"Don't be silly,” said Tom uneasily. “You don't want to do that. Remember when you first moved up to Melbourne?” He remembered an unfortunate episode when an insistent new hairstylist had finally talked a resistant Carole into a bob, stick straight and barely shoulder-length, over which she had cried for the better part of two months until it started to grow out again. “Not that you wouldn't look good no matter what,” he added quickly, “it's just that..."
"Oh, don't worry;” she cut him off with annoyed impatience, “I'm not really going to do anything drastic."
"Good,” said Tom, in a voice of mock gravity. “You had me scared for a minute."
She waved her hand at him dismissively. “But I think I will go and try to get a little trim this afternoon."
"Okay, do you want me to go with you?"
"No, I can manage it all by myself,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Why don't you try to get some work done around here?” she added sarcastically.
"Oh, I'm sorry,” he responded in kind, “I thought that's what I've been doing for the last month and a half.” Tom walked away from her and out of the room. “I guess I was wrong,” he muttered under his breath, a bit miffed. He went downstairs to fix himself breakfast.
The telephone call came early that afternoon while Carole was still out.
"Hello?"
'Hello, Thomas? This is Dr. Michael."
"Oh, yes."
"Is Carole there?"
"No, she's out at the moment."
"Dr Roberts was called away for an emergency, but she asked me to call Carole.” Dr. Michael's infinitesimally short pause spoke volumes. “I have the results of the tests that were taken."
"Is there a problem, Dr. Michael?” Tom asked needlessly.
"I'm afraid there may be, Thomas. Carole has several tumors on one of her ovaries that Dr. Roberts took biopsies on. The biopsies show that they are malignant."
Tom was suddenly gripped by an overwhelming, smothering sensation. He felt like the very air around him was so heavy he could scarcely breathe, like someone who had taken a well-trained right hand directly to the solar plexus. But how could this be? The elixir works! I've seen the proof with my own eyes!“Are you sure, Dr. Michael?” Tom asked, desperately grasping.
"Thomas, I think that you and Carole should come down to the office as soon as you can, we'll discuss this then. Can you come in later today?"
"I-I don't know,” he stammered, purely out of instinct. I need time to get this under control. “I'll talk to Carole; maybe tomorrow, early?"
"That'd be fine. I get in tomorrow at ten and I'll see you right away, before my scheduled appointments."
"This can be treated, right?” Tom regretted asking this almost immediately. Again, Dr. Michael's slight hesitancy in answering said more than the answer itself.
"We'll discuss it all tomorrow.” After yet another pause pregnant with terrible meaning: “This can be very serious, Thomas. I'd like to get on it as soon as possible."
"I understand, Dr. Michael. Thank you."
Tom was now in the kitchen, frantically searching the cupboard. He soon located the little white tin with the hand-painted purple enamel flowers.Okay don't panic. After all, I know the elixir works! Carole probably needs to take more of it, that's all. I'll brew a pot of it right now, and she can start on it right away.
Tom took out the teapot and a teacup and saucer from the cabinet, then opened a drawer and took out a teaspoon and placed everything on the counter. Then he took the kettle, filled it up with water and placed in on the range, turning it on. He had barely brought the kettle of water to a boil before he heard Carole's Lincoln Navigator pulling into the driveway.
"Well?” she asked her husband as she burst excitedly into the kitchen. “Isn't it great? I finally found somebody else who really understands my hair,” she said cheerfully, her nervous, rather testy mood of a few hours earlier now seemingly just an odd aberration. “Didn't he do a terrific job? He even brought out my natural highlights somehow; doesn't it look like I had it highlighted?” She shook her head, playfully tossing around her still-long, layered locks. “But I didn't, it's all me!"
"Your hair looks beautiful, Carole."
"I know!"
Tom shook his head at the irony.Now I have to be the one to give her the bad news .
Carole now noticed her husband's uneasiness. “What's wrong, Hon?"
"Okay, now don't panic,” he said, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “I got a call from Dr. Michael just before you got home. He said that he had the results of some tests Dr. Roberts took."
"What? What is it?” asked Carole apprehensively, her exuberance dissipating like the air being let out of a balloon. Instinctively she pulled out a chair and sat down at the little eat-in-table in the kitchen. “What's wrong?"
"I don't see how anything can be wrong, actually,” said Tom as he sat down across from her. “I'm sure it's some mistake,” he added bravely, as if by uttering the word he could somehow will them to be true. “Did Dr. Roberts tell you anything about any ... growths ... or anything?"
The less-threatening euphemism could not soften the impact. Carole's face turned ashen; were her worst fears being confirmed? “Well, yes,” she began, in an anxious little voice, “she said there was something there, and she had to ... test it. I told you about that, that I was worried about that."
"You never told me they were testing for anything like that. Why didn't you say something?"
"Well, at first I didn't think anything of it, really. I mean, Ihave had problems there before, and I just assumed that whatever it was had to be benign, right?"
