eventually.
"Shoot."
"Are you okay?"
"Stomach bug," I say, feeling as if I might bring up some more bile at any moment.
"Bullshit," he replies. "How many stomach bugs can one person have, Joanna? It's like you get one every other week." He waits for me to say something. "We've known each other for a while. I'd like to think that if there was something wrong, you'd tell me."
"There's nothing wrong," I say firmly, trying not to sound too annoyed. I've been expecting Dawson to start asking questions, and I've been aware for a while that he's been giving me suspicious looks. He knows me well enough to be concerned, and he also knows about my history. "Can't a woman vomit in peace these days?" I ask.
"It's not..." He pauses. "It's not back, is it?"
"No," I mutter.
"You'd tell me, right?" he continues. "If your cancer was back, you'd tell me."
"Of course," I lie.
"It's just that -"
"I'm fine!" I say, raising my voice a little. Damn it, I need to stay calm, otherwise he's going to be certain that something's wrong. "I guess I'm just unlucky," I continue. "I've got a sensitive stomach, and I ate a dodgy curry last night. It's not a big deal, and it's definitely not cancer. Do you seriously think I'd be able to keep cancer a secret? You saw how sick I got the last time."
"I guess," he replies. "Sorry. You know I was only asking 'cause I'm worried about you."
"Worry about giving me some privacy instead," I tell him, keen to get him out of here. "I'll be out soon and you can tell me how the case is going, and I can point out all the mistakes you're making. Until then, I just need to bring up this bad curry in peace and quiet, without an audience."
"Sure," he replies, and moments later I hear the door swing shut. Worried that he might be loitering, I lean down and look under the stall door, but sure enough I see that the rest of the bathroom is empty. Leaning back over the toilet bowl, I stare down at the water and realize that I can't keep going like this. There are only so many times I can claim to have food poisoning or a stomach bug before people like Dawson refuse to believe me. Still, I can't tell the truth. Not yet, anyway. I feel as if I need to keep everyone at arm's length, and the lie provides a barrier. Telling the whole truth would make me feel to bare and raw. Right now, I just need to get over this latest bout of nausea, and then I'll be okay. Until the next chemotherapy session, anyway. As I feel the fog start to settle in my mind, I realize that I just have to wait it out. These foggy moments never last too long, although they're definitely coming more frequently.
I'm starting to wonder if maybe I should just stop the chemotherapy altogether.
Dr. Alice Huston
"Nine hours," says a voice nearby.
Glancing over my shoulder, I find that Harry Gillespie has managed to sidle over to me without making a sound, and now he's grinning like an idiot. I'd hoped to get some peace and quiet in the campus library today, seeing as it's Saturday and most of the students should be sleeping off hangovers at home. I guess I hadn't counted on the fact that members of staff can be every bit as irritating as the student body.
"Don't tell me you're participating in the media frenzy," I mutter, turning back to my laptop screen.
"Seriously?" Harry replies, reaching over and grabbing my Sam Gazade mug. "You've got your coffee in this thing, and you're going to lecture me on post-modern social phenomena?" He holds the mug up to the light, before running the tip of his finger across the black and white image of Gazade's face. "This is cheap crap, Alice. It'll start coming off as soon as you wash it. Some guy was probably sticking these on in his garage last night. If you're gonna buy serial killer souvenirs, at least splash some cash for something that'll survive the dishwasher."
"I was just curious," I reply testily, unable to muster much enthusiasm for this conversation. "There was a guy selling all sorts of crap down at by
"Shoot."
"Are you okay?"
"Stomach bug," I say, feeling as if I might bring up some more bile at any moment.
"Bullshit," he replies. "How many stomach bugs can one person have, Joanna? It's like you get one every other week." He waits for me to say something. "We've known each other for a while. I'd like to think that if there was something wrong, you'd tell me."
"There's nothing wrong," I say firmly, trying not to sound too annoyed. I've been expecting Dawson to start asking questions, and I've been aware for a while that he's been giving me suspicious looks. He knows me well enough to be concerned, and he also knows about my history. "Can't a woman vomit in peace these days?" I ask.
"It's not..." He pauses. "It's not back, is it?"
"No," I mutter.
"You'd tell me, right?" he continues. "If your cancer was back, you'd tell me."
"Of course," I lie.
"It's just that -"
"I'm fine!" I say, raising my voice a little. Damn it, I need to stay calm, otherwise he's going to be certain that something's wrong. "I guess I'm just unlucky," I continue. "I've got a sensitive stomach, and I ate a dodgy curry last night. It's not a big deal, and it's definitely not cancer. Do you seriously think I'd be able to keep cancer a secret? You saw how sick I got the last time."
"I guess," he replies. "Sorry. You know I was only asking 'cause I'm worried about you."
"Worry about giving me some privacy instead," I tell him, keen to get him out of here. "I'll be out soon and you can tell me how the case is going, and I can point out all the mistakes you're making. Until then, I just need to bring up this bad curry in peace and quiet, without an audience."
"Sure," he replies, and moments later I hear the door swing shut. Worried that he might be loitering, I lean down and look under the stall door, but sure enough I see that the rest of the bathroom is empty. Leaning back over the toilet bowl, I stare down at the water and realize that I can't keep going like this. There are only so many times I can claim to have food poisoning or a stomach bug before people like Dawson refuse to believe me. Still, I can't tell the truth. Not yet, anyway. I feel as if I need to keep everyone at arm's length, and the lie provides a barrier. Telling the whole truth would make me feel to bare and raw. Right now, I just need to get over this latest bout of nausea, and then I'll be okay. Until the next chemotherapy session, anyway. As I feel the fog start to settle in my mind, I realize that I just have to wait it out. These foggy moments never last too long, although they're definitely coming more frequently.
I'm starting to wonder if maybe I should just stop the chemotherapy altogether.
Dr. Alice Huston
"Nine hours," says a voice nearby.
Glancing over my shoulder, I find that Harry Gillespie has managed to sidle over to me without making a sound, and now he's grinning like an idiot. I'd hoped to get some peace and quiet in the campus library today, seeing as it's Saturday and most of the students should be sleeping off hangovers at home. I guess I hadn't counted on the fact that members of staff can be every bit as irritating as the student body.
"Don't tell me you're participating in the media frenzy," I mutter, turning back to my laptop screen.
"Seriously?" Harry replies, reaching over and grabbing my Sam Gazade mug. "You've got your coffee in this thing, and you're going to lecture me on post-modern social phenomena?" He holds the mug up to the light, before running the tip of his finger across the black and white image of Gazade's face. "This is cheap crap, Alice. It'll start coming off as soon as you wash it. Some guy was probably sticking these on in his garage last night. If you're gonna buy serial killer souvenirs, at least splash some cash for something that'll survive the dishwasher."
"I was just curious," I reply testily, unable to muster much enthusiasm for this conversation. "There was a guy selling all sorts of crap down at by
Similar Books
The Sixteen
John Urwin
Bone Harvest
Mary Logue
North of Nowhere
Liz Kessler
The Boyfriend League
Rachel Hawthorne
City Living
Will McIntosh
Pawleys Island-lowcountry 5
Dorothea Benton Frank
Jack Frake
Edward Cline
Raw Deal (Bite Back)
Mark Henwick
Turn of the Century
Kurt Andersen