A Hope for Emily
“Oh, I’m sorry, you don’t have to say…”
“I’m visiting my daughter.” It is a relief to say it. As much as I dread having to go through the halting, painful explanation of the where and why of my life, it never sat comfortably with me, not to tell Andrew about Emily. To pretend she doesn’t exist, even for a few moments.
“Your daughter? Oh, I thought…”
“I have a daughter.” I speak firmly now. “Her name is Emily. She’s six next month. She’s in the—the palliative care unit at Boston Children’s Hospital.”
Andrew’s face crumples, his shoulders slumping, the universal gesture of compassion. “Oh, Rachel…”
“But she’s not dying,” I say. Andrew looks understandably confused, and so I explain about her symptoms, her lack of diagnosis, her current condition. I’ve done this so much that it sounds like a soulless sales patter, and yet every detail rips through me, every time. It never stops hurting.
“Rachel, I… I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry…” He’s looking like a landed fish, mouth open and closing, and I’m used to it. I’m so used to it.
“Thank you,” I say. “It’s been hard.”
“I can’t even imagine…”
“No, you can’t,” I agree frankly. Andrew looks a little surprised by my bluntness, although of course he doesn’t disagree. “But I couldn’t either, before this all happened. And I wouldn’t have wanted to.”
“No.” His voice is quiet. “I don’t suppose anyone would.”
I take a sip of my coffee, savouring the vanilla-flavored sweetness, letting him absorb everything I’ve said. I know it takes a while. And I hope this won’t make things stilted and awkward between us, as it has for so many other people, even those I called my friends, Emily being laboriously acknowledged in every single conversation. I know I shouldn’t complain… you’ve got so much more to deal with… on and on and on. It annoyed me when they said it, when they so clearly felt they had to, and yet it would have been worse if they hadn’t.
“Actually,” I say after the silence has lengthened, “I’m looking into an experimental treatment for her.”
“You are?”
“Yes…” And so I talk some more, about the nerve stimulation, and then about Eva’s idea for crowdfunding. “We’re not friends or anything, and I don’t why she’s putting herself out there, considering my ex-husband’s position, but she is, and I’m seriously thinking about taking her up on her offer.”
“Yes, I can see that,” Andrew says. “I mean, why wouldn’t you?”
For some reason his words strike me; they clang through me like a bell, the reverberations rippling. Why wouldn’t you? It sounds so obvious, so elemental.
Why wouldn’t I?
“I’m worried about the publicity,” I say slowly. “You know how things can go crazy so quickly online… I’d hate to be caught up in that, and I know my ex-husband would, too.”
“Yes,” Andrew agreed, “but very few things go viral, in the grand scheme of the internet. I mean, think about how many things are posted or tweeted or whatever every day. Thousands. Millions.”
“Yes…”
“And why should it go viral? I mean, it’s not particularly controversial, is it?” He gives me a sad smile with a touch of whimsy. “An ill little girl seeking treatment?”
“It’s not that.” I realize I haven’t explained everything. “My ex-husband won’t agree to the treatment.”
Andrew is silent for a moment. “Would he stand in your way?” he asked finally. “If it got to a point where it was truly feasible financially?”
My heart tumbles in my chest. I feel as if I’m on my tiptoes, arms outstretched. Ready to fly… or fall. “I don’t know,” I admit. “I really don’t know how he’d take any of it. He won’t talk to me about it at all. I know he finds it painful, but… I want to have a conversation.”
Andrew takes a sip of his latte. “Putting up a page on a crowdfunding site doesn’t have to be this enormous deal. In most cases, it wouldn’t be. But it could be a start, an experiment, to see how it goes. See how you feel about it.” He pauses. “If you like, I could design a logo for you, for the page.” His eyebrows lift. “Only if you wanted, of course. Free of charge.”
“Thank you.” I am touched by his offer, but I am also overwhelmed. This is suddenly starting to feel real, as if it might actually happen, and I don’t know how I feel about that.
Andrew must see something of that in my face for he reaches over and touches my hand lightly. “I don’t mean to pressure you into anything. This has got to be your decision entirely, Rachel. I could understand why you would decide either way.”
I nod. Gulp a little. “If it was Jake,” I ask, feeling as if we’ve waded into deep, deep waters over a single coffee, “would you do it? Not just the crowdfunding thing… but the treatment?”
Andrew’s forehead crinkles as he gives my question his full consideration. “Yes, I would,” he says finally. “I think I’d do anything for Jake. Anything at all.” I nod, and he gives me an apologetic grimace. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that to sound…”