A Healer's War

Chapter 42 - Relapse

Chapter 42: Relapse

19:15. Friday - April 27th.

Rory slipped into Room 4 and walked to the sink to wash his hands. He paused before flipping on the hot water and turned. "Mr. Oates, I'm so sorry about Tracy."

Mr. Oates looked up from the bedside. His sharp brown eyes matched his suit and didn't carry the same brightness they had at the waterfront. His grey hair was roughly kempt as if brushed over quickly by hands and water. He gave a weak smile and leaned down to kiss Tracy's forehead. Rory noted his skin had more color than the sheets, but as poor as the old man looked, his granddaughter fared worse. Tracy was flushed red and blotchy with a sweat-slicked and tangled mane of brown hair. Rory didn't need to be a nurse to see that she looked septic, but her vitals told him the rest of the story. With her tumor looking this bad, she had maybe a week.

"Mr. Nash, Rory," Mr. Oates said without taking his eyes off Tracy. "I'm glad we have you tonight. She would be happy you're here." He looked up and sighed. "She would have told you that your toilet paper strategy worked wonderfully—until today, at least." He wiped a sweaty strand from her face.

"We'll get her better, Mr. Oates. I'll be with you all night."

When he met his eyes, Rory saw a shine of hope beneath his bushy brows. The shine vanished, stealing his smile with it. Mr. Oates turned back to Tracy and adjusted her blanket. "May I tell you a story? One about Tracy? You've seen her... persistence in action. I think you'll appreciate it."

Rory pulled a paper towel and dried his hands. "Absolutely."

"Just before Tracy's cancer diagnosis, she was five, mind you. And in a puppy phase. Everything was dogs. Sheets, backpacks, pajamas, all of it. The nannies told me often she asked for one, but I refused. Well, a few weeks before her fatigue started, I learned she'd talked our kitchen staff into setting food aside for a stray she snuck home." Mr. Oates smiled. "Tracy has always been a strong negotiator."

Rory chuckled. "She's a tough kid." He tossed his wet towel in the trash and went about his initial assessment.

Mr. Oates shook his head with a smile. "I found her in the greenhouse one afternoon, sneaking that skinny thing some lunchmeat. It was one sorry dog - mange, a broken tooth, and one eye. Tracy wanted to help it, but I said no and thought that was the end. But she would not give up. All day she talked about that dog, how it brought her sticks and chased the birds. On and on, she drove me mad."

Writing her vitals into her chart, Rory laughed. "She badgered you into it."

Mr. Oates' smile returned. "Badgered? Ha, that would have been civil. She plagued me with guilt. But yes, I caved by the next afternoon, but with strict conditions. She had to take care of its... business. I would have none of it. And she would feed it and keep it clean. Can you guess how she did?"

"Hmm." Rory stroked his chin dramatically. "She forgot?" He inspected the bags of clear IV fluid hanging beside Tracy's bed and jotted down the rates to double-check with the orders.

"That's what I would have said too, but that dog made a miraculous recovery. Tracy fed her by hand, read her stories, and swindled treats and toys from me. She brought her back to life; that mangy dog is still part of our family. Probably curled up on my slippers back home."

Sounds like Sneaks, Rory thought with a smile. He traced the infusion lines down to Tracy's arm and inspected the catheter site through a transparent dressing. Clean, dry, and intact.

Mr. Oates waved his hand dismissively. "My point. After she got sick, that mangy stray gave me the idea for the Oates Children's Foundation. Together, those two taught me how one more chance can make all the difference."