She laughed again. “We must never tell dad about this moment. He’ll use it as proof that we get along.”
“We can’t have him knowing that, can we?” I hugged her tight, and to my surprise, she let me. She even hugged me back.
When we parted, I asked, “Do you want to come make a video about how to cover up your bald cancer head fashionably?”
“No power on earth could get me to be in a video, sorry,” she said, wiping her eyes.
“Then you can just hold the camera.” I put out my hand when I got to my feet, and helped her up.
“If I do it, will you promise to never tell my father that I expressed genuine concern and love for him?” she asked with an arched brow.
“I promise.” I crossed my heart, too.
I didn’t have to tell Neil. I was absolutely sure he already knew.
CHAPTER TWENTY -THREE
After a while, it began to feel like the transplant would never happen. It only took twenty-seven days to get down to “day zero,” the day they thawed out Neil’s stem cells and put them back in his body. But that was twenty-seven days of protective isolation, crazy hand-washing, and paper masks. Twenty-seven days of mouth sores and drastic weight loss, insomnia and fatigue.
But we were finally there. And it was all going to be worth it.
Emma was already at the hospital when I arrived. She was sitting in the chair beside Neil’s bed, absolutely slathering her hands and forearms with hand sanitizer. She tossed me the bottle and I rubbed some on myself. After the high dose chemo, Neil had the immune system of a premature baby.
“Happy day zero,” he said, motioning me over to his bedside. His words were slightly muffled by a paper mask over his nose and mouth.
I kissed the air beside his cheek and squeezed his hand. “Are you ready to be cancer free, baby?”
“Oh, I am. I most definitely am.” He patted the bed beside him. “Give me a cuddle, before they come to jab at me.”
“They’re not going to jab at you,” Emma told him in her long-suffering, super-practical voice. “They’re going to stick the thing into your catheter.”
“Are we going to be able to stay with you?” I asked. If he was just getting an IV bag full of cells, then I didn’t see what the big deal was.
“I hope so, though I’m afraid they’ll say no. Technically, I’m not supposed to be touching you. They practically scrubbed me down with a wire brush this morning,” he informed me happily.
“He was a little nervous, so they gave him something,” Emma explained.
“I thought I recognized the sound of sedated Neil.” I stood up. “If I’m not supposed to be touching you, then I’m moving.”
“When I get out of this hospital, I’m going to touch you,” Neil declared.
Emma shot to her feet. “Okay, daddy, I’ll see you after.”
“I’ll be out in a minute,” I said with a laugh.
“This is it,” Neil said, once Emma had gone. He folded his hands in his lap, and from the creases at the corners of his eyes above the mask, I could tell he was smiling. “This is what we’ve been working for.”
“And the day is finally here,” I agreed, sitting beside his legs on the bed. I squeezed his ankle through the blanket. Though it was exciting to be moving on to the next phase of treatment, it was scary, too; the transplant brought its own dangers with it. Even though the autologous transplant carried fewer dangers than if he received cells from a donor, he still ran the risk of infection, organ failure, or the engraftment of the cells could fail. He was at the finish line, but he could still stumble.
“I was a bit apprehensive, but now I feel fine.” He took a deep breath through the mask. “I’m ready, Sophie. If I have some terrible reaction or I get an infection and die, I can honestly say that I’ve spent the last part of my life exactly the way I wanted to.”
I sat up a little straighter, frowning. “Really?”
“Absolutely. I’ve been able to spend it with you. We went to Paris and did all sorts of naughty things...” His voice trailed off. He fell suddenly serious. “Sophie, promise that you’ll stay in touch with Emma. With all of my family, really.”
“I don’t know your family, Neil.” I patted his leg. “Besides, you’re not going anywhere. You’re not going to quit a marathon before the finish line.”
“I’ve never run a marathon.” He frowned. “Write that down, Sophie. I want to run a marathon.”
“I’m not your assistant anymore,” I reminded him.
Dr. Grant entered the room with a perfunctory knock. “Good morning, Mr. Elwood. Are you ready for your new cells?”
“They’re my old cells, they’re just being put onto a clean slate,” Neil corrected.