Henriad (History Plays, Book 5)

6: by so much shall I falsify men's hopes

Henry

"You're saying I'm dying," I say, staring at the cold wall, the x-rays, images pinned up. All testifying to my own mortality.
"Until the biopsy results are back we won't know for sure but your lymphatic system is already compromised—"
"You're saying I'm dying," I repeat, quietly.
"The spots on your lungs and liver are likely also cancerous. That's why I'm recommending you remain here for aggressive treatment—"
"Aggressive treatment of what? My whole body? I'm fucking dead, it's got me," I say, my own voice strange in my throat.
"You're in Stage four, yes," the man is slightly intimidated which really isn't a good thing. "It's---unlikely you will go into remission. However, there are still treatments—"
"I'm not playing dice with God, for a few more days. You're telling me I'm fucking dying. I'll die at home," I stand up and go to get my clothes.
"Mr. Lancaster I can't recommend you forgo further treatment—"
"I can recommend you shut the hell up. I have six fucking kids at home who I have to tell I'm not going to see a single one of them graduate from fucking highschool so unless you have recommendations on how I can do that then we are not fucking talking," I say, starting to get dressed.
"I'll refer the results to your general practitioner then, but I do urge you to consider treatment—"
"What are we talking? Six months? If I survive more fucking chemo and fucking toxins you pump in me trying to kill me?" I spit, pulling on a turtle neck. It mostly covers the bandages on my neck even though the scars from the most recent batch of surgeries strain on my chest.
"Chemo isn't the only option."
"I'm not hearing recommendations on how I tell my fucking eight year old baby girl that I'm not gonna live to see her tenth birthday," I growl, putting on a pair of black jeans. I came in them and they're already too loose without a belt. I haven't kept a meal down since I've been here. I just need to go home.
"I can recommend you to local therapists."
"Does one of them have a degree in how to prepare the world for a insomniac sixteen year old with anger issues who is about to lose his only semblance of restraint because I act as that psychotic kid's fucking conscience?" I growl.
Apparently the answer is no, because he just leaves and lets me finish getting dressed. He sends a chaplain and a few I think guards for me but I avoid them. I'm going home. Fuck this. Fuck this entire place.
The realization that I'm fucking dying hits when I get outside in the rain. I'm dying. I'm dying. My days were always numbered so why now do I take such horror in counting them? Why is mortality, always a constant, suddenly so near? And what the hell am I supposed to do with it? Is it even real? People live all the time after they get told stuff like this, don't they? Isn't that how this works? You defy the odds, the underdog comes out on top. And the spectacle is all the greater? Why am I in a lifetime of pessimism so set on my own happy ending that I never deserved nor properly engineered? I didn't think my Mary could die, yet she is gone from me. Dead after giving birth to my child. That couldn't happen. But this really cannot happen. After I'm gone, to have to watch my children mourn me or will it be peace I don't deserve? Or the hell I do?
I notice the white Mercedes pulled up probably well after it stops.
I climb in, numbly, realizing I'm dripping wet on the soft leather.
"Hey," Joan says, putting a cool hand on the back of my neck. I take the hand and put it to my lips to kiss it.
We sit in silence. I'm sure my silence answers her question. But eventually she asks it anyway.
"Stage?"
I hold up four fingers, unable to look at her.
"Okay," she says, putting a cool hand on my cheek. "Do they have treatments they suggested or---?"
"It's on my lungs, they found it on my liver---everywhere they fucking checked," I say, my voice cracking, "It's—I'm not gonna make it out of this one."
"Shh," she wipes tears from my face, her own eyes are red but she's strong. "Okay then. We get to go home and you're gonna hug those awesome kids."
"What family have you been hanging out with?" I ask, suspicious, "I've fucking met them. They're little monsters."
She grins past her tears, "They are your little monsters, and you're gonna hug them, and tell them what's going on. We get time. Not as much as we want. But we get some time."
"Time is never enough, have you noticed that?" I ask, putting a hand over her short hair then kissing her lips.
"I have, we can spin it though," she says, kissing me back gently, "Come on. Let's get you home, some real food, not hospital food. And we'll pick up the prescriptions—"
"I don't want more drugs."
"And I'm going to withhold sexual favors until you take some drugs that will at least keep you comfortable, all right?" she asks, rubbing a hand along a scar on my cheek.
