The Way of Women (4 page)

Lissa took the nurse’s hand, and together they walked out the door.

“She’s a sharpie, that one.” Dr. Thomas smiled, but the smile faded again when he returned to the folder. “I wish I had better news for you.”

Mellie swallowed the invisible gravel that cluttered her throat.

“We can give Lissa more chemo, but that is nothing more than a palliative. We have had some success with a new procedure, but it is long and hard and still considered experimental.”

“And without it?” Harvey took Mellie’s hand in his.

“We’re buying time.”

“Do you do it here?”

“Yes, but there is a waiting list.”

“How does it work?”

“We have seven days of continuous radiation, followed by heavy doses of chemotherapy. We remove bone marrow from the patient and
then reintroduce it later into the body in the hope that it will overcome the damaged tissue and heal the body. Lissa would be in a sterile room for a month. You would be on the other side of the plastic sheets. You would be fully gowned and masked, even having to wear gloves and booties.”

“You mean I couldn’t touch her, hold her?” Mellie stared at the doctor as if he’d lost his mind.

He nodded. “Anything could start an infection, and her body would have no immunity to fight with.”

The silence in the room shrieked against Mellie’s ears. She fought the desire to clamp her hands over her ears, to run out of the room.

“And you would promise that this would work?”

“It has in other cases like this.”

“But not in all cases.” Harvey’s voice wore sorrow like a shroud.

“That’s right. I hate to ask this, but what kind of insurance do you have?”

“Teamsters.”

Mellie glanced at him.
But you said the insurance ran out
.

He must have sensed her scrutiny, but without looking at her, he took back her hand. And squeezed.

“We can check to see how their policy works on experimental procedures.”

“But what if …”

“We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it.” Dr. Thomas glanced from one parent to the other. “I just wish I had better news to give you.”

“When would this start?” Harvey cleared his throat.

“I want you to know that I’ve run this case by the best doctors in the field. They are pretty much recommending the same treatment.”

“And if this doesn’t work?”

“We’ll just pray that it does.” Dr. Thomas stood. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I know more.”

“Fine.” Harvey stood and reached to shake the doctor’s hand.

It’s not fine. Nothing may ever be fine again!
Mellie kept her scream inside and stood also. She could hear Lissa’s voice at the doorway.
Fine: a four-letter synonym for hell
.

A
rmy Corps of Engineer Captain Mitchell Ross hated going home. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy his family. He loved his two sons and was a fairly good father. He was a decent husband too, when he wasn’t cheating, which was much less often of late. His charming, very talented wife, Karen, had an exceptional sense of humor and an enormous capacity for forgiveness. His home, while unremarkable on the outside, was decorated with treasures from all over the world, collected from his various posts of duty.

The current problem lay with his latest love affair, the most insidious of his life. Her name was Helen, Mount St. Helens to be exact.

Ross had been posted to the Corps of Engineers Portland office when he’d made captain a year earlier. His chief responsibilities were the dams on the Columbia River, specifically the expansion of Bonneville Dam, thirty miles upriver from Portland, Oregon.

Hooked on danger, he climbed mountains. It made him feel in control, sure of his own strength, and if he slipped sometimes, the surge of
adrenaline beat any drug high available to man. With him life was always the thrill of the chase.

He’d been to the top of St. Helens before he even moved his family to their new post. The climb was strenuous but not dangerous. She was called the cream cone by climbers; a long walk with little rock work. On later climbs he had explored her more challenging faces.

Wednesday, March 27, had begun like any other, except he wasn’t running the hour ahead he had planned. And so with, “Sorry, no time for breakfast,” he kissed Karen goodbye as he flew out the door. The kiss he blew toward his eighteen-month-old son, perched on her hip, missed.

“Remember dinner with the Fromsbys,” Karen called after him.

“Right.”

“Not now!” Cars had already begun to line up as he approached the I-5 freeway. The bridge between Portland and Vancouver was up. Mitch, waiting for the tug to push two connected barges under the span, drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He adjusted his tie in the rearview mirror and caught sight of the frown lines between his eyebrows.

“Cool it, buster.” His self command had the desired effect. He slumped back in the seat, turned off the engine, and opened his briefcase.
Might as well make the best of the time
. The paperwork he was always behind on didn’t give a fig where he did it.

Half an hour later he handed his secretary the forms he had reviewed. “Sorry, I’m late, Carol. The bridge was up. My one day in the office this week, and that had to happen.”

“Don’t worry, it’s only eight o’clock. But the phone’s been going crazy.”
She handed him a sheaf of messages. “Most of those came in yesterday, and I couldn’t reach you. I numbered them by priority.” She checked her calendar. “You have a staff meeting at noon. I’ve ordered sandwiches.” She glanced up. “Anything else?”

“No.” He shook his head while grinning at her. “You’ve covered everything, as capably as usual. Thanks.”

The hours evaporated. At eleven thirty he called for another cup of coffee, relieved to be able to see his desk in between the dwindling stacks of triplicate forms. He rolled his head and neck around, trying to touch his ears to his shoulders. Desk work always tightened him up more than being on site.

