“So what do you think then?”
“About the clinic?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think much, really. I looked at the website a while back. I mean, it looks impressive with the testimonials and everything. But then I read some opinions on the forum about it and some piece on this Quackwatch website. It said there was very little scientific evidence to back Dr. Sladkovsky’s claims, and there was zero evidence that immuno-engineering worked.”
I had read that long, snarky Quackwatch piece she was referring to, which rambled on about peer review and Dr. Sladkovsky’s disregard for proper scientific method. I remembered being annoyed by the smugness and pedantry of the journalist, like one of those excruciating fanboys who picked plot holes in popular movies.
“I know, I know, I read that too. But maybe it will work. Maybe there is something in it. People—other children—do get better. I don’t think these people are lying in these testimonials.”
Anna shrugged, and the gesture infuriated me, like a stubborn child refusing to say sorry.
“Look, I just think it’s worth a try,” I said, my voice cracking. “What else can we do now?”
She looked at me disapprovingly—like Jackie Onassis in her big bug-eyed glasses.
“Do you not think that if I thought there was something in this that I would do it for Jack?”
“I know. I’m not saying that, I’m really not saying that...”
“And, regardless,” Anna said, “what about the money? It’s obscene to talk about such a thing, but have you seen how much the treatment costs? Even if we wanted to, how on earth would we pay for it?”
“We’ll find it,” I said, “we’ll scrape around. There’s always money.”
Anna sighed. “Where is this money, Rob? Where is it? I looked on the website, and the treatment can cost hundreds of thousands of pounds. I just don’t understand how you think we can pay for that. Scott is selling the company, Rob, he’s selling and I’m not working. So...so what? We won’t have any money coming in.”
“We’ll find it. I can ask Scott for a loan.”
“Jesus, Rob,” Anna said, snatching up her cloth and bucket. “Scott doesn’t have any money. He’s practically bankrupt.”
She walked back inside, and I followed her into the living room. “I’m sorry, I just can’t do this,” she said, sitting down on the sofa. “It makes me feel absolutely sick, like I just want to die, talking about the money. And if I thought the treatment would work, I would sell everything, the house, the car. Everything. I would beg, borrow and steal to get the money.”
Anna began to sob, and I put my arm around her. She felt cold, gaunt beneath her woolen sweater. “I know,” I said. “It’s horrible—just horrible—to have to discuss it. But I’m sure we could find a way, even if there’s just the tiniest chance that it would work...”
“Will you just shut up?” Anna shouted. “Did you actually read about the treatments at the clinic in Prague?” she said through gritted teeth, trying to keep her voice down so she wouldn’t wake Jack. “Did your friend Nev tell you about that? Because you know what, Rob, I’ve actually read the whole damn forum, and I know there are plenty of parents who have gone to Sladkovsky’s clinic and had entirely different experiences. Did you read their stories, as well? You should, because then you might start seeing Nev’s claims in a different light.”
“Nev’s claims? So you think Nev is lying about his son getting better? Look,” I said, thrusting the laptop under her nose. “This is an email from Nev. Read it. Three years in remission. Three years. Josh has just had another clean scan.”
“Can you please stop being so aggressive?”
I took a deep breath, tried to calm down. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to... I just want to show you how the treatment can work.”
“We don’t know if it worked.”
“What does that even mean? He had the same tumor as Jack—glioblastoma multiforme—and it’s gone. It’s gone, Anna.”
“Right. But how do we know it had anything to do with the clinic?” Anna said. “The science is just not there, Rob. They don’t publish their results from their clinical trials. It’s just people’s testimonies.”
“So you’re a scientist now, Anna? A medical expert. Doctors don’t always know everything, you know.”
“Goodness, you’re even starting to sound like Nev. If Nev is even real...”
“If he’s even real? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know, that’s just what some people have said on Hope’s Place. That maybe he’s paid by the clinic or something to recruit patients. How can you be so sure he’s who he says he is? He’s just a username, Rob.”
“Aha, I see. That all seems very elaborate. Quite the ruse.”
Anna shrugged. “Stranger things have happened, I suppose. Preying on desperate parents. It makes sense to me.”
“Look, look at this,” I said, scrolling through Nev’s emails until I found the pictures of Josh.
“What am I even supposed to be looking at?” she said, as I thrust the laptop under her nose.
“Nev’s son Josh.”
“I know, Rob, you told me before. He’s always posting pictures of him on the forum.”
I looked for a flicker of emotion in Anna’s face, but there was none. People said Anna was cold, people who didn’t know her. I remembered her bedroom at college and how sparse it was. There were no fluffy cushions or corkboards with collages of friends at teenage parties. There was just a desk and a chair, and some thin hardback books on the shelf. Her bedspread was plain, a dull green.
Did it all come from her father? She never talked about it, but I knew she felt abandoned. She wouldn’t discuss his abrupt departure for Africa, the grandson he had never met. That’s just what he does, she said, and left it at that.
“Look,” I said, pulling up Nev’s last email. I clicked on the image file and it was Josh’s Minecraft creation. “It’s this Minecraft game. Josh made it for Jack.”
Anna looked