"Okay. Okay," focus fucking damn it. focus. You don't have much time now. I need to do what's important. "Okay, yeah, okay, you're right. Um—yeah that dipshit's gonna call in to the pharmacy whatever—um, yeah shit to get me eating and for pain."
"Sounds good, yeah, we'll pick those up," she says, "Do you want to drive?"
"No, no," my hands are shaking and I'm lightheaded. I haven't eaten in days. "I will in a bit, let's drive through the night. I want to get home."
"Sure," she says, calmly. I'm sure she thinks I need rest but she's humoring me and at the moment I will fucking take it.
"How were the kids for you?" I ask. I felt bad leaving her with them but the servants were there and the kids can act like people sometimes and I threatened them (mostly Harry) before I left, so you know. She's still alive.
"So, the kids are fine—"
"What's that mean?" those little fucks.
"So the kids are fine, I was not---granted access to the house, after you left—"
"That fuckhead," I say, slamming fist against the door.
"Don't be too mad at Harry—"
"I am incredibly mad at Harry, that shithead," that kid. That fucking kid. I do, sort of, know what I did to deserve him but I really thought that—well, the thing is—all of my study of religion prepared me for the prospect of purgatory and eternal torture occurring AFTER I died, not before. That fucking kid. I love him. Don't get me wrong. I love the boy, but holy fuck. You can love the raw beauty of a tornado without wanting one in your fucking house touching your fucking things and expecting you to parent it. When my Mary first died my second thought after the general 'please god no take me instead' was 'how could she leave me alone here with him?'
"He said that it was for my own good because he hadn't trained his siblings yet, and he sent me excessively verbose daily updates regarding them which I read in full which were quite sweet," she says, almost amused, "I saw them at church and they were all unscathed."
"I'm gonna fucking kill him," one thing. That kid had one job and it was behaving like a fucking normal human being to his new fucking step mom and he couldn't fucking do it.
"Again, the daily email updates were very polite. I'm sure he thought he was doing what was best."
"That's the problem! He does what he thinks is best regardless of absolutely anything on the planet. That fuckhead, I'm gonna fucking sell him, I'm gonna sell his fucking brain to science and they'll figure out why he doesn't ever fucking sleep. Jesus Christ," I slam my fist into the car door again.
"Please, for me, don't be cross with him?"
"I'm going to be! It's good for both of us! He'll probably think I'm an impostor and lock me out if I'm not cross with him he's used to me being cross with him we're both comfortable there—"
"Henry," she puts a hand on my arm, "It's stressful for them to? He was polite to me. I'm not mad. We're gonna let it go, okay? He's hurting to."
"I'm gonna probably just tell him what a little dipshit he is—"
"Henry."
"Okay, okay, I'm fine, you're right. I'm wrong. Tell me what did he do? Just not let you in or—-what?" I ask, forcing all the calm I can muster into my voice.
"Are you going to stay calm considering it's over?"
"Yeah, definitely."
"He changed the gate and house codes."
"Un-fucking-believable child!! Unfuckingbelivable-!" I tip my head back in frustration.
"Henry!"
"This is me being calm--- go on so we can't get into the house at all? He locked me out? Of my own house?" I might as well be dead already then? He's prepared just not to have me back. Everything is just fine with me gone. They don't need me anymore?
"In his defense, he gave me a clue to the code or whatever—"
"Unfuckingbelivable— oh wait what's the clue?" maybe he didn't lock me out.
"It doesn't make sense, and I'm sure it's a riddle—"
"What is it?" that asshole.
"This may not be exact but it's 'you will eat your own children the flesh of your sons and your daughters'—"
"Oh, 28-53," he didn't lock me out then. Good. Little ass.
"How did you get that from that?" she asks, amused.
"Deuteronomy 28:53, that's the verse, well maybe part of it," I say, dismissively, "He knew I'd know."
"So we can get in. Good, there we go," she says, forcing cheer into her voice, "It's fine. You're not going to be cross with him."
"Ehhh—didn't promise that though?"
"Henry, he's worried about you as well—"
"Ah probably not, did I tell you about the time that he ran away from preschool and headed for whatever fucking reason for the interstate because he was bored?" I ask.
"You did not."
"Right, that's what he did."
"Who found him dare I ask--?"
"My schizophrenic cousin who is the only person I've ever fucking met crazier than him," I growl. Not even memories of Richard will stop my annoyance. Everyone mourns him. As if he's not more at peace dead than living.
