Free Pieces of Hate by Ray Garton Page B

not remission. That takes time. First, the cancer stabilizes, it reaches a plateau. It just sort of . . . stops spreading. Then, over a period of time, it begins to diminish. But only over a period of time. A week, two weeks, three weeks, depending on the cancer, on the patient.” He sipped his coffee again. “It does not, however, simply . . . disappear. But for reasons I not only don’t understand but am not sure I even believe,” he chuckled nervously, shaking his head, “your sister’s cancer has vanished.”
    Margaret emptied a packet of artificial sweetener into her non-dairy lightened coffee and stirred slowly. “Have you ever seen something like this before?” she asked, still trying to fight those giggles back, those delighted, childish, giddy giggles. She sipped her coffee.
    “Well, something like this is really quite impossible, so it goes without saying that I’ve never seen it before. I just don’t understand why — ”
    Margaret suddenly sprayed coffee as her giggles finally burst out into her cup.
    “You okay?” Dr. Plummer asked her as she lowered her cup and grabbed a napkin from the dispenser on the table.
    Margaret wiped her lips, still giggling.
    “Is something wrong? Are you all right?”
    She couldn’t stop giggling.
    “Margaret?”
    She alternated between giggling and coughing for a moment, then asked, “You mean, what’s happened to my sister has never happened before?” She pressed a fist over her mouth to stifle any further giggles.
    “Not to my knowledge. In fact, just a few minutes ago, I consulted another doctor, one of my colleagues, another oncologist. I described the situation to him, the whole thing, and . . . he laughed at me. He was eating a candy bar, and he walked away, just laughing and chewing. Didn’t say a word. I’m either going to be the laughing stock of the medical profession or my name, as well as your sister’s, will be on the lips of medical students long after I’m dead. I’m not sure which. What do you think, Margaret?”
    “What do I think?” she asked with an escaped giggle. “I’m in advertising, not medicine.”
    “Yes, that may be. But I can’t help wondering . . .”
    She was still smiling, but her giggling fit had passed for the time being. “Wondering? Wondering what?”
    “Well, um . . .” He leaned back in his plastic orange chair and ran a finger-splayed hand through his hair as he sighed. “You know, when I was in medical school, it was just a given that every single professor, every one of those old graybearded doctors, had a Twilight Zone story to tell. That’s what we called them. Twilight Zone stories.”
    “And exactly what were these Twilight Zone stories?”
    He reached over to the bowl of cellophane wrapped crackers in the center of the table, tore one open and took a bite, chewing rapidly, like a squirrel.
    “I had this one old doctor who told us — the class, I mean — about a guy who not only had advanced cancer of the liver, but also a gangrenous leg. He lived in the hills in an old cabin and had never had so much as a physical exam when this doctor got a hold of him. So, the guy’s not only going to lose his leg, he’s going to die. He goes to an evangelical revival. You know, one of those tent things? The preacher claimed to be a healer. Now, the next time the doctor sees this guy, the gangrene’s gone . . . and so is the cancer. Both of them, just gone. The doctor freaks and asks the guy what happened. When he tells the doctor about the preacher, the doctor immediately tries to reach this healer. But he’s already left town, and nobody knows where he’s going next. He never found the preacher, and he never understood how that hillbilly was cured so suddenly when he was not only going to lose a leg, but die soon as well. So. What do you make of that, Margaret?”
    “You’re right. Sounds like a Twilight Zone episode. But what’s it got to do with Lynda’s cancer?”
    “All I’m saying is that there