"It's Poppy. She's been sick for a while, and now
they think she has cancer."
Dr. Rasmussen looked surprised. "I'm sorry to hear
that." But there was no sorrow in his voice.
"And it's a bad cancer. It's incredibly painful and
just about one hundred percent incurable."
"That's a pity." Again there was nothing but mild
surprise in his father's voice. And suddenly James
knew where
that
came from. It wasn't surprise that
Poppy was sick; it was surprise that James had made
a trip just to tell him this.
"Dad, if she's got this cancer, she's
dying.
Doesn't
that mean anything to you?"
Dr. Rasmussen steepled his fingers and stared into
the ruddy gloss of his mahogany
desk. He spoke
slowly and steadily. "James, we've been through this
before. You know that your mother and I are worried
about you getting too dose to Poppy. Too
. . . attached ...
to her."
James felt a surge of cold rage. "Like I got too
attached to Miss Emma?"
His father didn't blink. "Something like that."
James fought the pictures that wanted to form in
his mind. He couldn't think about Miss Emma now; he needed to be detached. That was the only way to
convince his father.
"Dad, what I'm trying to say is that I've known
Poppy just about all my life. She's useful to me."
"How? Not in the obvious way. You've never fed
on her, have you?"
James swallowed, feeling nauseated. Feed on
Poppy? Use her like that? Even the thought of it
made him sick.
"Dad, she's my friend," he said, abandoning any
pretense of objectivity. "I can't just watch her suffer.
I can't. I have to do something about it."
His father's face cleared. "I see."
James felt dizzy with astonished relief. "You
understand?"
"James, at times one can't help a certain feeling of . . .
compassion for humans. In general, I
wouldn't encourage it-but you
have
known Poppy
a long while. You feel pity for her suffering. If you
want to make that suffering shorter, then, yes, I
understand."
The relief crashed down around James. He stared at his father for a few seconds, then said softly,
"Mercy killing? I thought the Elders had put a ban
on deaths in this area."
"Just be reasonably discreet about it. As long as it
seems to be natural, we'll all look the other way.
There won't be any reason to call in the Elders."
There was a metallic taste in James's mouth. He
stood and laughed shortly. "Thanks, Dad. You've
really helped a lot."
His father didn't seem to hear the sarcasm. "Glad
to do it, James. By the way, how are things at the
apartments?"
"Fine," James said emptily.
"And at school?"
"School's over, Dad," James said, and let himself
out.
In the courtyard he leaned against an adobe wall
and stared at the splashing water of the fountain.
He was out of options. Out of hope. The laws of
the Night World said so.
If Poppy had the disease, she would die from it.
CHAPTER 4
Poppy was staring without appetite at a dinner tray of chicken nuggets and french fries when Dr. Franklin came in the room.
The tests were over. The CAT scan had been all
right, if claustrophobic, but the ERCP had been
awful. Poppy could still feel the ghost of the tube in
her throat every time she swallowed.
"You're leaving all this great hospital food," Dr. Franklin said with gentle humor. Poppy managed a smile for him.
He went on talking about innocuous things. He didn't say anything about the test results, and Poppy
had no idea when they were supposed to come in.
She was suspicious of Dr. Franklin, though. Some
thing about him, the gentle way he patted her foot
under the blanket or the shadows around his eyes ...
When he casually suggested that Poppy's mother
might want to "come for a little walk down the hall,"
Poppy's suspicion
crystallized.
He's going to tell her. He's got the results, but he
doesn't want me to know.
Her plan was made in the same instant. She yawned and said, "Go on, Mom; I'm a little bit
sleepy." Then she lay back and shut her eyes.
As soon as they were gone, she got off the bed. She
watched their retreating backs as they went down the hall into another doorway. Then, in her stocking feet,
she quietly followed them.
She was delayed for several minutes at the nursing station. "Just stretching my legs," she said to a nurse
who looked inquiringly at her, and she pretended to
be walking at random. When the nurse picked up a
clipboard and went into one of the patient's rooms, Poppy hurried on down the corridor.
The room at the end was the waiting room--she'd
seen it earlier. It had a TV and a complete kitchen
setup so relatives could hang out in comfort. The
door was ajar and Poppy approached it stealthily. She
could hear the low rumble of Dr. Franklin's voice,
but she couldn't hear what he was saying.
Very cautiously Poppy edged loser. She chanced
one look around the door.
She saw at once that there was no need for cau
tion. Everyone in that room was completely
occupied.
Dr. Franklin was sitting on one of the couches.
Beside him was an African-American woman with
glasses on a chain around her neck. She was wearing
the white coat of a doctor.
