A Better Place to Be Page 4
“Cancer is an unpredictable disease; pancreatic cancer is among the most volatile of cancers. While Claire is making exceptional progress, the chances for a successful cure and total remission remain to be seen.”
John ignored the internal chill Kushmann’s words and pale blue stare sent through him. “They will be—the treatments will be successful! They must be!” he declared defiantly.
“Perhaps. But you must be ready in case the treatment is not.”
“If that happens, I’ll deal with it.”
The psychiatrist stared at him for several silent seconds before shifting in his chair. “How will you...deal?”
“I...If that time comes, I will know what to do.”
The doctor started to speak, stopped, and shook his head. “Very well, John. I understand your reluctance, but my advice—my very strong advice—is for you to prepare yourself just as a precaution. However, our time is up and Claire is due here in a few minutes. I will see you tomorrow.”
<><><>
Behind John, Claire came into the suite, her wheelchair pushed by Sylvie, the evening nurse who always took over for Stefan. “It’s cocktail time.”
Turning from the view of the mountains, he left the balcony and crossed the room to where she stood. He went to her, knelt, drew her gently into his arms, and kissed her. “Cocktail time it is.”
Cocktail time was their own play on words. For John, it would be a real cocktail, for Claire, her five o’clock ‘medical cocktail’. As part of their daily ritual, an attendant had come in with Claire’s ‘cocktail’, a platter of cheese, and a basket of soft bread. While Sylvia brought her to one of the chairs, John went to the bar and made himself a gin and tonic. Then he joined his wife in the living area, sitting in the chair across from her. The cheese and bread was on the coffee table within an arm’s reach from each of them.
Sylvie set a knit lap blanket across Claire’s knees. “I’ll be in the bedroom if you need me. Can I get either of you anything?”
They both declined.
When the bedroom door closed behind the nurse, John asked, “How was your session with Kushmann?”
“Good. Yours?”
He held back answering her, as her eyes searched his face. “Good. Drink up,” he said, lifting his glass in a toast. Claire did the same with her ochre colored liquid.
When she put the glass down, she sighed. “One more week and we go home.”
Later, as they lay in bed, John found sleep impossible. He slipped from beneath the covers, moving slowly and carefully so as not to disturb Claire, he left the bed, slipped on a robe, and went into the living room where he found Sylvie asleep on the chair.
He walked quietly past her, and out onto the balcony. The sting of cold air hit like a slap. He drew the cold air deep and, as he exhaled, stared up at the proliferation of stars in the Swiss sky.
“This will work! It has worked!”
<><><>
The week dragged interminably on while John counted the remaining days, then hours until they could leave and begin their lives anew. Beneath the slanting rays of the morning sun, Claire looked beautiful, her face animated.
It was eight-thirty on Friday morning of the first week in November. Their transport to the airport would arrive in a few minutes. Their flight was set for ten on the Von Lisder Clinic’s private jet. Their transportation to and from Switzerland was part of the clinic fees. He had used his laptop to file the medical instructions for Claire’s ongoing maintenance along with the special recipes for the four types of daily drinks she needed to have each day.
“Looking forward to tomorrow?” John asked.
She stroked his cheek, smiled warmly. “I am looking forward to sleeping in my own bed, to being in my own home, to having you to myself, without someone constantly hovering about us.”
Before John could respond, the clinic’s limousine pulled to a stop in front of the building. Stefan nodded to the attendant standing next to their luggage and turned to John. “We go.”
He pushed Claire’s wheelchair forward. The glass doors split apart to allow them their exit. The driver had the door open, and with Stefan’s help, he eased Claire into her seat. Claire grasped Stefan’s hand and looked up at him. “Thank you.”
Stefan held her hand for a moment before he nodded and turned to John while the attendant put the bags in the limo’s trunk. He extended his hand and John took it. The nurse’s grip was firm. Stefan leaned close to John, his lips inches from John’s ear. “Be strong for her, Mssr. Edghes, she needs you to be strong,” he whispered before releasing John’s hand.