"I would think so,” said Tom, continuing his thought pattern. “I mean, I don't really understand ... not that anyone understands ... how this ... thing ... works, at least not for sure, but..."
"...But itdoes work. You've seen the proof! We both have, really."
"Of course it does. That's why it has to be a mistake.” He realized that he had to say it. “Dr. Michael said that you have some tumors and that they were...” he just couldn't say the word, “...not benign."
"I see,” said Carole. Her wavering voice now betrayed the fear and uncertainty that were beginning to overwhelm her. “So he says I have cancer."
"Yes. He wants to see us as soon as possible. I told him we'd be there tomorrow morning at ten."
She was unable to keep it up any longer. “I knew something was wrong, Tom!” she cried out, her voice starting to crack. “I just knew it!"
"We don't know that yet, not for sure."
"I do!” The muscles in her face began twitching involuntarily and her beautiful brown eyes began to fill with tears. “I could tell by the way Dr. Roberts looked at me that she knew there was something very, very wrong with me!” She began sobbing fitfully.
"Come on now,” said Tom soothingly. He got up and hugged his wife from behind, trying at once to comfort her and to control his own emotions. “Come on, whatever this is, we can deal with it,” he said to her, alternately patting her back and rubbing her shoulders. Suddenly he remembered. “The tea!” he blurted out, letting go of her and stepping over to the kitchen counter. He picked up the little canister containing Lucinda's herbal tea and pried open the top lid with the back of the teaspoon. Then he began to carefully measure it out into the teapot. “What...” He noticed that the canister was only half full. He turned to Carole.
"Where did all of the tea go?"
"I've been drinking it, I guess,” she said, between sobs. “I told you ... I haven't been feeling right since I saw Dr. Roberts the other day ... I just thought...” she shrugged helplessly.
"Okay, that was the probably the right thing to do.” He poured the water into the pot, and set the little electronic timer that was magnetically attached to the front of the refrigerator for four minutes. “You probably just needed more of it to begin with.” He stepped over to Carole and once again embraced her, patting and rubbing her intermittently until she had finally calmed down. “Don't
worry; everything is going to be all right.” He gently kissed her on top of her head. “I'll have to go up to Barnstable and get some more of this tea, that's all."
"It must not be working, Tom,” Carole said, shaking her head. “Lucinda said that sometimes it just doesn't work."
"It's working,” Tom insisted. The timer sounded. Tom turned it off; then he poured the cup for Carole. “Here, drink this.” He placed it in front of her on the table and then sat down.
"Maybe it just doesn't work for some kinds of cancers. It didn't work for her husband or her son, or for Ed Wilson's wife, did it?"
"Lucinda said that was because it was old. This supply is new. Don't you remember?"
"I remember that's what she said, but who knows? How can we ever know for sure?” Carole brought up the hot liquid to her lips and took a small sip. Then she seemed to remember something else. “Tom, do you still have that mirror?"
Of course—the mirror!Tom got up from the table and went upstairs to their bedroom to retrieve it.
He had naturally been intrigued when Lucinda had first given it to him, but lately had not really thought much about it, and had just thrown it into the drawer that he used to store seldom-used items. He quickly located it and gazed into it. Sure enough, it still rendered his image just as it had in Lucinda's house that first night, the same greenish-gold glow seeming to emanate from him. Well, there's nothing wrong with me, at least. He fairly raced out of the room and down the stairs back to Carole in the kitchen.
"Do you have it?” she asked him gravely.
Tom said nothing, his hands shaking as he handed the mirror to her. Carole took it by the handle and held it with the reflective side facing down, as though afraid to look. Tom gently put a reassuring hand on her shoulder and positioned himself behind her, leaning in so that he too could see her reflection. Finally, after an interminable pause, Carole turned the minor around and beheld herself.
"Oh!” She let out a weak gasp.
Tom was stunned. Staring back at his wife was a woman he could barely recognize: deep, dark circles around her sunken eyes ... sickly, sallow skin, lined and sagging ... thin, lifeless hair, badly damaged, that had obviously been shorn well short of her shoulders. Hers was the very face of disease itself.
Carole gazed into the mirror for a good minute, utterly transfixed by the ghastly countenance. “Who is this?” She shrieked. “This can't be me!” She moved her head slightly from side to side and up and down, the image moving with her in perfect synchronization. The bright glow that had surrounded her image when she had looked into this minor for the first time, in Lucinda's bedroom, was no longer present; in its place was a dim, razor-thin shadow that appeared only sporadically for a split second at a time before vanishing completely.
Tom recalled Lucinda's words: “what you are seeing is your aura, the life-force that is inside each of us."
Carole apparently was now struck by the same terrible realization. She turned away from the mirror and lay it face down on the table. “It's true, then,” she murmured quietly. “I guess that's what I look like on the inside.” She swallowed hard, trying to hold herself together. “I must really be very sick, Tom."
