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“He’s had a bleed in his left lung from a bronchial arterial breach inside one of the tumors. Remember how I told you this could happen?”
“He’s had them before, though. Why is he…”
“The bleeding’s under control and he’s better, right? You can see, he’s breathing more easily and he’s relaxed. Look at the monitor, no alarms going off.”
She glanced to the screen behind his head, with all its numbers and the mountain ranges of his heart rate. “He’s had that happen before. So why… did he collapse?”
“His oxygen got low because of the coughing, but we’re supporting his breathing and he’s stable now, and I need you to start breathing again yourself.” As she began to well up, Gus put his hand on her shoulder. “Listen to me, I’ve got him, okay? You can trust me.”
“But then what. What happens tomorrow. What happens…”
When there was no getting control of whatever took him down. When one of his mets invaded a vital organ and his liver stopped working or his—
“We’re staying in the moment, Lydia. And right now, he’s okay, and that’s where we are. We’re here—”
“But what does it mean,” she cut in as he pointed at the floor tile. “For the long run.”
Stupid fucking question. That had already been answered by those scans they had done a week ago, the ones that showed Daniel was riddled with disease.
“We’re just going to keep making sure he’s comfortable, and keep after the—”
“He was doing so well.” She grabbed on to Gus’s arm like it was a lifeline. “His strength was back, he was walking better, he was—”
She looked to the hospital bed like she expected Daniel to sit right up and start ticking off the fact that he’d had a pair of orgasms, he’d driven the SUV, and he didn’t need his cane once he’d recovered from that breakneck Harley ride on the highway… except of course, there was no awareness on his part—and no possibility of any kind of response that she could see: Behind the mask that was forcing air down his throat, he showed no signs of consciousness.
“The immunotherapy was really hard on him,” Gus said gently. “And when we took him off of it, and gave him the nutrients and fluids he needed, there was a resurgence of energy. Well, we’re going to keep him here as long as we can by supporting his organ function and making sure he’s comfortable.”
She thought back to the spring—and some of the Facebook groups she’d joined when she’d tried to find information and support.
“It was the last flare,” she heard herself say.
“I’m sorry?”
Lydia cleared her throat and went back to stroking Daniel’s face. “I saw some posts online that… in the last stage, right before the failing, there’s often a short period where things are kind of normal. Or normal-er. Like, they come back and have some good days. A bloom in the fall.”
When Gus didn’t say anything, she glanced over at him. “You’ve heard of that, too?”
“Every case is different.”
“That’s such a doctor response.”
“It’s also true. Lydia, as much as you can, I need you to try to remain calm. We’ve seen him out of this acute episode, and tomorrow, we’ll reassess what our longer-term options are.”
“You already told me we’re out of them.” Her voice went flat. “Unless you think we can give him Vita-12b.”
Gus’s face grew tight. “That isn’t what he wants.”
“No… it isn’t.” As she stared at Daniel, willing him to wake up, she felt like her soul was dying with him. “He doesn’t want to suffer anymore.”
“And it’s an untested substance,” someone said.
C.P. Phalen. That was who had spoken. And as Gus looked across the room sharply, Lydia movedfrom the chair to the bed. Stretching out next to Daniel, she laid her arm gently over his chest, and tried to take some reassurance from the fact that he was breathing on his own. Even if the hiss of the oxygen mask was a reminder that he wasn’t completely independent.
“Daniel,” she said in a voice that cracked. “I’m right here…”
Up upon the mountain called Deer, Blade stood before his sister, his sense of what was real and what was a hope-created fantasy becoming suddenly, inexplicably, one and the same—and considering what he was, that was an unexpected confluence on so many levels. Optimism was to asymphathas sociopathy was to the well-adjusted—but oil and water were mixing. Had mixed. Andprima facieevidence that the impossible had occurred was the fact that Xhex’s grid was reknitting, reforming, quadrant by quadrant, right in front of his own eyes.
And her advice about the wolven was spot-on, too.
