gentle way he patted her foot under the blanket or the shadows around his eyes ...
When he casually suggested that Poppy's mother might want to "come for a little walk down the hall," Poppy's suspicion crystallized.
He's going to tell her. He's got the results, but he doesn't want me to know.
Her plan was made in the same instant. She yawned and said, "Go on, Mom; I'm a little bit sleepy." Then she lay back and shut her eyes.
As soon as they were gone, she got off the bed. She watched their retreating backs as they went down the hall into another doorway. Then, in her stocking feet, she quietly followed them.
She was delayed for several minutes at the nursing station. "Just stretching my legs," she said to a nurse who looked inquiringly at her, and she pretended to be walking at random. When the nurse picked up a clipboard and went into one of the patient's rooms, Poppy hurried on down the corridor.
The room at the end was the waiting room--she'd seen it earlier. It had a TV and a complete kitchen setup so relatives could hang out in comfort. The door was ajar and Poppy approached it stealthily. She could hear the low rumble of Dr. Franklin's voice, but she couldn't hear what he was saying.
Very cautiously Poppy edged loser. She chanced one look around the door.
She saw at once that there was no need for cau tion. Everyone in that room was completely occupied.
Dr. Franklin was sitting on one of the couches. Beside him was an African-American woman with glasses on a chain around her neck. She was wearing the white coat of a doctor.
On the other couch was Poppy's stepfather, Cliff. His normally perfect dark hair was slightly mussed, his rock-steady jaw was working. He had his arm around her mother. Dr. Franklin was talking to both of them, his hand on her mother's shoulder.
And Poppy's mother was sobbing.
Poppy pulled back from the doorway.
Oh, my God. I've got it.
She'd never seen her mother cry before. Not when Poppy's grandmother had died, not during the di vorce from Poppy's father. Her mother's specialty was coping with things; she was the best coper Poppy had ever known.
But now ...
I've got it. I've definitely got it.
Still, maybe it wasn't so bad. Her mom was shocked, okay, that was natural. But it didn't mean that Poppy was going to die or anything. Poppy had all of modem medicine on her side.
She kept telling herself this as she edged away from the waiting room.
She didn't edge fast enough, though. Before she got out of earshot, she heard her mother's voice, raised in something like anguish.
"My baby. Oh, my little girl."
Poppy froze.
And then Cliff, loud and angry: "You're trying to tell me there's nothing?"
Poppy couldn't feel her own breathing. Against her will, she moved back to the door.
"Dr. Loftus is an oncologist; an expert on this sort of cancer. She can explain better than I can," Dr. Franklin was saying.
Then a new voice came-the other doctor. At first Poppy could only catch scattered phrases that didn't seem to mean anything: adenocarcinoma, splenic ve nous occlusion, Stage Three. Medical jargon. Then Dr. Loftus said, "To put it simply, the problem is that the tumor has spread. It's spread to the liver and the lymph nodes around the pancreas. That means it's unresectable-we can't operate."
Cliff said, "But chemotherapy ..."
"We might try a combination of radiation and che motherapy with something called 5-fluorouracil. We've had some results with that. But I won't mis lead you. At best it may improve her survival time by a few weeks. At this point, we're looking at palliative measures-ways to reduce her pain and improve the quality of the time she has left. Do you understand?"
Poppy could hear choking sobs from her mother, but she couldn't seem to move. She felt as if she were listening to some play on the radio. As if it had nothing to do with her.
Dr. Franklin said, "There are some research proto cols right here in southern California. They're experi menting with immunotherapy
When he casually suggested that Poppy's mother might want to "come for a little walk down the hall," Poppy's suspicion crystallized.
He's going to tell her. He's got the results, but he doesn't want me to know.
Her plan was made in the same instant. She yawned and said, "Go on, Mom; I'm a little bit sleepy." Then she lay back and shut her eyes.
As soon as they were gone, she got off the bed. She watched their retreating backs as they went down the hall into another doorway. Then, in her stocking feet, she quietly followed them.
She was delayed for several minutes at the nursing station. "Just stretching my legs," she said to a nurse who looked inquiringly at her, and she pretended to be walking at random. When the nurse picked up a clipboard and went into one of the patient's rooms, Poppy hurried on down the corridor.
The room at the end was the waiting room--she'd seen it earlier. It had a TV and a complete kitchen setup so relatives could hang out in comfort. The door was ajar and Poppy approached it stealthily. She could hear the low rumble of Dr. Franklin's voice, but she couldn't hear what he was saying.
Very cautiously Poppy edged loser. She chanced one look around the door.
She saw at once that there was no need for cau tion. Everyone in that room was completely occupied.
Dr. Franklin was sitting on one of the couches. Beside him was an African-American woman with glasses on a chain around her neck. She was wearing the white coat of a doctor.
On the other couch was Poppy's stepfather, Cliff. His normally perfect dark hair was slightly mussed, his rock-steady jaw was working. He had his arm around her mother. Dr. Franklin was talking to both of them, his hand on her mother's shoulder.
And Poppy's mother was sobbing.
Poppy pulled back from the doorway.
Oh, my God. I've got it.
She'd never seen her mother cry before. Not when Poppy's grandmother had died, not during the di vorce from Poppy's father. Her mother's specialty was coping with things; she was the best coper Poppy had ever known.
But now ...
I've got it. I've definitely got it.
Still, maybe it wasn't so bad. Her mom was shocked, okay, that was natural. But it didn't mean that Poppy was going to die or anything. Poppy had all of modem medicine on her side.
She kept telling herself this as she edged away from the waiting room.
She didn't edge fast enough, though. Before she got out of earshot, she heard her mother's voice, raised in something like anguish.
"My baby. Oh, my little girl."
Poppy froze.
And then Cliff, loud and angry: "You're trying to tell me there's nothing?"
Poppy couldn't feel her own breathing. Against her will, she moved back to the door.
"Dr. Loftus is an oncologist; an expert on this sort of cancer. She can explain better than I can," Dr. Franklin was saying.
Then a new voice came-the other doctor. At first Poppy could only catch scattered phrases that didn't seem to mean anything: adenocarcinoma, splenic ve nous occlusion, Stage Three. Medical jargon. Then Dr. Loftus said, "To put it simply, the problem is that the tumor has spread. It's spread to the liver and the lymph nodes around the pancreas. That means it's unresectable-we can't operate."
Cliff said, "But chemotherapy ..."
"We might try a combination of radiation and che motherapy with something called 5-fluorouracil. We've had some results with that. But I won't mis lead you. At best it may improve her survival time by a few weeks. At this point, we're looking at palliative measures-ways to reduce her pain and improve the quality of the time she has left. Do you understand?"
Poppy could hear choking sobs from her mother, but she couldn't seem to move. She felt as if she were listening to some play on the radio. As if it had nothing to do with her.
Dr. Franklin said, "There are some research proto cols right here in southern California. They're experi menting with immunotherapy
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