Surprised by Stefan’s words, John stood still for several seconds, watching Stefan’s retreat to the clinic before walking around the car to where the driver waited at the open door. He glanced at his watch before getting into the car. With luck, they would be home by dinner time.
CHAPTER NINE
November
Returning home had been a hard jolt back to reality for both him and Claire. By the end of the first week, the adjustment from Switzerland to Long Island had been fairly smooth. He spent his days caring for Claire. His schedule was almost identical to Switzerland, except for the therapy sessions and blood cleansings. He made her the special cocktails from the formula and supplements they supplied for him, watched over her, and kept her on schedule. He spent every night in restless sleep, waking hourly to check on Claire. More than once, he found Claire in so deep a sleep he thought she wasn’t breathing, and had to put his ear to her chest to hear her heartbeat.
As the first week melded into the second, John noticed small changes in Claire. It wasn’t much at first, but by the end of the second week, the changes were noticeable. Although she never uttered a single word of complaint, the return of pain was unmistakable in her eyes, and more evident in her sleep, when she could not control her groans of pain whenever she shifted her body. No matter how soft or loud, they never failed to wake him. And with every nuance of her voice, his stomach twisted and all too soon, he found himself unable to deny what was happening.
On Sunday night, twenty days after their homecoming, John sat in the bedroom chair, unable to sleep for more than a quarter hour at a time.
Using the faint light seeping in from the hallway, he watched Claire and thought about Dr. Kushmann’s questions and his last words. ‘...My advice—my very strong advice—is for you to prepare yourself as a precaution.’
He shook his head and wiped tears from his cheeks.
For the three weeks since their return, he’d watched as little things changed: her renewed energy faded slowly away; the quality of her voice lessened; and, the strength of her hand, when she held his, was the weakest yet. But yesterday had been the first time he’d seen the flush of health, the rosy color, was gone from her cheeks, and her lips had turned pale and dry. Although he fought to deny what he witnessed on a day-to-day basis, he knew they were losing the fight.
Standing, John put on his robe, went into the living room, and then out the patio door and into the chill of the autumn night. The sky was magnificent, almost daunting in its cloudless dark glow of stars spread across the sky— bright spots woven into the tapestry of the universe.
The cold air affected him not, as he gazed upward, his eyes locked on a constellation he could not name. The beauty of what he saw amazed him. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, said, “Whatever powers that be, God or whatever or whomever the entity or energy is that created this vast universe, I beg you to hear me. I ask this not for me, it is for Claire, I beg you. Please help my wife. Take me in her place and help Claire overcome this terrible cancer. Help her to live. I will do whatever is asked of me, take me, save Claire, for I cannot, I will not live without her.”
He fell silent, the tears that began in the bedroom, continued to rain on his cheeks. The unrelenting anguish in his heart ripped through him with his every breath. “She is the world...she is my world,” he whispered. “I need her to survive.”
A few minutes later, John
went inside and lay down next to Claire. Her breathing was strained, but she slept. He scooped her to him, held her close, and as he felt her heart beating faintly against his chest, he fell asleep.
<><><>
December
The end of November into the start of December turned bitterly cold. Following Thanksgiving, the snowfall was constant, and the stores complained of the lack of holiday shoppers. Just before Christmas, the meteorologists predicted the worst winter in a decade, but inside the Edghes’ home, the coldness was not of the air, but of life.
By the end of December, Claire had worsened, and the cancer had spread throughout her body. She barely weighed eighty pounds, and her breathing was aided by the oxygen tube hissing a steady stream of O2 into her nostrils.
The hospice nurse sat on one side of the hospital bed, John on the other. A morphine drip kept her pain tolerable. Claire’s skin was a pale parchment, and almost translucent. Her lips were taut, cracked, and her tongue slipped out every few seconds to try and moisten them.
