My heart was racing the longer he took. Finally, he put down the folder and he looked squarely at my face.
“I’m afraid your erythrocyte count has continued to decline, Lindsay. You can see the trend line here.”
Medved passed me a sheet.
Leaning forward, he took a Cross pen out of his breast pocket. The paper had a computer graph on it.
He traced the pattern with his pen. The line went steadily down. Shit.
I felt the air rush out of my lungs with disappointment. “I’m getting worse,” I said.
“To be frank,” the doctor acknowledged, “it’s not the trend we were hoping for.”
I had ignored the possibility that this might happen, burying myself in the case, sure that the numbers would improve. I had built this view on a natural trust that I was too young and energetic to be truly sick. I had work to do, important work, a life to live.
I was dying, wasn’t I? Oh, God.
“What happens now?” I managed to say. My voice came out as a whisper.
“I want to continue with the treatments,” Medved replied. “In fact, increase them. Sometimes these things take a while to kick in.”
“Super hi-test,” I joked glumly.
He nodded. “From this point on, I’d like you to come in three times a week. And I’m going to increase the dosage by thirty percent.” He shifted his weight off the counter. “In and of itself, there’s no immediate cause for alarm,” he declared in a marginally uplifting tone. “You can continue to work — that is, if you feel up to it.”
“I have to work,” I told Medved.
Chapter 66
I DROVE HOME IN A DAZE. One moment I was battling to unravel this damned case, and the next I was fighting for my life.
I wanted a name. I wanted it now more than ever. And I wanted my life back. I wanted a shot at the whole deal — happiness, success, someone to share it with, a child. And now that I had met Raleigh, I knew there was a chance that I could have these things. If I could hold out. If I could will good cells into my body.
I went into my apartment. Sweet Martha was all over me, so I took her for a short walk. But then I moped around, alternating between resolve to fight through this mess and sadness that I couldn’t. I even contemplated making a meal. I thought it would calm me.
I took out an onion and cut two desultory slices. Then I realized how crazy it all was.
I needed to talk to someone. I wanted to shout, I don’tfucking deserve this, and this time I wanted someone to hear it.
I thought of Chris, his comforting arms around me. His eyes, his smile. I wished I could tell him. He would come in an instant. I could rest my head on his shoulder.
I called Claire. She could tell from my first tremulous sound. She realized something was terribly wrong.
“I’m scared,” was all I said.
We talked for an hour on the phone. I talked.
I went back and forth with Claire in a numbed state — panicked by the impending nearness of Negli’s next stage. I told Claire that nailing this bastard gave me the will to fight on. It separated me from being just another person who was sick. I had a special purpose.
“Has that changed for you, Lindsay?” she asked softly.
“No, I want to get him more than ever.”
“Then that’s what we’re going to do. You, me, little Cindy. We’re here to help you fight. We’re your support, Lindsay. Just this one time, don’t try to do it yourself.”
In an hour, she had calmed me enough so we could say good-night.
I curled up on the couch. Martha and I snuggled under a blanket and watched the movie Dave. One of my favorites. When Sigourney Weaver visits Kevin Kline in his new campaign office at the end, it always makes me cry.