The meeting touched on the possibilities of an eruption on St. Helens due to all the earthquake activity the last few days. Mitch felt himself come alive at the discussion, especially when the presenter said the seismograph reports were almost a continuous line because the tremors were so close together.

“But none of them are very strong?” Mitch knew only what he’d read in the newspaper the nights before.

“No, but they are coming closer to the surface. Something is happening under that peak, and if it goes like the ones in Japan, it could be disastrous.”

“But it could be nothing, too,” Mitch said.

“True. At this point we don’t know what will happen.” The older man rubbed a hand across his balding dome. “But I feel we should be prepared for the worst.”

Mitch tossed the reports on his desk when he returned to his cubicle. A morning shot he’d taken of The Lady graced one of the sand-colored
partition walls. Pink tinged, she greeted the sunrise with majestic nonchalance. He stared at the picture, trying to visualize what was going on beneath her.
God, I’ve got to get up there and soon
.

With a groan he settled back at his desk and picked up another report. The army would someday suffocate in paperwork. The intercom buzzed. “Phone call from Seattle. He says it is urgent.”

“Thanks.” Mitch pushed the button as he lifted the receiver. He leaned back in his chair, glad of the reprieve. “Ross, here.”

“She did what?” He slammed his heels back on the floor, his chair at immediate attention. “I know there’s been earthquake activity there the last few days.” He listened intently, all the while shaking his head. “Well, I’ll be … We have a real live, active volcano right here in our own backyard.” He dropped the handset in the cradle and called to his crew. “Get the radio. We’ve got ourselves a hot one.”

Radio reports throughout the afternoon reiterated what he’d heard. David Johnston, a geologist monitoring the situation from the base of St. Helens, said, “A vertical explosion could spew ash five to ten miles into the air. It’s not as precise as predicting the birth of a baby,” he continued. “It might not erupt in this episode, but it’s heating up. It could be minutes or months.”

The news announcer continued after signing Johnston off. “A mudflow estimated at up to two thousand feet in length is pouring down the northeast face of the 9,677-foot mountain, and gray-brown ash covers the snow all the way to the tree line.”

Mitch tried to picture the scene in his mind. But he had no frame of reference. He checked back to the commentator.

“Two crescent-shaped crevices have opened up from the new crater, extending through the wall of the ancient crater.”

Mitch knew of that crater. He had explored it several times, wondering at the power that could create both mountain and hole.

“Rapid snowmelt and mudflows appear to be the greatest threat,” the commentator continued. “Mudflows have been known to travel at sixty miles per hour on cushions of hot gas. They can cover tens of miles once unleashed. As a precaution, Pacific Power and Light will be lowering the levels in the reservoirs …”

Mitch knew all about that. Draining the water system was standard operating procedure. He shook his head. SOP. Standard Operating Procedure. What was SOP in this case when no one knew what was going to happen? So far there had been no reports of damage. The last eruption in 1857 had blown debris as far as Montana. Other team members from the office floated in and out, eager to discuss various possibilities.

He’d finally left the office at six, after forcing himself to clean up his entire backlog.

“And who knows,” concluded a different announcer, “how long this one might last? Are we at the beginning or the end?”

Good question
, Mitch thought. Hoping to pick up more coverage, he switched to another station on his car radio. He looked longingly at the planes parked at Pearson Airpark. But they’d said the airspace within ten miles and twenty thousand feet of the mountain was restricted. Besides, it would be too dark soon.
I’ll go up tomorrow
.

Blast
. He’d promised the boys a trip to the zoo if the weather was nice. But wasn’t a mountain erupting forty miles away more important than seeing the monkeys?

He shook his head. Not to kids it wasn’t.
Karen would kill me if I reneged now
.

S
he woke with a start.

Her mind searched the haze of the party the night before. Whose hand was this that groped her breast, even in sleep? The miasma of stale sheets and spilled booze stung her nose as she lifted the covers. With the stealth of an attacking savage, she slipped from the bed, picked up her clothing, and, through glazed eyes, found the bathroom.

With wisdom learned from similar mornings-after, she left the light off, both to keep from alerting the supine man in the bed and to keep from catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She knew only too well what she looked like at the moment. And that sight would remind her how far she’d fallen.

She dressed, made it out the door, and down the hall without detection.

Stiletto heels stabbed the concrete of a New York sidewalk. In rhythm with her steps, she lacerated herself for her actions.

Why?

Why the coke?

Why the men?

And the most important question of all:
Why live?

As the dawn chill penetrated her fog, she brushed drooping strands of hair from her eyes and the corner of her mouth. Early morning commuters trickled up from the subway. The smell of fresh coffee both enticed and repulsed her nauseous stomach. The celebrated face of the ’70s was coming alive again. But no one would recognize her; most never did, even when she looked her best. The face only showed itself to the eye of the camera.

The face she lived with every day had moved behind the camera. Now her name carried the distinction, Jennifer Elizabeth Stockton; better known in the current mags as J. E. Stockton, ex-model, current fashion photographer
extraordinaire
.