“J—Jo—“
He leaned close to her ear. “I’m here.”
“I can’t feel anything. I... I can’t stay much longer.”
He took her hand, pressed the back of it to his lips and kissed the cold skin. Then he pressed her skin to his forehead. “Fight my love...”
What little strength remained came in the form of her fingers tightening around his hand. “I can’t, John. You. Have. To. Let. Me. Go.”
Each word she spoke struck him like a nail driven deep into his body. “Claire, I—”
Her eyes widened. She grimaced and forced herself to her side and, disregarding the IV in her arm, grasped his shoulder and pulled herself to him. “I love you, never forget. You have made me the happiest of women. Hold me now, please, please hold me until I fall asleep.”
Frozen by her words, his heart pounded loudly in his ears while his mind threatened to shut down, John tore his eyes from hers and looked at the nurse. She nodded once, stood, and left the room. When the door closed, he forced himself to move, to obey Claire’s wishes.
He slid into the bed and drew Claire into his arms. He kissed her, feeling the dryness of her lips against his. He held her close to him, breathed in the remembered scent of her hair, and felt the slow and almost non-existent beating of her heart against his chest.
He kissed her cheek, stroked the back of her head with one hand while holding the other in the small of her back. He felt her hands on his back, pressing him closer. He whispered his love to her and his mind went blank.
Sometime later, he had no idea how long, he knew she was gone.
He clutched her to him, held back the sobs that did their best to explode from his mouth, and kissed her lips for the last time.
CHAPTER TEN
January 3rd, six days later.
He sat heavily in the club chair, the drink in his left hand sloshed to the rim of the glass but stayed inside. John exhaled loudly, thankful that everyone was finally gone, and he could be by himself.
His brother, Christopher, Chris’ wife, and their two kids had arrived on New Year’s Day and wouldn’t let him have a single minute alone, as they hovered wherever he was. But they had an early flight in the morning, so with goodbyes said, they’d finally left.
Now he was finally alone—more alone than he’d ever been in his life. Claire was gone. He’d buried her today, turning a half-dozen shovels of dirt onto the coffin before Chris had pulled him back so others could do the same.
Then they’d come home, and it seemed like everyone who’d either been at the funeral, or at the wake the day before, was in their small house...his small house. They’d stayed for hours, eating, drinking, and talking about Claire, telling their little vignettes and special moments with her.
He’d tried to listen, tried to smile, but found nothing within to help him do so. Instead, he made sure his glass was always full. And when Chris had tried to get him to slow down, he’d walked away from his brother. The ache in his heart battled with the emptiness in his head. He was lost and alone, and did not want anyone to be near him.
No one understood what happened to him—no one could. Claire was his life; she was the only person who had ever made him complete, who had loved him as had no other, and whom he loved—unconditionally—like no other. But Claire was gone now. He was alone. No matter what anyone said, no matter how often Father Mike reassured him that it would get better over time, he knew it wouldn’t. It couldn’t possibly, because Claire was gone. He wouldn’t see that glint in her eyes when he’d said something funny, or feel the softness of her breasts against his chest, taste the honey of her lips and the tenderness of her fingertips and hands.
She knew him better than anyone, and now no one would know him. He downed the gin in his glass, stood, and went into the kitchen, where he refilled the glass and looked around. Everything was neat and clean and in its proper place. Chris’ wife, Elaina had seen to that.
“But it’s not alright, is it?” he asked the image of Claire floating a few feet away.
“Everything is all right,” the image whispered. “I had to go, but everything is all right.”
“The hell it is! You’re gone and I’m alone.” He tried to turn away from her face. But no matter which direction he turned she stayed in front of him, her eyes locked on his, smiling and reaching toward him.
He jumped back, spilling half the gin on himself. He shook his head again, and Claire disappeared. He downed what was left in the glass and poured more gin. But as he raised it to his lips, Claire reappeared, her face taking on a disturbed, hurt look.
