Free In the Time of Kings by N. Gemini Sasson Page B

arc in front of them after they whoosh open the first time.
    Nine more minutes slog by. Outside, rain falls in marching walls of gray, slapping against the sidewalk and then bouncing up knee-high before coming back down again. Righteous anger fades to concern. I feel sick to my stomach with worry. I haven’t called Claire’s parents or her brother yet. What would I tell them? Why cause concern if she’s okay, if it’s just some random migraine that will pass?
    But if that’s all it is, why haven’t they let me stay with her? Why keep me here, fretting like a sailor’s wife?
    Somehow I find myself swallowed up by the vinyl couch again. There are other patients and their families waiting here. I’m aware of them, I hear them talking, some crying, but very little registers in my brain. Claire is all that matters. I can’t think of anything else.
    I dig my hands through my hair. My forehead sinks to my knees.
    “Mr. Sinclair?”
    I lift my head just enough to see a pair of sensible white shoes in front of me.
    “Are you Mr. Sinclair?” A woman wearing blue scrubs extends her hand. Several pens are jammed into the hip pockets of her lab coat, looking like they might all spill onto the floor at any moment. Her rich brown skin and ebony eyes indicate she’s of Indian descent. She can’t be much older than me. A surgical mask hangs loosely from around her neck.
    My grip is feeble as I stand, place my hand in hers and shake it. “How’s my wife?”
    Her smile is sympathetic. “I’m Dr. Nehru. Will you come with me, Mr. Sinclair? I think it would be better if we discussed her condition alone.”
    Oh God. Why not just tell me?
    My knees almost give out on me. In a daze, I follow her, a white-coated figure gliding through corridors of pale green, while machines beep from open doorways.
    Suddenly, I’m not sure I want to know just how bad off she is. Still, there’s a little twitch of hope deep inside my gut that won’t let me believe she’s going to be anything but okay. I have to hang on to that.

12
    NOT SO LONG AGO
    Balfour, Indiana — 2000
    H er skin is a translucent gray, thin as wet paper. I’m almost afraid to touch her, scared I might tear her open and all the life will pour right out of her. Her hair has thinned noticeably, little patches missing where clumps have fallen out from the ravages of the cancer. In a few short months, my mom has aged decades, not just in appearance, but in the way she moves and speaks. Gone are the smiles she saved for me alone, the praise she poured out over my grade card when my father has left the room, the easy conversations about everyday things. She barely eats, has quit her job, talks only when she has to, has even stopped arguing with Dad. I know she’s given up and is just waiting for the end. More than anything, it kills me that even I’m not reason enough for her to fight this terrible disease.
    Her cancer has metastasized to multiple organs. There is no hope. That bleakness pervades my life. Fills every breath.
    She opens her palm for me to hold her hand. I curl my fingers inside hers: warmth against the coldness. Her thin bluish lips tilt upward as she tries to smile, but the tubes coming out of her nose surrounded by white tape make it impossible and her mouth slips back downward.
    Her voice is as faint as a memory. “Someday you’ll understand, Ross.”
    The white sheets crinkle as I lean against the edge of the hospital bed, trying to get closer so I can hear her better. “Understand what?”
    “Him.”
    She’s full of painkillers. It’s just the drugs talking.
    She winces, grasping my hand with amazing strength, as if to anchor herself in the here and now. I turn to call a nurse, but she grips my hand harder still. “Maybe someday you’ll even ... forgive him.”
    Not a chance in hell.
    The pillow seems to swallow her head as she tips her chin up to gaze at the plain white ceiling. “We all have a past. Some people just can’t let go of it.”
    I say