“But she’s a long way from out of the woods. The tumor was more invasive than we thought. ” He looked up at Joe. “The next few hours will tell us more. ”
THIRTY-ONE
CLAIRE WOKE UP IN RECOVERY FEELING GROGGY AND confused. A headache pounded behind her eyes. She was about to hit her call button and ask for an Advil when it struck her.
She was alive.
She tested her memory by counting to one hundred and trying to list all the towns she’d lived in as a child, but she’d only made it to Barstow when the first of the nurses came in. After that, she was poked and prodded and tested until she couldn’t think.
Her family took turns sitting with her. Two of her most vivid postsurgery memories were of Bobby, sitting by her bed, holding an ice pack to her head for hours at a time, and of her dad, feeding her ice chips when she got thirsty. Meghann had brought in Ali’s newest drawing; this one was three brightly colored stick figures standing by a river. In an uncertain scrawl across the bottom it read: I love you Momy.
By the second full postop day, Claire had become irritable. She hurt now; her body ached everywhere and the bruises on her forehead from the iron halo had begun to throb like hell. They wouldn’t give her much in the way of pain medication because they didn’t want to mask any surgical aftereffects.
“I feel like shit,” she said to Meghann, who sat in the chair by the window.
“You look like shit. ”
Claire managed to smile. “Again with the bedside manner. Do you think they’ll come soon?”
Meghann looked up from her book, which Claire noticed was upside down. “I’ll check again. ” Meg put the book down and stood up as the door opened.
Claire’s day-shift nurse, Dolores, walked into the room, smiling. She was pushing an empty wheelchair. “It’s time for your MRI. ”
Claire panicked. Suddenly she didn’t want to go, didn’t want to know. She felt better. That was good enough—
Meghann came to her side, squeezed her hand. The touch was enough to get Claire over the hump. “Okay, Dolores. Take me away. ”
When they rolled into the hallway, Bobby was there, waiting for them. “Is it time?”
It was Meghann who answered. “It is. ”
Bobby held Claire’s hand all the way to Nuclear Medicine. It took an act of will to leave them behind and go down that familiar white hallway alone.
A few minutes later, as she lay once again in the jackhammer coffin of the MRI, she visualized a clean, clear scan of her brain, saw it so clearly that by the time it was over, her temples were wet with tears.
Bobby, Meghann, and Dolores were waiting for her when she was finished.
Dolores helped Claire into the wheelchair, then positioned her slippered feet on the footrests. Back to the room they went.
After that, the waiting was unbearable. Meghann paced the small hospital room; Bobby squeezed Claire’s hand so tightly she lost all feeling in her fingers. Sam came in every few minutes.
Finally, Dolores returned. “The docs are ready for you, Claire. ”
Little things got Claire through the wheelchair ride without screaming—the warm pressure of Bobby’s hand on her shoulder, the easy patter of Dolores’s monologue, the way Meghann stayed close.
“Well. Here we are. ” Dolores stopped at the office door and knocked.
Someone called out, “Come in. ”
Dolores patted Claire’s shoulder. “We’re praying for you, sweetie. ”
“Thanks. ”
Meghann took control of the wheelchair and guided Claire into the office. There were several doctors in the room. Dr. Weissman was the first to speak. “Good morning, Claire. ”
“Good morning,” she answered, trying not to tense up. The men waited for Meghann to sit down. Finally they realized that she wasn’t going to.
Dr. Weissman clicked on the viewbox. There were Claire’s films. Her brain. She grabbed the wheels and rolled forward.