Claire was so thankful she almost forgot the headache that had steadily increased as she lay in the machine.
In the hallway, Meghann looked angry. “What happened? They said it would take an hour.”
“And it did, once they corraled a doctor.”
“Shitheads.”
Claire laughed. Already she felt better with that behind her. “They certainly teach you lawyers to be precise with your language.”
“You don’t want to hear precisely what I think of this place.”
They followed the nurse to another exam room.
“Should I get dressed?” Claire asked.
“Not yet. The doctor will be here soon.”
“I’ll bet,” Meghann said under her breath.
Thirty minutes later, the nurse was back. “The doctor has ordered another test. An MRI. Follow me.”
“What’s an MRI?” Claire asked, feeling anxious again.
“Magnetic resonance imaging. It’s a clearer picture of what’s going on. Very standard.”
Another hallway, another long walk toward a closed door. Again, Meg waited outside.
This time, Claire had to remove her wedding ring, her earrings, her necklace, and even her barrette. The technician asked her if she had any steel surgical staples or a pacemaker. When she said no and asked why, he said, “Well, we’d hate to see ’em fly outta you when this thing starts up.”
“That’s a lovely image,” Claire muttered. “I hope my fillings are safe.”
The tech laughed as he helped her into the coffinlike machine. She found it difficult to breathe evenly. The bed was cold and hard; it curved up uncomfortably and pinched her upper back. The technician strapped her in. “You need to lie perfectly still.”
Claire closed her eyes. The room was cold and she was freezing, but she lay still.
When the machine started it sounded like a jackhammer on a city street.
Quiet, Claire. Still. Perfectly still. She closed her eyes and barely breathed. She didn’t realize she was crying until she felt the moisture drip down her temple.
The one-hour test lasted for two. Halfway through, they stopped and set up an IV. The needle pinched her arm; dye bled through her system, feeling ice-cold. She swore she could feel it pump into her brain. Finally, she was let go. She and Meghann returned to an examination room in the Nuclear Medicine Wing, where Claire’s clothes were hanging. Then they went to another waiting room.
“Of course,” Meg grumbled.
They were there another hour. Finally, a tall, tired-looking woman in a lab coat came into the waiting room. “Claire Austin?”
Claire stood up. At the suddenness of the movement, she almost fell. Meg steadied her.
The woman smiled. “I’m Dr. Sheri Kensington, chief of Neurology.”
“Claire Austin. This is my sister, Meghann.”
“It’s nice to meet you. Come this way.” Dr. Kensington led them down a short hallway and into an office that was lined with books, diplomas, and children’s artwork. Behind her, a set of X-ray–like images glowed against the bright white backlighting boxes.
Claire stared at them, wondering what there was to see.
The doctor sat down at her desk and indicated that Claire and Meghann should sit opposite her. “I’m sorry you had problems with Dr. Lannigan. This is, as I’m sure you know, a teaching hospital, and sometimes our residents are not as thorough as we would wish. Your demand for a higher level of care was a much-needed wake-up call for Dr. Lannigan.”
Claire nodded. “Meghann is good at getting what she wants. Do I have a sinus infection?”
“No, Claire. You have a mass in your brain.”
“What?”
“You have a mass. A tumor. In your brain.” Dr. Kensington rose slowly and went to the X rays, pointing to a white spot. “It appears to be about the size of a golf ball, and located in the right frontal lobe, crossing the midline.”
Tumor.
Claire felt as if she’d just been shoved out of an airplane. She couldn’t breathe; the ground was rushing up to meet her.
“I’m sorry to say this,” Dr. Kensington went on, “but I’ve consulted with a neurosurgeon and we believe it’s inoperable. You’ll want second opinions, of course. You’ll need to see an oncologist, also.”
Smack.
Meghann was on her feet, pressed against the desk as if she were going to grab the doctor’s throat. “You’re saying she has a brain tumor?”
“Yes.” The doctor went back to the desk and sat down.
“And that you can’t do anything about it?”
“We believe it’s inoperable, yes, but I didn’t say we can’t do anything.”
“Meg, please,” Claire was absurdly afraid that her sister was going to make it worse. She looked pleadingly at the doctor. “Are you … saying I might die?”
“We’ll need more tests to determine the exact nature of your tumor, but—given the size and placement of the mass—it’s not a good outlook.”
“Inoperable means you won’t operate,” Meg said in a don’t-screw-with-me voice that was almost a growl.