Pieces of Hate (9 page)

“Is she in remission?”

“No, no, it’s not remission. That takes time. First, the cancer stabilizes, it reaches a plateau. It just sort of . . . stops spreading. Then, over a period of time, it begins to diminish. But only over a period of time. A week, two weeks, three weeks, depending on the cancer, on the patient.” He sipped his coffee again. “It does not, however, simply . . . disappear. But for reasons I not only don’t understand but am not sure I even believe,” he chuckled nervously, shaking his head, “your sister’s cancer has vanished.”

Margaret emptied a packet of artificial sweetener into her non-dairy lightened coffee and stirred slowly. “Have you ever seen something like this before?” she asked, still trying to fight those giggles back, those delighted, childish, giddy giggles. She sipped her coffee.

“Well, something like this is really quite impossible, so it goes without saying that I’ve never seen it before. I just don’t understand why — ”

Margaret suddenly sprayed coffee as her giggles finally burst out into her cup.

“You okay?” Dr. Plummer asked her as she lowered her cup and grabbed a napkin from the dispenser on the table.

Margaret wiped her lips, still giggling.

“Is something wrong? Are you all right?”

She couldn’t stop giggling.

“Margaret?”

She alternated between giggling and coughing for a moment, then asked, “You mean, what’s happened to my sister has never happened before?” She pressed a fist over her mouth to stifle any further giggles.

“Not to my knowledge. In fact, just a few minutes ago, I consulted another doctor, one of my colleagues, another oncologist. I described the situation to him, the whole thing, and . . . he laughed at me. He was eating a candy bar, and he walked away, just laughing and chewing. Didn’t say a word. I’m either going to be the laughing stock of the medical profession or my name, as well as your sister’s, will be on the lips of medical students long after I’m dead. I’m not sure which. What do you think, Margaret?”

“What do I think?” she asked with an escaped giggle. “I’m in advertising, not medicine.”

“Yes, that may be. But I can’t help wondering . . .”

She was still smiling, but her giggling fit had passed for the time being. “Wondering? Wondering what?”

“Well, um . . .” He leaned back in his plastic orange chair and ran a finger-splayed hand through his hair as he sighed. “You know, when I was in medical school, it was just a given that every single professor, every one of those old graybearded doctors, had a Twilight Zone story to tell. That’s what we called them. Twilight Zone stories.”

“And exactly what were these Twilight Zone stories?”

He reached over to the bowl of cellophane wrapped crackers in the center of the table, tore one open and took a bite, chewing rapidly, like a squirrel.

“I had this one old doctor who told us — the class, I mean — about a guy who not only had advanced cancer of the liver, but also a gangrenous leg. He lived in the hills in an old cabin and had never had so much as a physical exam when this doctor got a hold of him. So, the guy’s not only going to lose his leg, he’s going to die. He goes to an evangelical revival. You know, one of those tent things? The preacher claimed to be a healer. Now, the next time the doctor sees this guy, the gangrene’s gone . . . and so is the cancer. Both of them, just gone. The doctor freaks and asks the guy what happened. When he tells the doctor about the preacher, the doctor immediately tries to reach this healer. But he’s already left town, and nobody knows where he’s going next. He never found the preacher, and he never understood how that hillbilly was cured so suddenly when he was not only going to lose a leg, but die soon as well. So. What do you make of that, Margaret?”

“You’re right. Sounds like a Twilight Zone episode. But what’s it got to do with Lynda’s cancer?”

“All I’m saying is that there are a lot of things out there that the most accomplished doctors don’t understand. Some of them deny those things, or just ignore them. Others want to satisfy their curiosity. That’s me. I’m curious.”

He sat there, silently chewing another bite of his cracker, staring at her. His eyes remained on hers, and he waited . . . for something.

The giggles returned. They came out of her like bubbles, even though she pressed her hand over her mouth tightly.

