Page 44 of The Scientist
I wanted to ask her something that had been on my mind but didn’t want to upset her before her appointment.
“What is it?” she asked, picking up on my hesitancy.
I knew she’d know if I was holding back, so I gave in and asked what I’d been wondering. “Does it ever bother you the way he died? I mean, did his addiction ever come between you or did you not know?”
I couldn’t believe we’d never talked about this before. We shared everything about our lives, but we often tiptoed around anything related to my father, especially about his death.
“I knew,” she admitted. “He was pretty good at hiding it. Mostly because he never did drugs around you. He was always straight as an arrow when it came to you. I thought he kicked it completely after you were born.”
“But did it bother you?” I asked because she didn’t fully answer my question.
“Everyone has their demons.” She looked out toward the window like she was getting lost in her memories. “For a while after he died, I would lie awake at night wondering why we weren’t enough, why he didn’t love either of us enough to stop. But then I realized that was foolish. He showed me he loved me in so many ways, and I knew he hated that part of himself that felt pulled to his addiction. That terrible compulsion was a part of him, but it didn’t define him. He was an addict, but he was also all the wonderful things you remember—funny, compassionate, loving, and he had the kindest heart. He would take the shirt off his back for any stranger. He made me want to be a better person, and I loved him for who he was. All of him, good and bad.”
I could feel my emotions bubbling to the surface, lingering in my throat. We hadn’t talked about him in so long.
“That’s mostly what I’ve been thinking about… How the person I remember feels nothing like the kind of person who would abandon his family to get high.”
“It’s only natural to think about these things. You’re about the age he was when he passed. But he didn’t abandon us. He was sick and couldn’t find his way to a cure.”
That reminded me of what Lex had told me—that it was truly an illness of the brain.
“Don’t let it darken your memories of him. He was every bit the wonderful man you remember. And there was no one he loved more than you.”
And it still wasn’t enough, I thought. I didn’t want to say it out loud and upset her, so I did something I rarely ever did—I lied to my mom.
“You’re right. Thanks, Mom.”
She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes, which gave me the distinct feeling that she knew I was placating her.
“We better get going,” I said. “We don’t want to be late.”
“Sure. Let me grab all that paperwork you’ve been fussing about.”
When she came back with the thick manila envelope full of all her bloodwork, scans, and doctor’s notes, we headed out the door.
Walking through the glass atrium of the cancer center, I looked around at the building that would be a fixture in our lives for the foreseeable future. It was a busy area, completely surrounded by windows, and had a glass ceiling that let in the sunlight, giving it a warm and inviting appearance. Even so, I didn’t think anyone could forget why they were here, no matter how pleasing the design.
We got into the elevators, pressing the button for the third floor. The doors opened to reveal a large room with individual suites sectioned off along the walls. Each suite contained a large recliner, a second chair for guests, and televisions at each station. There were several people already at various stations receiving their infusions.
An elderly woman greeted us as we walked up to the desk.“Can I help you?”
“Yes, I’m Gail Olivier. I’m here for my first treatment.”
“Yes, I’ve got your information right here. You’ll be at station nine, right over there.” She pointed to a suite in the corner of the room. “I’ll need your paperwork from the doctor, and I’ll also need you to fill out a few forms.”
“I’ll take care of that,” I said, giving the envelope to the desk clerk. “Mom, why don’t you go take a seat while I finish this up.”
“Alright,” she agreed, making her way over to suite nine. I finished filling out the forms, knowing my mom would have gotten me to do it anyway. She was way too impatient for that kind of stuff.
When I got to my mom’s suite, I noticed she had already managed to make friends with the people at station ten.
“Hadley, this is Mary and her husband Phil,” she told me as soon as I walked up.
“Nice to meet you.” I smiled at the elderly couple, both with graying hair. They appeared to be in their late 70s with Phil sitting close to Mary’s side, holding her hand.
“Mary has breast cancer just like me, Hadley. This is her thirdweek of treatment. She’s seeing a different doctor than me, though.”
Leave it to my mom to already know this woman’s life story in the five minutes I was gone. It used to embarrass me how forward she was with people, but I eventually embraced it when I realized she was willing to give as much as she took. She’d always been an open book and was surprised when anyone else wasn’t the same way.