Tom picked up the mirror and looked at himself. Indeed, his appearance was exactly the same as it was before: slightly distorted but unmistakably recognizable, surrounded by the strong greenish-gold glow. Slowly he turned the mirror towards Carole to catch her reflection. Again, the reflected image was one of a deathly-ill woman who only vaguely resembled his wife, without the distinctive glow surrounding it.There must be some mistake! This just doesn't make any sense at all!
"All right,” Tom said finally, “maybe the doctors are right, and there is something going on with you. That doesn't necessarily mean that the elixir doesn't work. You'll just have to keep drinking the tea and checking yourself in this mirror, until you look healthy again."
"What if I never do?"
"You will, I know it."
"What about my doctors? Dr. Michael didn't believe anything about the tea; he just thought it was all crazy. What do you think he's going to do?” She shook her head. After a short pause, she answered herself, “He'll probably say that I need an operation, and then, I guess, some ... therapy ... of some kind.” She shuddered, obviously contemplating a course of treatment often as bad as the disease itself.
"Come on, Carole,” said Tom, trying to reassure her. “Let's not get ahead of ourselves. We'll go see him tomorrow, and listen to what he has to say. Right now, I think I should talk to Lucinda.” Tom walked over to the telephone mounted on the wall here in the kitchen. “If she's still alive,” he muttered, as he dialed the number.
"Hello.” She answered after the very first ring.
Tom identified himself
"Tom, how have you been?!"
He was taken aback somewhat by the surprising vibrancy of her distinctive voice. It had been six weeks since he had last seen her in the graveyard of the old Anglican church up in Barnstable, looking worse, he imagined, than some of its inhabitants. “I've been fine. I'm calling about Carole.” He got right to the point and explained the situation as best as he could.
Lucinda listened patiently; finally, when he had finished: “I think you should come up here and see me right away."
"You can help us, then?"
"I believe I can. I'll be expecting you sometime this evening."
Tom glanced at the clock on the opposite wall. It was still early in the afternoon. “Fine, Carole and I will leave in a bit."
"That won't be necessary.” She paused. “I don't need to see Carole."
Tom protested: “Don't you think that you should take a look at her..."
"I don't need to see Carole, just you. I'll see you in a little while, Tom.” She hung up.
"What did she say?"
"She thinks she can help us. She wants to see me alone."
"Why?"
"She didn't say.” He sighed wearily. “She has always been a mystery."
"To say the least."
"I'm sorry, Carole, all this is probably my fault.” Tom shook his head ruefully. “I'm the one who brought you up there to begin with."
"You didn't make me sick, Tom,” said Carole with a shrug. “I was sick before I ever met you,” she added with a sad little smile.
"I know. It's just that ... I don't know, from the time I first met you ... and found out you were sick ... I always thought that once I got you back up North, got you to see my doctors, they'd be able to do something for your RSD."
"I guessthat turned out to be the least of my problems."
Tom put his arms around his wife. “We'll get through it, Carole. We'll get through it."
"Youwill."
"Wewill."
"I don't know.” Carole shook her head miserably. “Maybe I will, maybe..."
Tom kissed her before she could say anymore; then, he kissed her again, with a desperate, urgent affection. They held one another very close for a good two minutes.
"Well,” said Tom finally, with grim determination, “I suppose I should be off."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The drive from Long Island up to Cape Cod normally took Tom a bit over four hours. Today, speeding with a tenuously-controlled urgency, he made it to Lucinda Hobson's house in Barnstable in a little more than three and a half, and by seven o'clock he was pulling through her gate, parking in front of the garage Ed Wilson had built.
Autumn had come early to New England this year and by now had completely asserted itself. It had been a beautiful sunny day down on Long Island, and the weather had seemed nice enough for much of the trip, but here it was bleak and dreary, and quite a bit cooler. Tom felt the difference immediately as he got out of the car. He usually found cool weather invigorating, but this was actually cold, an intermittent breeze piercing him to the bone with a distinct chill, the air pregnant with an uncomfortable, raw dampness. Feels likes it's going to start pouring any minute now, he thought glumly. I wonder what the drive ba
ck to New York will be like. Although he was basically a good driver, Tom didn't particularly relish highway driving, especially not at night and most especially not in the rain. He shook his head disapprovingly at himself. Can't worry about everything. Let's concentrate on this first.
Tom approached the house with definite trepidation, unsure of what to expect. He had, of course, spoken to Lucinda only a short time earlier, and she had seemed normal enough, but still....
Now he was at the front door, and he rapped the large brass knocker. He could hear Sammy mewing inside, but there was no answer. He waited a few moments and then knocked again, a bit more forcefully. Sammy continued to mew, but no one answered the door. Tom was in the middle of his third series of knocks when suddenly the door swung open.
TFRoot - The Elixer Page 18