The doctor probably expected him to cry or maybe fly into a rage cursing God, bad luck, the industrial food complex, or his own refusal to exercise. Laughter and smiles weren’t on that menu. But he couldn’t help being amused, not when the doctor was unwittingly making jokes.
No, he thought, not jokes—suggestions. And she’s right, there’s nothing stopping me anymore.
He was dying from idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis and she had given him six months to a year. The to a yearportion of that sentence felt tacked on in an overly optimistic manner. Anyone else might have focused on that part of the equation—the dying part—and thought about trips to Europe, safaris in Africa, or visiting neglected friends and family. Ellis was planning a trip of a different sort and began running a mental checklist. He already had most everything. Flashlight batteries, he should get more of them—can’t ever have too many batteries—and some more M&M’S, why the hell not? It wasn’t like he had to worry about his weight, diabetes, or tooth decay. I’ll buy a whole box! The peanut ones, the yellow bags are always the best.
“I’m going to set up an appointment for you to come back. Two weeks should give you enough time to see someone else and have the tests repeated.” She stopped writing and stared at him with her big brown eyes. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“Is there someone I can call?” She flipped through the pages on the clipboard again. “Your wife?”
“Trust me, I’m good.”
He was surprised to realize he was telling the truth. The last time he felt that way was thirty-six years ago when he had sat across from the loan officer’s desk and learned he’d qualified for the mortgage that allowed him to move out of his parent’s home. Fear mingled with the excitement of facing the unknown. Freedom—real freedom—had all the rush of an illegal drug.
I can finally press the button.
She waited a beat or two longer, then nodded. “Assuming your second opinion concurs with mine, I will add your name to the registry for a transplant, and I’ll explain the process in detail at your appointment. Aside from that, I’m afraid there’s nothing else we can do. I’m really very sorry.” Reaching out she took his hand. “I really am.”
He nodded and gave a slight squeeze. Her smile appeared less forced then. Maybe she was thinking she’d made him feel better, made some emotional connection. That was good, he needed all the karma he could get.
“What’d the doctor say?” was the first thing out of Peggy’s mouth when Ellis walked through the door. He couldn’t see her. He guessed she was somewhere in the kitchen, shouting over the television she’d left on in the living room. Peggy did that a lot. She said it made her feel less alone, but she kept it on even when Ellis was home.
“She said it was nothing to be concerned about.” He dropped his keys on the coffee table in the candy dish their son had made years ago.
“She? Wasn’t your appointment with Dr. Hall?”
Dammit!Ellis cringed. “Ah—Dr. Hall retired. I met with a woman doctor.”
“Retired? That sounds sudden. Is he okay?”
“Yeah—yeah he’s fine.”
“Well good for him. I’m surprised, though. He really isn’t much older than we are, and I always thought doctors retired later than other people. So this other doctor, she wasn’t concerned about your cough?”
Ellis found the remote and turned down the volume until the gaggle of women arguing on the television was nothing more than a low hum. He wondered if it was the same show he always walked in on or if all the shows she didn’t watch were the same.
“Not really. She said it was just a virus,” he called back.
The living room was a milestone showing how far they had come. Two Williams-Sonoma mohair couches faced a big screen television as wide as the bathroom in their first apartment. On shelves near the fireplace sat his M.I.T. textbooks alongside dissertations he had bound in genuine leather. Above those were a pile of thrillers and murder mysteries by the likes of Michael Connelly, Tom Clancy, and Jeffery Deaver—his mind candy.
Photos were everywhere: hanging on the walls, propped on end tables, balanced atop the television. From each frame a sandy-haired cherub with freckles and a varying number of teeth smiled back. The one taken at Cedar Point commanded the centerpiece of the granite coffee table. All three of them had been in that amusement-park photo, but a strategic fold had left only Ellis’s left hand visible where it rested on his son’s shoulder.
“Did she even give you anything for it?” Peggy asked. She entered the living room still wearing her work clothes, what she called her “three Ps”: power pantsuit and pearls. She glanced at the television, perhaps checking to see if she was missing anything important, then turned back to him.
For a moment he considered telling the truth, at least about his prognosis. He wanted to see what she’d say. What she’d do.
He couldn’t say yes. She might ask to see the bottle. “She gave me a prescription. I just haven’t filled it yet.”
“Well, you better do that soon. The drugstore will be closing—at least the pharmacy counter will.” She pulled a fresh pack of menthols from the pocket of her jacket and began to tap out a cigarette, then paused, looking at him. “Oh,” she said with a disappointed tone and a little frown. “Aren’t you going to the garage?”
“Actually, I’m meeting Warren. Just came home to get my coat. It’s getting cold.”
“Well, if you take any pills, look at the bottle before you start drinking.”
Ellis grabbed Peggy’s keys off the hall table as quietly as he could, but instead of heading out the kitchen door he climbed the stairs to their bedroom, and once inside, locked the door. His heart was pounding so loud he hoped Peggy couldn’t hear it. Taking this first step made it real for him.
Jesus, I’m actually going to do it.
He crept to the closet, put on his coat, then began excavating. The left side of the walk-in had always been Peggy’s territory. Stacked on the floor were old shoes, the wedding photos, and God knew what else she had stuffed back there in an assortment of cardboard and plastic containers. Ellis knew what he was looking for, and after carefully disassembling a tower of shoe boxes, he uncovered the treasure-chest-shaped jewelry case. She kept it locked. The key was on her ring along with a bottle opener, flip-out nail file, coin purse, rape whistle, penlight, laminated photo of Isley, silver medallion of a camel or llama, another of a soccer ball, and a big plastic plaque that read: PEGGY. The ridiculous thing was that the Nissan had a keyless entry system and a push button start.
The jewelry box opened like a cash register with the top popping up and the drawers pushing out in tiers. The thing was packed with memorabilia. He spotted a Mother’s Day card Isley had made when he was around six. Just a bit of folded poster board with the word MOM scrawled in crayon. There were a bunch of letters, a few photos of Isley, ticket stubs to a play called No Parkingthat he didn’t remember, and a bunch of poems Peggy had written before they got married, back when she was learning to play the guitar and planned on being the next Carole King.
And, of course, there was jewelry.
Old clip-on earrings, and the newer pierced ones, some dangled like Christmas tree tinsel, others were just studs. She had two strings of pearls, a choker with what looked like an ivory medallion, and a host of rings. Most of it was costume. Four pieces were not.
Peggy’s engagement ring and wedding band were there, but he wouldn’t touch those. Ellis was only interested in a pair of diamond earrings he had inherited from his grandmother. The jewelry was at the bottom, buried under the memorabilia.