Page 7 of Riot Act
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “Her primary care giver,” the voice repeats. What was her name again? Alicia?
“Right. But…St. Augustus’? I don’t understand.”
“Meredith was admitted last week. I wanted to call you then, but your momma’s one stubborn woman. She wouldn’t hear of it. Now that her condition is worsening—”
“Wait. Stop.” I hold up a hand like she can see me fucking doing it. “Stop, stop, stop.STOP. Her condition? What are you talking about? Whatcondition?”
Again, the line goes silent. Crackles. I think the call’s been disconnected, but then Alicia says, “I see.” She’s lost that airy, floaty tone to her voice. Now she’s all business, her words clipped. “You’ll have to forgive me, Mr. Davis, but your mother swore she’d told you what was going on. Looks like she lied.”
My mother? Lie? Shocker. I can count on one hand how many times Meredith Davis has told me the unembellished truth. I bite the tip of my tongue until I taste blood. “Her condition?” I repeat.
“Right. Yes. It isnotmy place to be telling you this.” Alicia coughs. Or could be that she chokes on the information that should have come from my mother. “There’s no real way to soften the blow, so I’ll just come out and say it. Your mother’s been battling cancer for the past eight months.”
She pauses, the void of sound hanging in the air between us—me sitting in a bar in Corsica and her in some sterile, bleach-smelling room in New York—fizzing with awkward anticipation. She’s waiting for the shock. The horror. The tears. The disbelief and the bargaining.
No.
Oh god, no.
It’s not true.
It can’t be.
She’s so young.
So fit.
So healthy.
Why her?
She’s sogood.
She doesn’t deserve this.
“What kind?” I ask.
“Pardon?”
“Of cancer. What kind of cancer?”
The bartender, who was on his way over, gesturing to my empty bottle of beer, pivots and heads in the opposite direction.
“Leukemia. Her prognosis was good at first, but we’ve had a nightmare trying to find a match for a bone marrow transplant. And since you weren’t a ma—”
Alicia cuts herself off. Swears angrily under her breath.
The headache that’s been steadily thumping behind my eyes spreads like wildfire, rooting deep into my head, firing tendrils of pain down the back of my neck. “Finish…the…sentence.”
“Christ,” Alicia mutters. “She told the doctors you were tested at your local hospital and you weren’t a match.”
“And you’re in the habit of just letting your patients tell you this shit without checking to see if it’s true?” Wow.Soweird. In my head, my voice is high-pitched and full of rage. When it comes out of my mouth, it’s devastatingly calm.
Alicia makes excuses. Feeds me apologies. I’m deaf to all of it. I sit at the bar, so, so still, fending off a barrage of displaced thoughts.I wonder if Dash headed back to England for the break. Man, these shoes are uncomfortable. Where the hell is my burger? I need to get my eyes checked when I get home. My vision shouldnotbe this blurry.
“Are you hearing me? This is actually good news. If you haven’t been tested, there’s still a chance you could be a match!”
Poor Alicia’s so excited. She was all doom and gloom when I picked up the phone, but her sudden hope has me by the throat and it’s making my head spin. “I’m not getting tested.” I say it softly, but the statement rattles the windows and shakes the earth beneath my rickety bar stool; I’m the only one who feels the aftershock.
