“I’m sorry,” she said, touching my arm. “I don’t want to argue. I just think that all we can really do is enjoy our time together.”
“Enjoy,” I said, cutting her off. “How are we going to enjoy any of this? We’re just sitting around, doing fucking nothing.”
The muscles in Anna’s neck stiffened, and she put her wine on the side table. The glass rocked slightly on the mat. She picked up her book and left without saying a word.
* * *
I went to check on Jack, and he was sound asleep. I tucked the covers under his body, cocooning him, and put Little Teddy in the crook of his arm.
In our bedroom, I could hear the faint sound of water running, of Anna in the shower, so I went downstairs and poured myself a whiskey and stewed at my desk.
I logged in to Hope’s Place—now an almost hourly ritual—and there was a new thread at the top, already with pages and pages of posts. The son of one of the forum members had died and they were honoring him, replacing their profile pictures with his, a little boy, his face lopsided, as if he had suffered a stroke. He was courageous, they said, a warrior. Heaven had gained an angel.
I couldn’t read any more. They were just wasting time, with their sunset photos, their Thankful Thursdays and Welcoming Wednesdays, their ruminations about “gratitude” and “mindfulness.” Because all their talk of being “brave” and “blessed” was a delusion, a ruse, which sugarcoated the unpalatable truth that their children were dying and they were doing nothing to save their lives.
Then I remembered Nev. What was the name of his son again? I pulled up my email and found his note from a few months ago. Josh, that was it. His son had had glioblastoma and been treated at the clinic in Prague.
I read Nev’s email again and started researching the clinic and the doctor he had recommended. Dr. Sladkovsky’s website was sleek, easy to navigate, and I began reading about the clinic’s patented immuno-engineering treatment. Patients had their blood drawn and their T-cells reengineered with a vaccine. The blood was then injected back into their bodies. It was, according to Dr. Sladkovsky, beautifully simple. Just a case of enhancing the body’s natural immune system rather than destroying it with chemotherapy.
I started to watch video testimonies of patients who were treated at the clinic. Kirsty, twenty-three, had pancreatic cancer. They filmed her soon after she arrived. She looked hollow, her head wrapped in a scarf, a scaly red rash covering her neck and face. The voice of a solemn narrator said that under the standard of care for stage IV pancreatic cancer, she would die within six months.
And then we saw Kirsty again, now with a short crop of blond hair, sitting up in bed and talking to her father on Skype. She had good news, she said, her voice cracking, her eyes filling with tears. “It’s working,” she said, swallowing her sobs, “it’s working, Dad.” Then, Kirsty again, a few years later, whizzing around with a toddler on a roundabout, her husband in the background cradling a newborn infant.
I watched another, the mother of a boy, Ash, who had an advanced brain tumor. An American, she was filmed in her living room. The lighting was pale, and it was like a front room from the 1950s, pristine but unlived in, and I thought that the boy must have died. But then the filters changed, and it was as if Ash’s mother had been made over, like the before and after shots in a trashy weekly mag. And there was Ash, gorgeous little Ash, running around, looking older, healthier, not knowing or caring why he was being filmed because there were trees to climb and creeks to jump.
It was too good to be true. There would be a catch, a caveat, something that wasn’t obvious at first.
Subject: Re: Jack
Sent: Tue Nov 11, 2014 8:33 am
From: Rob
To: Nev
Dear Nev,
I don’t know if you’ll remember me but we were briefly in touch a couple of months ago.
I’m afraid we’ve had some bad news. Last time I wrote to you, Jack was doing well after his operation. Unfortunately, his tumor has come back in a more aggressive form. Jack now has a glioblastoma with additional seedling tumors throughout his brain. The doctors have said there is nothing they can do.
I have been reading about Dr. Sladkovsky’s clinic in Prague and I wondered if you could give me more information.
Also, and I hope you don’t mind, but can I ask exactly what treatments Josh had? Not just at Dr. Sladkovsky’s clinic but everything. And to be clear: Josh had grade 3 glioblastoma multiforme, right?
I hope that’s not being too intrusive. As I said, I have read your blog detailing Josh’s treatments but I want to be 100 percent sure I understand correctly.
Sorry to be writing to you out of the blue like this. I hope you understand.
Best Wishes,
Rob
box hill
mommy was away for the weekend with work so we took a day trip, out of london and into the countryside. it was amazing that day, jack, blazing hot, and we drove up the windy road to the top of box hill and then sat at the lookout point and ate sandwiches and jaffa cakes. i remember how you liked to nibble the chocolate, jack, and then scrape the jelly off with your teeth, just like daddy showed you. chocco first then jelly. chocco first then jelly.
15
We could only ignore the phone calls, the emails, the Facebook messages for so long. The people who just wanted to check in because they had heard Jack had been taken ill. The friends who offered to pop around, just for five minutes, to catch up on our news.
Anna suggested sending another email to all of our friends. That way, she said, they would leave us alone. I shrugged, said that I didn’t care either
