Hope - Levy, Marc (web ebook reader .TXT) 📗

radiologist told me that he wouldn’t be there to hold me by the foot. I did tell him I would keep my socks on and everything, but those radiologists are stubborn. I know you’re going to hate me for not telling you. I just wanted us to be normal for a while. I thought we would have more time. I’m so sorry for lying to you. I won’t do it again.”

“Ever again?”

“Ever again.”

“That makes us even.” Josh smiled.

“Not quite.” Hope frowned. “I was going to say the same, but coming from you, all things considered . . . we’re not quite even.”

“I should learn to be quiet when I have the upper hand.”

“Impossible. You never have the upper hand. Did you call my dad?”

“Yeah, as soon as I heard . . .”

“Okay, quick, make sure the door is locked. That guy is capable of jetting across the country and bursting in at any minute.”

“The doctors say they won’t be keeping you here too long. Just a few days, and then I’ll be taking you home.”

“In my state, ‘not too long’ is quite a poetic and subjective concept. Anyway, there’s no way I’m hanging around here. Breakfast through IV drip isn’t my thing. And besides, you said it yourself: my illness can’t define me. I don’t want to take up a bed when it could go to someone who really needs it. That’s not cool.”

“Agreed.”

“You see, Joshy, there comes a moment in times of sadness where the notion of dignity crops up. In fact, the idea of dignity is crucial. I’m way too mad at Bart to let anyone give more attention to that bastard than me.”

“I hear you.”

“Can you stop nodding along to everything I say? You’re going to have me thinking that brain cancer is contagious . . . I’m saying something really important about misfortune and dignity, here,” Hope sighed. “And let’s just skip all the bullshit about living life to its fullest because you never know how long you have left. I do know. A couple of weeks? I think that’s about right. When the body wants out, everything changes. That’s the whole point. So to all the preachers who set about lecturing you about karma, handing out life lessons like candy, I just want to say, screw you, in the kindest possible way. I don’t want anyone paying tribute to Bart, not now, and not afterward. Tributes are empty, pompous, hollow things that celebrate the dead when what we should really be celebrating is life.” Hope glanced at him. “You know what, I’m going to stop there. But our short-term plans are looking pretty simple. You take me home, and we’ll snuggle up with some good food. I mean, you should probably handle the cooking part; you know what I’m like. We can go for walks when I’m not too tired. And most important of all, we’ll pretend Bart doesn’t exist. And that will be my own little victory.”

“We’ll do whatever you want to do.”

“What I’m trying to say, Joshy, is that I don’t want any chemo, any radiotherapy, anything that could make me sicker, anything that gives Bart what he wants. If he wants me, he can come and take me standing up, not lying down. Is that clear?”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“Did you really think you could trick me that easily? If I’d said sure, that’s clear, you would have accused me of nodding along and having my own brain tumor.”

Hope mustered up every last drop of strength she had, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him deeply.

Hope left the hospital the following Saturday. Sam had arrived the day after the July Fourth celebrations (Hope wouldn’t let anyone use any other term to refer to her fainting episode) and had used his doctor status to get Hope released. He signed her discharge, and Josh took her home in the ambulance. Ten days after the “celebrations,” she began getting out of bed. Twelve days later, she was putting on makeup. On the fifteenth day, she could dress herself, and because it was a Sunday, she took the family out to browse the flea market. It was the kind of day you never forget.

Sam and Amelia had rented a small downtown apartment. Sam complained about how cramped it was and how noisy the neighbors were. Hope thought that her quiet, unassuming father had become pretty noisy himself. But every time her father complained, Hope actually thought she felt a little better.

One night, she invited him to dinner, father and daughter, just the two of them alone.

Sam drove her to her favorite Italian restaurant, where the décor was old-fashioned, but if you closed your eyes just a little, you could almost imagine yourself at a trattoria by the Venetian canals, the kind of place that only the locals would know about.

She chose a plate of spaghetti as brightly colored as an autumn forest, and Sam ordered the finest wine he found on the menu. They would share a little tipsiness to gild the moment.

Hope took his hand, forcing him to put the menu down and look her in the eyes.

“You were right,” she told him. “Specialists are more arrogant than pediatricians.”

“Absolutely! But to be honest with you, maybe we’re just luckier, what with our flus and chicken pox.”

“What are you talking about? I’ve heard about fatal cases of chicken pox, and the flu can kill too. I know you’re better than that, and I know you know too. I’ve always admired your work and the doctor you are. Anyway, a doctor’s strength doesn’t lie in their capacity to heal; that you can do that is pretty much a given considering all the years you spend studying. A great doctor is one who can convince patients of their own power to heal.”

“I can’t do that for you, Hope.” Sam dropped his gaze.

Hope poured him some more wine and topped off her own glass.

“When I was a kid, I was jealous of your patients. It felt like you cared