Limited Love

Chapter 7

“Her tumour has been completely removed because she took the drugs you refuse to take—the ones that will save your life.”
I tie my laces a little too tightly when thinking of Harry’s tactics earlier today. I understand what he was hoping to achieve but talk about an ambush. Regardless of what he thinks, I’m not Erin. I’m also not his lab rat. It may have worked for her, but it won’t work for me. Endless doctors have told me that, so the odds are not in his favour.
But it appears he believes that if I were to undergo the new trials, I’d be too stubborn and headstrong not to see it through. I would give it my all, and chances are, if what Harry says is true, I would survive.
Unable to think about this without wanting to throw up, I step out into the hallway, ready to spend the rest of the afternoon with the kids. But when I round the corner, I bump into June. She’s holding a cup of coffee, which I thankfully don’t spill all over her cream blouse.
“Oh, my god! I am so sorry!” I wipe away the imaginary coffee drops on her arm.
She chuckles, holding her cup out to the side. “That’s quite okay, Sophie. I’m actually glad I bumped into you. Do you have a moment?”
“Sure.” Once I’m satisfied she’s blemish-free, I remove my hand.
She glances down the long hallway. Although empty, she hints she’d like to talk in private. “Would you like to chat in my office?”
“Of course.” I can’t help but wonder why the secrecy, but I follow as she strolls down the hall. Her black high heels sound elegantly against the plush carpet. My heavy, uneven footsteps distinguish our differences.
She steps inside the small but homey office, taking a seat in the high-back leather chair. I close the door behind me, standing with my hands locked behind my back as I look out the large window. A stunning rose garden just beyond the pines boasts a picturesque burst of colors. From this distance, I couldn’t even begin to speculate just how many rose bushes sit perfectly erect. Their formation rivals the most scrupulous marching band.
This view is beyond words, and if June spins her chair, she can gaze out into all that she owns and witness the impact she has had on so many.
“Please, take a seat.” She points at the leather chair in front of her, disrupting my thoughts.
I do.
As I shift to get comfortable, I notice a decorative frame resting on the heavy oak desk. The photograph is of a young, mousy-haired girl who looks to be no older than ten. The picture captures her standing near the very lake I can see if I peer out the window, holding a huge fish dangling from a fishing pole. She looks happy and carefree.
“That’s my daughter,” she reveals with a faraway tenor.
“She’s adorable.”
“She was.”
Her use of past tense has my eyebrows shooting up into my hairline. The reality has an ache eating away at my heart. I gently rub over it, pained for June.
“She passed away when she was thirteen.” She confirms my worst fears. “From a congenital heart defect. A hole in the heart,” she clarifies. How ironic, as I’m sure that’s what June feels daily.
“I am so”—my voice grows quieter, tears stinging my eyes—“so sorry.” The reason for June’s harrowing cries has been uncovered.
“Thank you.” She dabs at the corner of her wet eye with her index finger. “It was a long time ago.”
“But I bet it still feels like yesterday?” I offer as I know this kind of loss is eternal.
“Yes.” Running her finger over the glass, she reveals, “That’s why Strawberry Fields exists—in honour of my daughter. She was always a sick child, and the frequent hospital visits made her worse. I could see she hated being treated like a sick person, but sadly, back in those days, there were no real options on where she could go. The hospital was the only place she could receive around-the-clock care. It didn’t make a difference in the end.”
The layers of grief to her voice have me chewing the inside of my cheek to stop me from breaking down.
“So that’s why I created this place.” She sweeps her arm outward. “I wanted young people, who were just like my daughter, to be able to find comfort in a place that wasn’t a sterile hospital room. I wanted them not to miss out on all the things people their age did. Scarlett missed so much.” Her longing is clear. “Her days were filled with doctors’ appointments and tests when they should have been filled with fresh air and fun. I can’t bring her back, but I can make her memory live on through people like you and everyone who walks through these doors.” She smiles nostalgically.
When I think I can speak without bawling like a baby, I state, “Strawberry Fields is a beautiful tribute to your daughter. I think she would have loved it here.”
“Thank you, Sophie.” She wipes away a stray tear, embarrassed. “Anyhow”—she clears her throat— “believe it or not, that’s not why I asked you in here.” I’m thankful for the change of pace until I hear the topic. “I wanted to discuss your fainting episode.”
