The elevator doors opened.
The radiation is likely to improve her symptoms dramatically during and after her treatment but, unfortunately, we tend to find that, six, seven, eight months down the line, the problems usually recur—and progress rapidly when they do.
Bodies spilled into the lobby.
Most children die within a year of diagnosis, Lapitus said. It’s extremely unlikely she’ll survive past Christmas.
The men walked through the crowd and emerged in an empty hallway. Harrison stopped him, turned to him.
What else you got? Besides the radiation. Don’t hold out on me.
Lapitus considered him for a moment, looked at the floor, then said, it’s a measure of last resort.
Harrison held his eye. Sounds like that’s where we’re gonna be, he said.
Cobalt, Lapitus said.
Tell me about it, Harrison said.
It’s new, Lapitus said.
How new?
Few years. With X-ray treatment, the X-rays struggle to penetrate tumors that have developed deep inside the body. The cobalt machine uses a gamma-ray beam that’s produced when radioactive cobalt sixty breaks down. It goes deeper. Much deeper. But there’s a cost. The cobalt doesn’t discriminate. It’s very good at what it does—very, very good—it kills cancer cells, yes; but it also destroys healthy ones too. For a child so young, it could be worse than the cancer itself.
A janitor pushed past with a mop and bucket. Harrison watched him lope along the hallway; his slow gait, the steel bucket, the wooden mop.
Appreciate you tellin me, doc, Harrison said.
It’s not something I’d recommend until we’ve absolutely reached the end of the line, and even then, it would warrant extremely careful consideration. To be honest, it probably isn’t even worth mentioning to Grace yet.
Harrison nodded. The janitor disappeared, lost in the long lines of intersecting hallways. Lapitus started to walk again. Harrison followed, in silence. After a few minutes, he said, where we headed? Lapitus took a sharp left, pushed through a set of heavy double doors and said, where we started. They stopped in front of a single door and Harrison looked at it.
I find it better to talk about things on the move, Lapitus said. You’re both welcome to see her as much as you like this week. Come and go as you please.
Thank you, Harrison said.
Lapitus put his hand on the door handle and looked at him. Harrison nodded. Lapitus opened the door.
Florence was asleep. They stood around her bed.
So, Lapitus said, we’ll start her on two thousand three hundred roentgens—that’s the maximum, the highest amount.
Is it painful? Grace said. I mean, will it—hurt her?
No, not at all, Lapitus said. She’ll just have to keep still.
Okay, Grace said.
Each session will last between fifteen and thirty minutes, Lapitus said. They’ll get shorter as we progress. And most of that time will be us making sure we aim correctly. We have to be precise, to avoid delivering radiation to the surrounding healthy brain tissue.
Grace looked at Harrison.
I’d wake her soon, so we can start, Lapitus said.
Do you have any water? Grace said.
I’ll get Clara to bring you some, Lapitus said.
Thank you.
You’re very welcome. I’ll leave you alone for a bit now.
Lapitus smiled and left. They watched their child sleep.
In the motel that night they pushed their clothes into shallow drawers in silence. Grace went into the bathroom. Harrison sat on the edge of the bed, took out his cigarettes, lit one. He tossed the pack onto the bed and sat forward and rubbed his face. He stood and walked to the window. He walked back to the bed and sat down and stared at the wall for a long time. The motel was quiet. He wondered about the time. Then he heard a noise from the bathroom, halfway between a laugh and a shout. At the door, he said, hon? She didn’t reply. He pushed at the door. Grace sat on the toilet seat, half undressed, fingers clutching her face, crying. He pulled her head to his body and held her.
In bed, Grace said, what are you not telling me? He lay on his back, heart held taut behind his ribs. Nothing, he said.
Did Lapitus say something to you? she said.
He could make out her face, pale in the gloom. He thought about the hundreds of variables that made it beautiful to him, as though it was a cipher, the sharp edge of a key. She switched on her bedside lamp.
Jim? she said.
Yeah, he said. Lapitus talked to me.
When?
Out in the hall. Took me for a walk.
Tell me what he said, she said.
She did real good today, he said.
Jim, please.
He sat up and looked at her.
Lapitus told me the radiation will make her better, but after a while, maybe a few months, she’ll likely get worse again, and quickly.
You mean we’ll have to do this over again? she said.
He shook his head.
What do you mean? Why not?
Not an option.
Why not?
Just isn’t.
There’s other things they can do, right? Other treatments?
There aren’t many options.
But there are options, right? Jim?
There’s one.