On the other couch was Poppy's stepfather, Cliff.
His normally perfect dark hair was slightly mussed,
his rock-steady jaw was working. He had his arm
around her mother. Dr. Franklin was talking to both
of them, his hand on her mother's shoulder.
And Poppy's mother was sobbing.
Poppy pulled back from the doorway.
Oh, my God. I've got it.
She'd never seen her mother cry before. Not when
Poppy's grandmother had died, not during the di
vorce from Poppy's father. Her mother's specialty was
coping with things; she was the best coper Poppy had
ever known.
But now ...
I've got it. I've definitely got it.
Still, maybe it wasn't so bad. Her mom was
shocked, okay, that was natural. But it didn't mean
that Poppy was going to
die
or anything. Poppy had
all of modem medicine on her side.
She kept telling herself this as she edged away
from the waiting room.
She didn't edge fast enough, though. Before she
got out of earshot, she heard her mother's voice,
raised in something like anguish.
"My baby. Oh, my little girl."
Poppy froze.
And then Cliff, loud and angry: "You're trying to
tell me there's
nothing?"
Poppy couldn't feel her own breathing. Against her will, she moved back to the door.
"Dr. Loftus is an oncologist; an expert on this sort
of cancer. She can explain better than I can," Dr.
Franklin
was saying.
Then a new voice came-the other doctor. At first
Poppy could only catch scattered phrases that didn't seem to
mean
anything: adenocarcinoma, splenic ve
nous occlusion, Stage Three. Medical jargon. Then
Dr. Loftus said, "To put it simply, the problem is that
the tumor has spread. It's spread to the liver and the
lymph nodes around the pancreas. That means it's
unresectable-we can't operate."
Cliff said, "But chemotherapy ..."
"We might try a combination of radiation and che
motherapy with something called 5-fluorouracil.
We've had some results with that. But I won't mis
lead you. At best it may improve her survival time by
a few weeks. At this point, we're looking at palliative
measures-ways to reduce her pain and improve the
quality
of the time she has left. Do you understand?"
Poppy could hear choking sobs from her mother, but she couldn't seem to move. She felt as if she
were listening to some play on the radio. As if it had
nothing to do with her.
Dr. Franklin said, "There are some research proto
cols right here in southern California. They're experi
menting with immunotherapy and cryogenic surgery.
Again, we're talking about palliation rather than a
cure-"
"Damn it!" Cliff's voice was explosive. "You're
talking about a
little girl! How
did this get to-to Stage
Three-without anybody noticing? This kid was
dancing all night two days ago."
"Mr. Hilgard, I'm sorry," Dr. Loftus said so softly
that Poppy could barely pick up the words. "This
kind of cancer is called a silent disease, because there
are very few symptoms until it's very far advanced. That's why the survival rate is so low. And I have to
tell you that Poppy is only the second teenager I've seen with this kind of tumor. Dr. Franklin made an extremely acute diagnosis when he decided to send
her in for testing."
"I should have known," Poppy's mother said in a
thick voice. "I should have made her come in sooner.
I should have-I should have-"
There was a banging sound. Poppy looked around
the door, forgetting to be inconspicuous. Her mother was hitting the Formica table over and over. Cliff was
trying to stop her.
Poppy reeled back.
Oh, God, I've got to get out of here. I can't see
this. I can't look at this.
She turned and walked back down the hall. Her
legs moved. Just like always. Amazing that they
still worked.
And everything around her was just like always.
The nursing station was still decorated for the Fourth
of July. Her suitcase was still on the padded window
seat in her room. The hardwood floor was still solid
underneath her.
Everything was the same-but how could it be?
How could the walls be still standing? How could the
TV be blaring in the next room?
I'm going to die, Poppy thought.
Strangely enough, she didn't feel frightened. What
she felt was vastly surprised. And the surprise kept
coming, over and over, with every thought being in
terrupted by those four words.
It's my fault because (I'm going to die) I didn't go
to the doctor's sooner.
Cliff said "damn" for me(I'm going to die). I didn't
know he liked me enough to swear.
Her mind was racing wildly.
Something
in
me, she thought. I'm going to die
because of something that's
inside
me, like that alien
in the movie. It's in me right now. Right now.
She put both hands to her stomach, then
pulled
up her T-shirt to stare at her abdomen. The skin was
smooth, unblemished. She didn't feel any pain.
But it's in there and I'm going to die because of it.
Die soon. I wonder how soon? I didn't hear them
talk about that.
I need James.
Poppy reached for the phone with a feeling that
her hand was detached from her body. She
dialed,
thinking
Please be there.