My back straightens, and all sentiment flies out the window. “I’m so sorry. I completely understand if you want me to leave.”
“Leave? Good god, no. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. Can I do anything for you? We have some doctors who could…”
But I wave her off. “Thank you so much for the offer, but I’ve had enough of doctors.” Especially one in particular. “That’s not why I came here.”
“Of course. But please know how much I appreciate you being here. What you said last night…” She pulls in her lips in an effort not to cry. “It showed everyone just how strong you are. You belong here, and I’m so thankful that you are.”
Her admission means so much to me. “Thank you for giving me this opportunity. I know I’m not the ideal candidate for the job.”
“You’re perfect,” she interrupts. “Dr. Archibald also agrees.”
“Really?” I raise a brow, intrigued.
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m sure Dr. Archibald was pleased someone agreed with him for a change.” I chew the inside of my cheek, afraid I’ve shared too much.
But she reads my body language. “Go easy on him. His practices may be…unconventional,” she settles on, searching for the right word. “But he means well. He has everyone’s best interests at heart.”
When she sees me mulling over what she just revealed, she shocks me even further by reaching for her coffee. She takes a composing sip and says, “He wants to save the world. That’s his problem, Sophie.”
She doesn’t explain what that means, leaving me with more questions than answers. I want to ask her so many things, but I don’t because I’m afraid I won’t like her reply. Her pink lips form a small frown as she turns her chair and sips her coffee while looking out the window. It’s my cue to leave.
“Thanks, June. For everything.” She simply nods in response.
I wonder if she has any other children, but the missing happy snaps of another child or even a husband reveals that it’s only her—how incredibly sad. That must be the reason she throws herself into work. She has no family, just us, and even then, we leave, some more tragically than others.
June erected this place to pay homage to her daughter. She really loved her. All I can picture is my mother throwing a celebratory party in my honour.
Unable to think about this without getting heartburn, I venture to the happiest place on earth that doesn’t involve mouse ears—a library. Two levels with floor-to-ceiling bookcases bursting with books are what I’m faced with.
A few people are tucked away in their own private nooks, entranced in the pages of whatever world they want to get lost in. My fingers itch, excited to uncover a new adventure and lose myself before my volleyball lesson starts in thirty minutes.
I make my way over to the spiral staircase but stop when a computer workstation catches my eye.
“Because he wants to save the world. That’s his problem.”
What does that mean? Why do I feel there is a hidden message behind her words?
“Only one way to find out,” subconscious Georgia says.
Biting my lip, I glimpse at the staircase, then over at the computers. Repeat. I need to keep walking up those stairs and not stalk Harry…said no one ever.
I’m over at the computer and pulling out a chair before I can berate myself for making an impulse decision sure to end badly. No one is around me, so I have all the privacy I need, which is a dangerous, dangerous thing.
Peering over my shoulder to ensure no one is looking, I click on the web browser, the flashing cursor taunting me with each blink. I’ve come this far, so there’s no backing out now, but what exactly do I want to know?
My fingers dither over the keys, knowing this is a mistake. Chickening out, I research something which is just as scary as finding dirt on Harry. I don’t know where to start, so I decided to go back to the basics.
The keys whine in protest as I type the words: clinical trial results for high-grade glioblastomas. Pages upon pages load before my eyes, and I get an uncanny sense of déjà vu. This takes me back to sitting in my bedroom in Manhattan, researching methodically until the sun went down and then came back up again.
I skim over the top hits, not wanting to get my hopes up. The chemo drugs Dr. Carter wanted me to take, the same ones Erin took, keep popping up in my feed. I open one page and then another, comparing and analysing the results. Each case study is different, but the odds for people like me…aren’t as bleak as they once were. Out of one hundred case studies, eight individuals were “cured.” I’m apprehensive about using that word because cured can be interpreted in many ways.
Two out of that eight were cured, meaning they no longer had a brain tumour because the inoperable became operable. For the other six, their tumours were downgraded to low grade. It doesn’t detail what the remaining ninety-two subjects’ results were, but I’m suddenly curious.
Eight percent had positive results, and it all comes down to the common denominator—they were all on the same trial drugs Georgia and I were on before they were put on the new experimental medication. Their results were similar to mine, and they then were a candidate for the next stage, the stage I opted out of because I was too chickenshit to try.
Closing fourteen of the fifteen tabs I have open, I take a deep breath, suddenly feeling faint. I can’t do this again. I can’t have false hope. Needing a distraction, I speedily type into the search engine: Dr. Harry Archibald.
