Stewart left the choice to me. All I needed to do was say yes and Randall’s debt would’ve been paid. But, damn! I’d done that once, as well as secured Val’s education. And what thanks did I receive? Marilyn and Randall played the perfect parents pretending to be the one helping their daughter through undergrad and medical school.
So when faced with the decision again, I decided to be the one to place the bet. After all, perhaps it was time I was the one to enjoy the exhilaration of gambling. Besides, there’d always been a part of me that doubted that the inability to pay a debt would truly result in a death. This wasn’t the Wild West, was it?
Two days after I placed that bet, I lost. Randall’s car drove off an embankment into high tide. The investigation showed an accelerator malfunction, which allowed my mother to receive the life insurance money. A significant portion went to paying off Randall’s debt; however, that still left her with more than enough to save and invest.
Marilyn Sound and I have only spoken occasionally since Randall’s funeral; however, according to Lisa and now Val, she still felt the right to approach me for money. I’m sure that if you asked her, she’d say she was entitled.
Stopping the tirade of thoughts, I looked at my watch. “I need to get home before Stewart wakes. He wasn’t pleasant this morning.”
Her expression mellowed. “Vikki, I’ve watched many patients go down the same road as Stewart. His diagnosis was especially difficult on him. It’s understandable. Statistically, he’s too young for the aggressive type of cancer he has. I’m sure that’s made it even more difficult for him. He’s a man who’s used to getting his way; nonetheless, neither his money nor standing could save him.
“What I’ve learned in my practice is that with a diagnosis like Stewart’s, he hasn’t just had to come to terms with dying. He’s also had to face loss of control. It doesn’t matter if someone is a seventy-year-old grandmother or the fifty-year-old CEO of Harrington Spas and Suites—it’s difficult.
“It isn’t uncommon for patients in his position to try to exert control in any way that they can. I’m sure that things like him wanting to know your whereabouts is annoying. But right now, it’s all he has.”
I remained stoic. There was no way I could let her know the ways he liked to exercise his control.
“In many ways,” she went on, “what happened to Randall was more humane than what’s happening to Stewart.”
Karma.
When I didn’t answer, she reached for my hand and continued, “I’ve also watched the spouses of those patients. I know this is hard on you. I wish you’d consider counseling. Grief and bereavement counseling doesn’t need to wait until he’s dead. You deserve support.”
I leaned over, gave her a hug, and said, “I know you’re busy, but I’ve loved getting together. Hopefully we can do it again, just the two of us, before you leave. Let me know your schedule, and we’ll work something out.”
“Sure thing, sis. Don’t worry about any of the foundation stuff. I’ve got the drugs all handled.”
I smiled, nodding my head, as I recalled a similar conversation a few years ago, one that proved very helpful.
“Val,” I asked, “what are those pellets used for? I mean, why would you have radioactive pellets in the first place?”
“They’re implanted into cancerous tumors, usually not permanently. However, when implanted, their radiation kills the cancerous cells.”
“Can they cause damage to the healthy cells?”
She shrugged. “When there are quickly multiplying deadly cells, that’s our number-one priority.”
“What if there weren’t?”
Her brow furrowed. “Then you wouldn’t implant them. Seriously, exposure to that level of radiation could result in the mutation of healthy cells. It would be just like Chernobyl on an individual scale.”
Val touched my shoulder. “Vik, think about it.”
My eyes opened wide. “Think about what?”
“The counseling. It’s all right to get it. You’re too young to be going through this. Facing the death of your spouse is hard. That’s why they have counselors. Sometimes it helps to talk to someone who isn’t as close to you.”
I shook my head. What I needed was for him to be dead. “Call me. Next time let’s talk about something a little less morbid.”
“Hey, I don’t use these drugs for morbid purposes. I use them for good. Remember that.”
I gave her one last hug. “Oh, I do.”
BEGRUDGINGLY, I SWEPT the screen of my phone. Though I refused to acknowledge the vibrations while with Val, I couldn’t help but notice the on-and-off-again motion coming from my purse. The icon for text messages practically jumped off the screen with the number eight flashing wildly. Eight fucking messages. I’d been gone from home for less than two hours. I continued reading: two were from my mother, two were from Brody, one was from the Harrington Society Clinic, and three were from Travis.
Touching Travis’ number was like ripping off a Band-Aid. If I did it fast, I could get it over with and move on to better things. A closed-lip grin came to my face. Wouldn’t my mother be pleased to know that I considered her a better evil?
Message 1: “MR. HARRINGTON WANTED ME TO REMIND YOU THAT HE EXPECTS YOU HOME UPON COMPLETION OF YOUR VISIT WITH YOUR SISTER.”