“Please stop. You don’t need to drink that.”
“Yes, I do,” he told the vision of what used to be his wife. “I need this because you left me. I need this because I don’t want to think!”
“Coward,” she shouted at him.
His eyes widened and something inside his mind cracked loudly, almost as if someone had just snapped a piece of wood in half. “Me? Who’s the coward? Who quit fighting? Who left me?” With that, he drew his arm back and threw the glass at Claire.
She disappeared in an explosion of glass and gin. John stood there, blinking at the liquid dripping from the cabinet to the counter. Then there was a stinging in his cheek and he touched the spot. A splinter of glass pricked his fingertip.
“Purrr...fekt,” he said, the word coming out slow and slurred. He fell to his knees, and covered his face with his hands.
<><><>
“I’m sorry, Mr. Edghes, but that is the balance in your account. Shall I call the manager?”
John looked at the bank clerk for several seconds before shaking his head. “Close out the account.”
Her eyes shifted to the monitor. He knew she was doing her best not to stare at him. He hadn’t shaved this week. His hands shook, and his mouth was dry. A few moments later, the bank cashier handed him six one hundred-dollar bills.
“The withdrawal will close the savings account.”
John nodded, turned, and left the bank, his last six hundred dollars in his pocket. A block later, he veered into the liquor store, went over to the selection of gin, and picked out three bottles of Botanical.
“Splurging?” the clerk asked when John handed him a hundred and waited while the clerk bagged the bottles and handed him four-dollar bills and two quarters.
John shrugged, pocketed the change, picked up the bag, and left. Outside, he paused, wondering where he’d left the car. Then he remembered he hadn’t been able to find his keys and walked to the small strip mall, a half mile from his house.
It took him ten minutes to get home. There, he put two bottles into the cabinet and opened the third. He poured himself a generous drink, added an ounce of tonic and went into the living room.
Turning on the TV, he dropped into the club chair and watched CNN flicker on. Halfway through his drink, and a story about terrorism in Greece, the doorbell rang. He looked through the peephole and saw the uniform. He opened the door e
xpecting to see a policeman. It took a moment to realize it wasn’t a cop, just a man in a blue police-looking uniform holding an envelope. “Yes?”
“Mr. Edghes? John R. Edghes?”
“Yes.”
“John R. Edghes, you are served.” The man handed John an envelope, turned, and walked away.
John stayed in the doorway until the process server drove away. Then he went back inside, tore open the envelope and read the notice of foreclosure. He had ninety-days to pay his mortgage or lose the house.
He put the notice on the kitchen table, went back to the living room, and sat down.
“Screw ’em.”
<><><>
A week after he received the foreclosure notice, a letter arrived from the New York Central Life Insurance Company. It was the notice that the check from Claire’s small insurance policy would be sent shortly, as instructed by the lawyer.
John shrugged. Ten thousand dollars wouldn’t do much. AmEx had already sent its final notice of collection for the almost five hundred thousand dollars he’d charged to his account in Europe. He’d been thankful he’d had the Platinum card without a credit limit.
John shrugged again. He decided to worry about it when the check got here. He poured three fingers of gin onto his empty glass and raised it toward Claire’s disapproving and now always hovering face.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
March.
The darkness was almost complete. The only light came from a few yellow shafts leeching around the edges of the tightly-pulled shade as the sun did its best to chase away the night. John barely noticed it was daytime. A newly opened bottle of gin sat on the small table next to the club chair he’d passed out in sometime during the night.
The headache, like a freight train tearing through a tunnel, raged with a wild abandon of its own. But he was used to this feeling. He was used to waking up in the chair, his mouth tasting as foul as a garbage can, while his eyes were on fire and his bowels churned deep inside. For John, it was well worth it, because he had at least four hours of not thinking about or seeing Claire floating around in the air. He looked at the table next to him. There was an empty bottle on its side and an almost full bottle next to it.