"Ah," she knows about Richard for whatever reason she's still here.
"Look, listen, listen, okay, I know he frustrates you—"
"That does not even cover it—"
"But listen to me. you're both upset right now, you both are trying your best to take care of the little ones and most importantly you both love each other," she says.
"I think the only person he ever loved was his mother," I say, darkly. That's true it's not my anger talking. Maybe that was because she was the only person who could ever tolerate him. I don't know. I didn't think a kid would be that hard, then I had more kids and I was right, kids aren't that hard.
Harry came into the world on New Year's Eve, sobbing and a few weeks early and giving us all a good scare. Nothing was wrong he just decided he ought to be born so he was. Mary's parents had finally permitted me to marry her in August, when a sweet, lazy summer of something like peace came to an end and her pregnancy was too far gone for her to hide it under school clothes. She was still underage for a while and so her parents had to give us permission and they didn't want to do that but they changed their minds when she fell pregnant. That wasn't strictly our plan, but we weren't smart enough to avoid it either.
Anyway, Harry was born on the last day of the year, and he has yet to stop making noise. His mother didn't ever care; it didn't bother her. He was constantly awake and wanting to be held and more than that talked to and, if we could manage, sung to. Mary didn't care, she held him constantly and catered to his every whim. In every one of her graduation photos she's there, grinning, holding her fat manipulative child who is staring around with big hazel eyes like it's a celebration for him. He refused to let anyone else hold him that day, holding tightly to her gown and not even I could placate him. So she balanced him on her hip the entire time, insisting he wasn't bothering her, his chubby legs wrapped over her puffy stomach that, nobody knew then, held his little brother. By 'nobody knew' I mean I also didn't know. She probably fucking did, but chose not to tell me that Thomas was coming until she had to because, hell, Harry was and is something like a handful. Anyway, Thomas was born and he restored my sanity because he acted like a normal child and human being in general. So do every one of the others so I've determined that whatever it is wrong is just Harry. He doesn't sleep ever so he has like seven more hours to get into mischief than everyone else but it's also more than that so I don't know.
"Hey, he gave me the—useless—riddle to the gate code, he took good care of the others, and he gave me very nice updates which he did not have to do. I know it's not what you---or anyone—would expect but try to understand that maybe this is him trying his best for who he is?" Joan asks, rubbing my arm and waking me from my thoughts.
"That best imitation of a human person needs to get so much better you realize that right?" I ask.
"Henry, do you want to spend your time with him cross with him?"
"If it would help----?"
"Henry."
"Okay, it's a little hard when my time is running out and he is—not at all ready," I say.
"You're never going to be ready, either of you. But you need to give him what he needs in the time you do have."
"I have never---ever—in my life known what the fuck that kid needs," I say, rubbing my face.
"He needs you to believe in him."
"I don't believe in him at all!"
"That's because you're scared."
"Damn straight I'm scared I wasn't---this wasn't—" supposed to end like this? Do any of us end when we ought to? I look at my shaking hands and I feel so ancient. My time is already come up. the clock is running down and I have no clue, how this is supposed to end. How am I to wrap up my entire life in what a matter of months? But with each moment that passes I'm painfully aware of how few I have left. The steady running of the hour is ever present in my mind. And soon the bell shall toll for me. Richard looked at peace when he was dead, this doesn't feel like peace.
"I know. But we have more time than Mary did, than many people get. As painful as this is would you rather have been killed in the street, and the children woken up in the night to be told you're never coming home? Then they would have nothing; now at least you can say goodbye as hard as it may be we need to be grateful for the time for that," she says.
"If I died quickly I would neither have this torment of knowing nor would I have the herculean task of attempting to parent Harry for the rest of his life in a few months time when in fact I have not been able to do that in the past sixteen years," I growl. As always, Richard has it easier. He didn't have to bid any of us farewell he just left. I'm the one left to pick up pieces, to fix things, always.
"Did the doctor say—a few months?" she asks, quietly.
"No, I don't know, I just left."
"Henry!"
"God knows when he'll take me, no mortal man can predict that. I'm through with their poison and their lies and their treatment and their false hope, I'd sooner die tonight in my own home than spend a few months a slave to their machines," I growl.
"Okay," she sighs.