Not exactly ethical but a distraction.
I’m swamped with pages of global Harry Archibalds, but nothing on the good doctor. I continue searching, determined to uncover something, no matter how small. As I’m scrolling through page three, I see a match that could be a winner. I click on the link, drumming my fingernails on the desk while waiting for it to load.
Just as I’m about to give up, I almost inhale my tongue when those hypnotic eyes flash onto the screen. It’s an article from some medical journal, detailing the doctor’s career.
He went to NYU—no surprise there—acing all of his subjects and graduating at the top of his class. It says his current work location is St. Mary’s Hospital, specialising in cancer research and treatment. Hobbies include a whole bunch of boring as they’ve left that question blank, by default, no doubt.
On paper, Dr. Archibald appears the perfect specimen, but something is missing. Steepling my fingers underneath my chin, I wonder what that is. This blueprint is flawed. There is no backstory, and I know from my experience in researching many doctors over the years that most like to brag. Most like to detail every accomplishment linked to their name, and I know for a fact Harry was involved with Erin’s case, which I’m sure was something talked about in the medical world.
Something is rotten in Denmark.
I continue scrolling through the pages until I see a Facebook page that has me hovering over the link. Call it woman’s intuition, but I click on it and try not to holler in smugness when I see a profile picture of Harry carrying a Golden Retriever like a baby. Both look beyond elated.
I’m disappointed when the profile is private. How can I carry on snooping now?
All I can see apart from his photo is that he grew up in Buffalo, New York, and that holy shit, his birthday is in two weeks. He’s turning thirty.
I get lost in those eyes, wondering what secrets he holds, like who took this picture. He looks happy, genuinely happy. It’s a side I haven’t seen since I met him. Not that I can blame him.
“You know…” The moment I hear those words, I want to thump my head against the desk, hoping to render myself unconscious. “You really shouldn’t believe everything you read.”
Stupidly, I attempt to close the page, but in my haste, I instead minimise it and open the medical journal findings on brain tumours that have been cured. This website was once my go-to, but now I want it to go to hell.
Both pages are just as bad as the other because both reveal I was thinking about Harry. This really couldn’t get any more embarrassing. That is, until a pop-up flashes across my screen, detailing how stalkers.com has found over five hundred hits on my current search—one Dr. Harry Archibald.
I turn the screen in horror, my face blistering a beet red.
He stands behind me. I’m almost suffocated by his smugness. I can handle this one of two ways— I can tell him the truth, or I can lie.
“It was like that when I got here.” Watch my nose grow.
To corroborate my story, I spin slower than a snail and give Harry the best guiltless look I can muster. He no doubt sees through my lie but doesn’t address my big fat tall tale.
Now that it’s out there, I don’t see the point in wasting this opportunity. Tapping my chin, I stare blankly, “I took you for a cat person.” He blinks once before his mouth curves into a sinful smirk. “So, what’s his name?”
“Freud.”
I cock an eyebrow. “You named your fur baby after a mama's boy who had an unhealthy obsession with phalluses?”
He runs a hand through his hair, attempting to hide his smile. “It was either that or Dr. Jekyll. But I wasn’t interested in a two-for-one deal.”
Now I’m the one to smile.
He stands over me with both hands dug deep into his pants pockets while I lean back in my seat, smouldering under his heated stare. “I haven’t had a chance to commend you on your public speaking. Your mother would be jealous. You’d completely upstage her.”
I know he’s talking about my impromptu speech last night because Camille Van Allen is a motivational speaker for women who have hit rock bottom. Her job is to inspire and encourage. Too bad she’s full of shit.
I beam as any jab at my mother makes me happy.
So, he’s done his homework—interesting. It looks like we’ve both exhausted stalkers.com. “Thank you.”
He remains stone-faced. “It takes courage, Sophie…” He pauses before adding, “But we both know how courageous you are.” His double-edged sword has me squirming.
We still haven’t addressed the Erin incident, or the fact he’s caught me researching the very drugs he believes can save my life. I could ask him about them. I mean, he is a doctor. He has all the information I need. But I don’t. I can’t. All I can think of are the remaining ninety-two case studies. What happened to them? Are they happy, regretful, or are they pessimistic like me?
June made it clear Harry wants to save the world, but I’m beyond saving.