Really? My jaw clenched. From the first time I met Travis, he rubbed me the wrong way.
So when faced with the decision again, I decided to be the one to place the bet. After all, perhaps it was time I was the one to enjoy the exhilaration of gambling. Besides, there’d always been a part of me that doubted that the inability to pay a debt would truly result in a death. This wasn’t the Wild West, was it?
Two days after I placed that bet, I lost. Randall’s car drove off an embankment into high tide. The investigation showed an accelerator malfunction, which allowed my mother to receive the life insurance money. A significant portion went to paying off Randall’s debt; however, that still left her with more than enough to save and invest.
Marilyn Sound and I have only spoken occasionally since Randall’s funeral; however, according to Lisa and now Val, she still felt the right to approach me for money. I’m sure that if you asked her, she’d say she was entitled.
Stopping the tirade of thoughts, I looked at my watch. “I need to get home before Stewart wakes. He wasn’t pleasant this morning.”
Her expression mellowed. “Vikki, I’ve watched many patients go down the same road as Stewart. His diagnosis was especially difficult on him. It’s understandable. Statistically, he’s too young for the aggressive type of cancer he has. I’m sure that’s made it even more difficult for him. He’s a man who’s used to getting his way; nonetheless, neither his money nor standing could save him.
“What I’ve learned in my practice is that with a diagnosis like Stewart’s, he hasn’t just had to come to terms with dying. He’s also had to face loss of control. It doesn’t matter if someone is a seventy-year-old grandmother or the fifty-year-old CEO of Harrington Spas and Suites—it’s difficult.
“It isn’t uncommon for patients in his position to try to exert control in any way that they can. I’m sure that things like him wanting to know your whereabouts is annoying. But right now, it’s all he has.”
I remained stoic. There was no way I could let her know the ways he liked to exercise his control.
“In many ways,” she went on, “what happened to Randall was more humane than what’s happening to Stewart.”
Karma.
When I didn’t answer, she reached for my hand and continued, “I’ve also watched the spouses of those patients. I know this is hard on you. I wish you’d consider counseling. Grief and bereavement counseling doesn’t need to wait until he’s dead. You deserve support.”
I leaned over, gave her a hug, and said, “I know you’re busy, but I’ve loved getting together. Hopefully we can do it again, just the two of us, before you leave. Let me know your schedule, and we’ll work something out.”
“Sure thing, sis. Don’t worry about any of the foundation stuff. I’ve got the drugs all handled.”
I smiled, nodding my head, as I recalled a similar conversation a few years ago, one that proved very helpful.
“Val,” I asked, “what are those pellets used for? I mean, why would you have radioactive pellets in the first place?”
“They’re implanted into cancerous tumors, usually not permanently. However, when implanted, their radiation kills the cancerous cells.”
“Can they cause damage to the healthy cells?”
She shrugged. “When there are quickly multiplying deadly cells, that’s our number-one priority.”
“What if there weren’t?”
Her brow furrowed. “Then you wouldn’t implant them. Seriously, exposure to that level of radiation could result in the mutation of healthy cells. It would be just like Chernobyl on an individual scale.”
Val touched my shoulder. “Vik, think about it.”
My eyes opened wide. “Think about what?”
“The counseling. It’s all right to get it. You’re too young to be going through this. Facing the death of your spouse is hard. That’s why they have counselors. Sometimes it helps to talk to someone who isn’t as close to you.”
I shook my head. What I needed was for him to be dead. “Call me. Next time let’s talk about something a little less morbid.”
“Hey, I don’t use these drugs for morbid purposes. I use them for good. Remember that.”
I gave her one last hug. “Oh, I do.”
BEGRUDGINGLY, I SWEPT the screen of my phone. Though I refused to acknowledge the vibrations while with Val, I couldn’t help but notice the on-and-off-again motion coming from my purse. The icon for text messages practically jumped off the screen with the number eight flashing wildly. Eight fucking messages. I’d been gone from home for less than two hours. I continued reading: two were from my mother, two were from Brody, one was from the Harrington Society Clinic, and three were from Travis.
Touching Travis’ number was like ripping off a Band-Aid. If I did it fast, I could get it over with and move on to better things. A closed-lip grin came to my face. Wouldn’t my mother be pleased to know that I considered her a better evil?
Message 1: “MR. HARRINGTON WANTED ME TO REMIND YOU THAT HE EXPECTS YOU HOME UPON COMPLETION OF YOUR VISIT WITH YOUR SISTER.”
Really? My jaw clenched. From the first time I met Travis, he rubbed me the wrong way.
