone. “I’m not getting service.”
I almost said she deserved that for taking my phone away. Instead, I said, “Just go there. Come back in the morning. I’ll be here. I promise.”
After a few deep breaths, she gave in, practically crawled onto the table so she could kiss me on the cheek, and hurried out of the room. I felt like I could read her mind. She was worried she’d never see me again. She had good reason to be.
SEVEN
Miss Haggerty and her tight, scary bun came into the room with an oxygen tank, miscellaneous tubes, and a mask. It took only a few moments to get me set up, but I was anxious the whole time. Until you get sick, you don’t spend much time thinking about how much you actually love oxygen, so let me just say, oxygen is freaking amazing. Taking a deep breath of oxygen after your body has been underperforming for hours and hours is better than any drug they sell on the streets. Not that I’ve tried many of those, but you get the drift. Oxygen is amazing and addictive.
“How is that?” she asked. “Is it comfortable?”
It wasn’t, but it never was at first. “It’s good.”
“We have cannulas, but Dr. Harry likes to start with the mask.”
“So this happens a lot? People come in and faint?”
“No.” I thought she might scold me for being inconsiderate. “You’re the first to try that trick. But we have others who go on and off oxygen.” Then she added, “I’ll be right outside if you need me.”
Her look told me it would be better if I didn’
t, though.
After a couple of minutes, my mind began to function better. Or, you know, just function. I was alone in a very odd place recommended on the Internet. I didn’t have my phone. I should have asked my mother to give it back but even if she had, it probably wouldn’t work since I had the same provider as my mom. If her reception sucked, so would mine.
And then Dr. Harry came back in carrying the kind of small bag you use for shaving stuff. He took out a single vial and held it up to the light. The fluid was clear. It could have been water. It could have been vodka. It could have been any one of the half dozen treatments that had already been tried on me. All my treatments had looked the same. Clear. When I’d been infused, as they called it, I’d seen other people get colorful chemo. Red or blue or yellow. I always wanted to do that sometime. Pick my chemo by color. I’d probably pick blue, although red had a certain appeal. The side effects were probably more dramatic.
Dr. Harry shut down the IV line and undid the bag of antibiotics dripping into me. I was a little concerned about that. I’d thought I’d be getting the treatment and the antibiotics. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had multiple medications dripped into me at once.
Lifting the mask off my face, I asked, “So, what is it you’re giving me? Does it have one of those names that sounds like a word but isn’t a word? Like Cluvada or Humidron or Loyaida?”
“This doesn’t have a name yet. We just call it Property Five.”
“What happened to properties one through four?”
“They didn’t work. That’s what science is. Trial and error.”
I thought to ask him how many people had been given Property Five, but to be honest, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. If it were under a hundred, I’d be taking my life into my hands. And if I was taking that kind of risk, I didn’t want to know it. Shit, I thought, look around. Look where you are. I didn’t think the place was big enough to hold a hundred participants. Dr. Harry hadn’t given Property Five to a hundred people. I’d be lucky if he’d given it to twenty.
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