The Clock Strikes Midnight

Chapter 1

        “It’s a fast growing tumor, Miss Knox,” Dr. Mills told Janie. “Hard to detect early, I’m afraid.” 

        His words—chemotherapy, death, prognosis—collided in her head and buzzed around as if lost. 

        She had done some wicked things in her life. It serves me right to die young.

        “How much time do I have?” She swallowed the heaviness in her throat. Stay focused. Don’t panic. 

        He fiddled with the stethoscope around his neck. “That’s hard to say.” 

        How they must hate telling people they’re going to die. “Listen, doctor, I need to know. I’ve got things to do.” 

        “Unfortunately, I can’t be too precise. We do have counselors who can help you put things in order, if that’s what you mean.” He reached for the prescription pad. 

        “Can’t you give me some idea?”

        "These things are hard to predict. Some people live as few as three months, and others make it longer, maybe even a year.” 

        She stared at the wall behind him where he had hung his diploma, illegible from her vantage point. Her life with Sue Anne had been too good. This was God’s punishment for all the bad things. Three months. “And there’s nothing you can do?” 

        “We could operate, but to be honest—and you asked me to be honest—it might just add a few more months, maybe guarantee you a year. Or, there is the risk of dying in surgery.” He paused and shook his head. “Personally, I wouldn’t recommend chemo, not at this stage. I’m sorry. You can always get a second opinion, though. I’d be glad to make a referral.” 

        “That won’t be necessary.” 

        He scrawled something on his pad. “Is there anyone you’d like me to call?” 

        She got up, surprised her legs held her. “No, thanks.” 

        He handed her the prescription. “This will help with the pain.” 

        She left the doctor’s office and drove directly to the drug store on the corner. While waiting for the prescription, her mind played out what she had to do. Go home. Pack. She couldn’t face Sue Anne, who would insist on knowing everything. Janie had things to take care of. Things she had put off for too long.

        Three months, the voice in the back of her head said. My God! I need more time.

        She took the bag of meds from the faceless pharmacist and raced home. 

        Once there, she pulled down the hidden staircase and climbed into the attic where cobwebs stretched across the beams above her head. Her flashlight shone on the rows of boxes, a Lava lamp, and an old black and white TV she and Sue Anne had stowed when they moved in nearly twelve years earlier. Such a beautiful day that had been. 

        Brushing the cobwebs from her face, she edged her way toward a container the size of a shoebox. She had hidden it there while Sue Anne was busy unloading the van and arguing with the movers. She blew off a thick layer of dust—twitching her nose to keep from sneezing—and lifted the lid. She rummaged inside until her hand caught hold of the gold-inlaid music box she was looking for, turned it upside down, and peeled off the adhesive holding a flat, narrow key. 

        Ten minutes later, she tossed an overnight suitcase and the music box into the trunk of her bright red Honda Accord and took off.