“I’m sorry, please just — ” She tried to bury the giggles with forced coughs, “ — just excuse me, I haven’t slept much and I’m — ” The coughs began to overcome the giggles, and she was finally able to speak clearly again. “ — I’m just feeling a little goofy from traveling and not sleeping, that’s all.”

A few stray giggles found their way out, but she pressed her lips together tightly and forced them out her nose, muffling them.

He didn’t move for a long moment, just watched her, studied her, almost if Margaret were a patient. Then he leaned forward and folded his arms on the table.

“Are you sure that’s all it is?” he asked quietly. “I mean, could there be something about Lynda . . . something from her past, her childhood, maybe . . . that I don’t know about? Something you could share with me?”

“Well, let’s see.” She belched up a few more renegade giggles. “I can tell you that, when she was a kid, Lynda was a cruel bitch. But we’ve decided to put that behind us now. Don’t you think that’s good?”

“Yes, I think that’s wise. But what I was referring to was something a little more, how should I put this? Um . . . something about your sister that you might have kept . . . secret?” He looked embarrassed as he spoke.

She let a few more giggles slip by before saying, “You mean all those bodies she’d buried in the basement’s dirt floor?” Then she laughed loudly, bowing her head and covering her mouth again as her shoulders quaked silently.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Margaret?”

She nodded without looking up. Then, she lifted her head slowly, in control again, and said, “Dr. Plummer, I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s nothing weird about my sister, if that’s what you’re asking. She’s never been psychic or telekinetic. She got through her entire senior prom without killing a single person with her mind, as far as I know.”

“Then maybe I’m asking about the wrong person.”

“What do you mean?”

“You seem to be doing an awful lot of giggling.”

“Yeah, well — ” She shrugged one shoulder. “I’m a giggler.”

Dr. Plummer leaned forward a little further, locking his fingers together beneath his chest. He smiled at her and said very quietly. “Maybe there’s something you’d like to tell me, Margaret?”

She stared at him for a long moment, no longer feeling the urge to giggle or laugh. She realized then that she wanted to tell somebody. But she couldn’t believe that her story would be met with anything besides laughter.

Almost as if reading her mind, Dr. Plummer said, “I’ve already told you how curious I am. Something has happened to your sister that is so far beyond explanation . . . well, I didn’t even see its dust. So, now that you know I’m open-minded and willing to listen . . . is there something you’d like to me?”

She adjusted her position in the chair, sipped her coffee, patted her hair, rubbed an eye with a knuckle, all nervous gestures to buy time as she mustered her courage. Finally, she said, “Yes, actually there is something I’d like to tell you. As long as you promise me that, once you hear my story, you won’t try to have me put in some ward in the bowels of the hospital with lots of locks on the doors and bars on the windows.”

He laughed, leaning back a little. “Not at all. We don’t even have bowels in this hospital. I promise you that — ”

Dr. Plummer beeped three times, sharply.

“Damn,” he muttered, leaning back in his chair and reaching under his white coat. When he pulled his hand out, it held a small black beeper, which spoke to him in a pinched female voice: “Dr. Plummer — 4-East, room four-fourteen, stat. 4-East, room four fourteen stat.”

He stood quickly, replacing the beeper beneath his white coat as he said, “I’m very sorry. I’ve got to go. I’ll be able to find you in Lynda’s room, right?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I want to finish this conversation. I want to hear your story.”

He turned and rushed out of the cafeteria.

Left alone at the table, Margaret sipped her coffee, giggled a few more times, then went to the vending machines to see what they had to offer.

If Lynda could get through that steak sandwich, then she’d be hungry again, and Margaret wanted to make sure there were plenty of goodies available . . .

15

“So, does he have the hots for you, or what?” Lynda asked. She was lying back on the upright bed, her knees drawn up, watching television. On the far side of the bed, on a rectangular wheeled table, was a crumpled, grease-stained bag, several wadded napkins, and an empty plastic cup with a straw sticking out of the lid.