"Tell Harry the prognosis; in a few fucking hours I'm sure he'll have a thesis written on and ten medicines he thinks I should take," I growl.
"I realize you're being sarcastic because he really exhausts you, but I want to know so I'm actually going to do that."
"Oh, do you---would you like to talk to him—"
"No—,"
"Because I'll pay you-- fuck maybe he'll listen to you I just need you to tell him to stop being everything that he is at all times----here, how does four million dollars sound---?"
"You are talking to your son, period, end of story, he needs you. For the rest of his life to go all right, he needs you to do your best for him right now."
"While the rest of my life is hauntingly short?" I mutter.
"Yes, because as hard as this is and as mad as we are both going to be and as much of a wreck as I'm going to be once you're gone from me, we need to stay strong for them right now. Yeah, for your sake a quick death would be better but for the kids you get this so as long as you have left you're living for them," she says.
"How are you so strong?" I ask, staring out the window at the growing darkness.
"Because you need me right now and I'd like to do those kids some good right now and after you're gone then I can be a complete wreck and scream and lose my mind but right now that doesn't do you any good. That's for me, and you're still here so I'm holding it together for you," she says, taking as smooth a breath as she can manage.
"I'm not ready," I say, hearing my own voice shake, "I don't want this to be true I don't---why now? Nothing is ready if this is God's plan—"
"I don't have your answers. I don't even pretend to, my faith isn't the same as yours but—but I have to believe that things do happen according to their season. However much we don't want this to be yours."
"And if it's not? And this isn't a plan it's all just emptiness and ash?" I ask, staring at the steady lights of passing cars.
"Then we still do our best with it," she says, squeezing my arm again. It hurts but I do not wince I don't want her to remove her touch. "It's all we know how to do."
"I don't even know how to do that," I say, quietly.
"We will. We can be mad and angry in doses you get to do that now I get to do it after we lose you that's fine, but we're also going to take shifts and be practical for a bit. I don't pretend to know how you need to arrange your estate for the kids and all else—"
"I can manage that, that I can manage," I say, taking a deep breath, "I just need to look things over. I left Harry with a limited amount of work to do just watching a couple of accounts since he's in school, but if he handled that all right then maybe he can do it long term I don't ---I have to think."
"Okay, we'll probably get there early morning, do you want me to call ahead and tell them to stay home from school?"
"No, no, once I'm driving we'll make good time ow—" she shoves me for that, actually getting me to smile. "We'll get there before they leave. It's important, they need to go to school. I'm not gonna---I don't want to tell them. Not for a couple of days."
"Henry, they deserve to know. Keeping this from them won't make it not real."
"No, you don't understand, they're little monsters. I want them running around being horrible for a few more days, not worrying about me, I want to see them like that one more time," I sigh, "I'll tell them Saturday, that way Sunday we can talk with the priest, take them to church, let them ask questions that sort of thing without packing them off to school. Their mom wanted them in school; they're not starting cutting out because of this."
"Okay, yeah," she says, nodding, "Sounds good."
"Blanche is gonna know she's smart she's like her mom she knows what I'm thinking---can you drive the girls to school in the morning? And talk with them or whatever? They like you," for whatever reason the girls are suspiciously receptive to her. I'm suspicious, because Harry deputizes them for awful demon hell-child schemes, constantly; however they've been nice. "The boys won't ask, but the girls'll have questions and you can tell them that I'll explain how it went but I'm home now they're kinda small they need that shit repeated. The boys will just forget it they're guys they'll be fine until they're not but them girls are gonna keep thinking about it."
"Yeah, definitely, I'm glad to," she says, "Do you want me there on Saturday?"
"I was thinking yes if you will," I sigh, "Can you---I realize it's gonna only get worse and the kids don't----I'm not asking you to move in to be my nurse but—"
"I will be happy to stay, as much as you need, to help take care of you, you're right the kids don't need to worry about that and I am fine, I want to be with you," she says, putting a cool hand to my sweaty cheek. "Okay? That's what you get now; you get to ask me to do anything."
"Okay," I say, breathing deeply, "Yeah, I want you to stay."
"Okay. I'll drive the girls to school and go home and pack up and try to sleep for a few hours, we'll have dinner with the kids, you try to rest too, okay?" she asks.
"Of course," I'm not going to sleep I have ten thousand and one things that need doing and that's assuming Harry did as he was told while I was gone, which is something he has never been capable of doing ever.