A Hope for Emily

p; “I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” I say, pointlessly, because it’s obvious that I’m not.

“No. I was just grabbing something to eat.” Self-conscious now, she moves into the little kitchen in the back of the house and grabs a cup of noodles. I look around the place, trying not to let it show in my face how depressing it all is. Bland, beige furniture that looks unloved and unlived in—a futon-like sofa, a medium-sized TV, a coffee table of fake wood. The living room doesn’t hold a single other thing—no books, no photos, no vases of flowers or little knickknacks that show a life that has been enjoyed rather than endured.

The kitchen is the same—white units, fake granite worktop, soulless. The only thing in it is a stack of unopened mail, mostly leaflets and junk.

“Did you want something?” Rachel asks, politely, and I realize she has no idea why I’m here. How could she? When we last spoke, I was reluctant at best.

“Yes, in a manner of speaking,” I say. I sound nervous, because I am, and I’m not even sure why. Am I afraid Rachel will scoff at me—or that she’ll agree? “I spoke to James.”

She pauses mid-noodle, giving me a searching look. “When?”

“A few weeks ago.”

A resigned shrug. “So it didn’t make a difference.”

“No. I’m sorry. He feels… quite strongly about it. Emily’s treatment, I mean.”

Her face twists and then she irons out her expression, like a hand smoothing out a crumpled piece of paper; the lines are still there. “So do I.”

“To be fair to James,” I say, my voice wavering a little, “he isn’t trying to be callous or unkind. He believes not allowing Emily to have this treatment is the best thing for her. I know he does.”

“And you came here to tell me that?” There is an edge to her voice, which I understand.

“No, no, I wouldn’t… that’s not why I’m here.” I can’t believe how nervous I am. I feel like pacing, but I stand still, smoothing my hands down the sides of my skirt. I’m still in my business clothes, and I wish I’d changed into something more comfortable. I already feel constricted enough.

“Why are you here then, Eva?” Rachel asks, her tone bordering on unfriendly.

“I… I want to help you.”

“Help me?”

“I can’t stop thinking about Emily,” I blurt. “About this treatment. I’ve been wondering if there is something I could do…”

Rachel stares at me. “You’ve done enough. Thank you for trying. I really do appreciate that.”

“But it doesn’t have to end here, Rachel.”

She sighs heavily as she half-collapses into the sofa, still holding her wretched little cup of fluorescent noodles as she tucks her legs up and twirls her fork. “Look, I know you mean well, so thank you for that. Really. But if I can’t get James to agree, there’s not much more I can do. I wish there was. I’ve thought about it so much. I’ve wanted…” She lets out a long, low breath. “I even spoke to a lawyer and I don’t think I can go down that route. All the money, publicity, the acrimony… none of it would benefit Emily, and I’d be spending all my energy and emotion and time on something other than her, and that’s not a sacrifice I’m prepared to make.” She gives me a smile that is fragile and brave and just about breaks my heart. “I’ve been reading a lot about music therapy with patients like Emily. How familiar music can access a certain part of their brain… I just hope Emily still likes Baby Einstein.” Her smile wobbles and slides off her face.

“But what if she could still have the treatment?” I ask. The words feel loaded, a grenade I am casually tossing in my hand like a tennis ball. “What if it could still happen?”

Rachel stares at me, baffled, wary. “What do you mean?”

“Will you tell me about the treatment? I mean, what it entails exactly?”

She still looks baffled, and as if she wants to refuse, because really, what am I doing here? Rachel doesn’t know. I’m not sure I do. This isn’t my business. How many times have I felt that? Been told it?

And yet somehow it still is.

“I told you about it,” she says finally. “It’s stimulation of the vagus nerve, with electrodes. Ideally, Emily would have the stimulation for thirty days, while the doctor—Dr. Rossi—closely monitored the results.”

“And this… James said it was in Italy?”

Rachel gives me a defiant look. “Yes. But Dr. Rossi is willing to waive his usual consultancy fee… there would be no cost for the treatment.”

“James said it would cost fifty thousand dollars for Emily to be there for one week.”

She frowns, resentment flashing in her eyes. “That is one estimate, and I think it’s a bit high. But yes, it would be expensive. The specialist travel is a big part of it, as well as the ongoing care Emily would need while in Italy… it would be a lot. I’m not pretending it wouldn’t.”