Margaret walked into the room with an armload of junk food. “He just wanted to talk, so you can stop any match-making you had in mind right now.”

“What’s all that stuff?”

“Well . . . how was the steak sandwich?” She dumped everything onto the bed table.

“It was absolutely delicious!” Lynda said with a small growl of pleasure in her voice. “I loved it! And you know what? Nobody’s gonna believe this, especially Dr. Turner, but . . . I’m still hungry.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know. Something . . . sweet.”

Margaret began to look through the pile of stuff she’d brought with her. “Something sweet, huh? Well, I’ve got M&M’s, a Milky Way, a Hershey bar and a Nestle’s Crunch.”

Lynda grinned. “You did that for me?”

“Sure. I figured if you were hungry, I’d be heading down to the cafeteria sooner or later, anyway.”

“Hershey bar! Gimme, gimme!”

Lynda tore the wrapping from the bar.

Margaret had been thinking all the way back up to 4-East. Dr. Plummer had said that the cancer was gone. But did that mean it would stay gone? Not necessarily. She was determined to maintain as much physical contact with Lynda as possible until she was certain that the threat of death had passed.

“Aside from the candy,” Margaret said, “I brought two sub sandwiches, two bags of chips, two bagels with cream cheese and two Hostess fruit pies. All from cafeteria vending machines, so don’t expect a whole lot. You have no idea how people stared at me on the way back up here, my arms loaded with loose junk food and candy, like I was trying to find a place to sit down and binge, or something.”

“Sub sandwiches?” she asked after biting into the candy bar. “You brought sub sandwiches? Oh, you’re a Godsend! And potato chips? I can’t tell you how happy you’ve made me.”

“There’s just one thing. Before you get any of this other stuff, you have to agree to something.”

Lynda looked at Margaret through narrow eyes as she chewed slowly. “Are we going to be holding hands some more?”

“That’s right.”

“I’ll make you a deal,” Lynda said with a smile. “We’ll hold hands if you promise you’ll go to Daphne’s this afternoon and get a knock-out dress for the reunion.”

Margaret laughed and said, “You still want me to go to that damned thing?”

“If you don’t, I’ll be pissed. You’ve got a lot to show off. If I could go with you, I would, just to watch the reactions. So, do we have a deal?”

“Deal.”

“You’ll leave one hand free, won’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“So I can eat, whatta you think!”

Laughing, Margaret wrapped her right hand around Lynda’s left hand and nodded . . .

16

Dr. Plummer came into the room, hurried and distracted, as Lynda and Margaret clumsily lunched on cellophane-wrapped sub sandwiches with one hand, still holding hands with the other. He stayed only long enough to ask Lynda how she was feeling (“As if I have to ask,” he’d added), and to tell Margaret he’d try to see her later in the day. He reduced the drip on Lynda’s I.V., made a note on her chart, and told her she’d be rid of the needle and bag by that night if she still felt this good. On his way out of the room, Dr. Plummer stopped and looked at their locked hands. He glanced at Margaret briefly, curiously, then left.

As she’d promised, Margaret went into town that afternoon to buy a dress. She felt reluctant to leave Lynda, to let go of her hand, but she’d promised. Margaret decided she simply would not take very long so she could get back to Lynda’s bedside as soon as possible.

In Daphne’s, the store Lynda had recommended, Margaret was surprised to find how much she enjoyed trying on one outfit after another. More importantly, she was surprised by how much she enjoyed looking at herself in the mirror. While trying on the first dress, she was so stunned by her reflection that she couldn’t move from where she stood. She just stared silently at her reflection, wondering when she’d last looked so good . . . wondering if she’d ever looked so good.

“Is something wrong?” the young woman who’d been waiting on her asked as she came to Margaret’s side.

Without taking her frowning eyes from the mirror, Margaret asked haltingly, “How old . . . do you think I am?”