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“She said I could go if I wanted to,” Reggie said. “I told her, not yet.” She sucked in a hiccupping breath. “I have to look after you. Keep you out of trouble.”
Oh, thank God. My eyes stung and watered. “And she was okay with that?”
“She just kissed me on the forehead,” Reggie said. “And then she was gone.” Her lower lip trembled. “I wish she could have stayed. I miss her so much.”
“Oh, baby. Me, too.” I fished out the tissues in time for another coughing fit.
When the spasms eased down, Reggie lay there trembling, breathing as shallowly as she could, to not provoke another one. She reached out a finger, and stroked my wrist, where I had tattooed her name onto myself. It was a fine-line tattoo, in an old-timey, graceful cursive script, and it reached halfway up my inner arm.Regina.
“Not fair,” she whispered.
“What?” I asked.
“That I can’t tattoo ‘Cassandra’ on my arm, too. Just because I’m only ten.”
I laughed soggily. “In a few years you can get your own tattoo, if you still want to. In the meantime, I’m glad you mentioned it, because I have a surprise for you. Things got so crazy when you got sick, I forgot all about them, but check this out.”
I dug into my big purse and pulled out an envelope. In it were a handful of long strips of stiff paper, about the size of standard bookmarks. I had asked the artist who did my own tattoo to design a corresponding one for Reggie and print them up as temporary tattoos. “I have ten of them,” I told her. “When one wears off, you can just stick on another. Every time you look at it, you’ll remember how much I love you.”
Reggie’s eyes shone. She held out her arm eagerly, and I peeled off the film and pressed the sticky side to her inner arm. I dampened a handful of tissues from her water bottle and smoothed them over her pale arm until the sodden paper clung to her skin.
Then I peeled it off, leaving the delicate tracing of the stenciled ‘Cassandra’ on her arm. Just like my own tattoo. The same type of lettering. A sister set, but the lettering reached much further up Reggie’s skinny little arm. Almost to her elbow.
“This should tide you over until you’re old enough to get real ink,” I said. “When you finish them up, I’ll have more made for you.”
I gathered up all the soggy tissues, the wet paper strip, the plastic film, and by the time I had tossed it all into the waste basket, Reggie was sound asleep. That brief interchange had exhausted her.
“Excuse me, Ms. Clarke?”
I turned to see two of Reggie’s team of doctors in the room. The tall dark one, Dr. Lukas, and a shorter, chubbier guy with curly brown hair, Dr. Cirillo. “Yes?”
“We need to talk to you about your sister’s case,” Dr. Lukas said. “Can you come with us for a moment?”
That sounded ominous, but it wasn’t the kind of request a person could refuse. I followed them down the hospital corridors until they led me into to a room that had a pale lavender and gray color scheme, muted décor, blandly soothing art, soft chairs.
That, too, struck me as ominous. This was a room designed to soothe frightened, grieving people. I was a lamb being led to the slaughter, and this was going to hurt.
“Is Reggie going to be okay?” I demanded. “Is that what this is about? Do you have any more info for me?”
“Well,” Dr. Lukas said reluctantly. “We don’t, really. The truth is, there isn’t much more we can do for Regina, other than keep her comfortable. There are no treatment options for an acute case of Varen’s Disease like your sister’s. All we can do is manage her symptoms, as best we can. And… I am really sorry to tell you this, but we estimate, based on how quickly things are deteriorating, that she has one to two weeks. At most.”
“You mean until she…” I choked on the unsayable words. “No. That’s not possible.” I struggled to string words together. “She’s only ten! She was fine just a few weeks ago! Aren’t there any clinical trials, experimental treatments?”
Lukas exchanged mournful glances with Cirillo. They shook their heads.
“Varen’s is extremely rare,” Cirillo offered, his voice apologetic. “It occurs in one in two million?—”
“I know the stats. My mother died of Varen’s two years ago. I’m an old pro.”
“Ah. I see. Well, there may be a genetic component to Varen’s Disease, but there hasn’t been enough research done on it yet to gather any meaningful statistics. I’m sorry to give you such bad news, Ms. Clarke. But hospice is available to help you deal with the end-of-life choices you need to make for her. I promise, we’ll make your sister as comfortable as possible, and there are support groups for?—”
“She’s only ten! She can’t be dying! It’s just not possible!”
Cirillo and Lukas droned on, their voices soft with professional sympathy, but I couldn’t make out their words over the crackling roar of panic in my head. My sweet, affectionate, goofy little Reggie, who loved Star Wars and science and peanut-butter and jam sandwiches. Reggie, who had been my whole world since Mom checked out.
I got up and ran out. I couldn’t understand what they said anyhow. My heart banged against my ribs, and my stomach lurched. I was furiously angry, as if someone had struck a spiteful blow at my baby sister, and I wanted to hit back. And hit hard.
But my anger had nowhere to go, except at myself. Varen’s was random, rare. Possibly genetic. It had clobbered me when it took Mom. It was back to finish the job.
