Henry Franks A Novel

twenty eight





Justine’s hand in Henry’s was far away, the storm farther still. Memories flickered on the edge of awareness but nothing was solid, nothing was real. He let her go and his fingers grasped the air, struggling to cling to a reality that was vaguely transparent.

Breathe.

The word was almost a silent hiss drowning in the storm.

Just breathe.

“Henry?” Justine cried out, shaking his arm.

He stood like a statue, unmoving.

“No,” he said, the word a whisper. Then, again, “No.”

His father took a step toward him, but Henry backed away. “She died. In the accident.” He wiped his fingers across his face. His hand came away covered in blood from his nose. “You told me—it was raining. You said there was an accident.”

“Henry,” his father said, his hand reaching toward his son.

“You told me she died.”

The wind stormed across the island, a bitter roar slamming branches against the roof. Thunder shook the house as lightning sent shadows flashing around the room. The three of them stood there and no one said a word for a long moment.

“Henry,” his father and Justine said at the same time.

He looked back and forth between the two of them, blinking, as tears fell down like rain.

“You died, Henry, not your mother.” His father’s voice was raw as he staggered against the floor lamp, the blood pooling at his feet.

“The cancer?” Justine asked, her voice breaking on the words.

William’s eyes opened wide. “You know?”

Henry nodded.

“The cancer was killing you, yes.”

“But?” Henry asked after too long of a silence.

“You died,” his father said, taking another step toward him, “when I cut your head off.”

“Save my son,” Christine said, her dark hazel eyes almost green in the fluorescent kitchen lighting.

“He’s my son too, Chrissy.”

“I carried him,” she said. “I raised him while you worked. Save my son!”

“How?” Frank put his coffee mug down untouched, then walked up to her but she turned away when he tried to put his arms around her. “What would you like me to do? The stem-cell transplant failed. It made things worse, for crying out loud.”

“I don’t care how, just save him. I can’t stand by and watch him die and do nothing.”

“I love you,” he said, but if she heard, she gave no indication. “Chrissy?”

She looked up at him, a single glance before turning away.

“Have you talked to Dr. Saville?” he asked, the words as neutral as he could make them.

“About?” she said, then spun around to face him. “The fact that my son is dying? Everyone knows that, Frank.”

“Your medication?”

“Please, like you’d notice if I took it or not.” She rubbed her eyes, then pasted a smile on her face. “Like you care,” she said, so quietly the words were no more than a hiss.

“Are you?”

“They made me sick,” she said. “Well, sicker. I’d rather be me than nauseous.”

He sat down, dropping his head in his hands and biting his tongue to keep quiet. Taking a deep breath, he looked back up at her. “There are other medications you can try, remember?”

“So I can force myself to be happy while my son dies, Frank? Is that the cure you want for me? No, I will not. Never. I’m sorry I can’t be the happy little homemaker you thought you married.” She laughed, a bitter sarcastic sound that lacked any trace of warmth. “Or do you still think we’re the perfect family?”

He looked up at her, his breath short and hard as his heart tried to escape his body and break into little pieces.

“I love you.”

“I know,” she said, a smile just touching the edges of her chapped lips. “I’ve just forgotten why.” The words hung in the air long after she ran from the room.

“What would you have me do, Chrissy?” he asked the emptiness. “What?”

She came out of nowhere, barreling into him, her fingers clenched into claws raking down his face. The tips came away bloody and her eyes, wide and red and staring, didn’t even blink as she tried to catch her breath. A thin line of drool fell from her mouth to the floor. She snarled, then slammed her fist against the wall when he ducked her punch.

She gasped with the pain, then slid to the floor in a heap, her chest rising and falling faster than he could count. He reached a finger against her throat, trying to check her pulse, but she rolled away, kicking out at him.

“Save him,” she said, her voice somewhere between a whisper and a moan. Then she screamed, the sound high-pitched and painful. “Save my son!” She gulped air in between words, trying to catch her breath.

“How?” he said, trying to get his arms around her, to calm her, to hold her down. Her fingers clawed against his hands and the scratches on his face burned as she twisted around to try to bite him. She thrust her head back and up, into his chin, and he felt the rush of copper as he bit through his tongue.

Still, he wrestled her to the ground, forcing her down, her heart beating so strongly that he could feel it where his chest rested on her back. She shook beneath him and then released a harsh sob.

“Save my son,” she said, more like a little girl asking Santa for a present than a grown woman talking to her husband. “Save him. Please, Frank. You can do that for me, right? You always said you’d do anything for me, to make me happy, to make me marry you. You said that. You promised.”

“I’m sorry, Chrissy.” His voice was quiet where he nestled his face in her hair. The usual sweet smell had been replaced by an acrid, sweaty odor, and dandruff flakes fell to the floor with her motions. “There’s nothing I can do. The cancer’s spread through most of his body. The stem-cell transplant was the last best hope.”

“Then transplant something else,” she said. Her voice, raw from screaming, still hissed out, like a child’s doll talking. “If you love me, Frank, you’ll save him. Transplant something else. Won’t that work? You promised. Transplant everything—I don’t care, just save my son!”

She beat her head against him again but he didn’t feel the blows, his eyes tearing as her words echoed in his head, his heart still within his chest.

He let her go and didn’t even watch as she scrambled across the floor, crawling down the hall to Henry’s room.