The Foolproof Cure for Cancer (4 page)

At first, the surgery and treatments seemed to be a success. Tom lost a lung on the operating table, but the surgeon assured him that all traces of the cancer had been excised from his body. After a round of radiation and chemotherapy, Dr. Singh declared him cancer-free.

But six months later, Tom was back in her office, hacking up blood.

The cancer, she told him, had spread to his other lung and his liver. This time, she said, there was no need for radiation or chemo.

This time, it was terminal.

That night, Sydney begged him to let her write Mayflower, but he refused. Though he hadn
'
t told her about the murder he
'
d committed, the memory of it plagued him more than ever...especially now that he was facing his own death and judgment before God. He refused to be responsible in any way for the taking of another human life, even if it was someone else
'
s finger pulling the trigger.

In spite of his protests, Sydney sent off a letter to Ignatius Mayflower the next day.

 

*****

"
You don
'
t understand,
"
Tom said to her on the morning when she was supposed to leave for Mayflower
'
s. Though she had tried to slip out unnoticed while he was still in bed, Tom had woken up and interrogated her until she had told him where she was headed.
"
He
'
ll ask you to do something terrible.
"

"
Like what?
"
said Sydney, making no move to let go of her rollerboard suitcase.
"
You
'
ve never told me what you had to do for that cure.
"

Tom shook his head.
"
It was bad,
"
he said stiffly.
"
It
'
s the kind of thing it
'
s hard to live with sometimes.
"

"
Whatever it was, I
'
m still glad you did it,
"
she said.
"
You know I can
'
t do any less for you.
"

"
Don
'
t be so sure,
"
said Tom.

"
Maybe he won
'
t even ask me to do the same thing,
"
said Sydney.
"
Maybe it won
'
t be as bad.
"

Images appeared in Tom
'
s mind of his wife being degraded at Mayflower
'
s hands in any of a dozen different ways.
"
Or maybe it
'
ll be worse,
"
he said coldly.
"
I won
'
t let you go.
"

Sydney reached out to caress the side of his face.
"
I love you,
"
she said softly.
"
And I
'
m going to save you.
"

"
Don
'
t do this,
"
said Tom, taking hold of her wrist.
"
Trust me. You
'
ll regret it.
"

Her eyes flared, and she shook off his grip.
"
I won
'
t let anyone stop me from saving you,
"
she said firmly, throwing open the front door.
"
Including you.
"

Sydney rushed from the apartment, and he followed her.
"
Listen!
"
he said, playing his last card. Sydney stopped and turned in front of the elevator.
"
I...I hurt somebody,
"
he said.
"
That
'
s what I did.
"

She smiled.
"
I don
'
t care what you did,
"
she said.
"
I can never thank you enough.
"

Tom stepped closer to her and lowered his voice.
"
You don
'
t understand. I killed someone.
"

At that, her smile faded. Her eyes narrowed, and she stared at him with interest and surprise.

Then, she shrugged.
"
You did what you had to,
"
she said.
"
If you hadn
'
t, I
'
d be dead.
"

She turned and pressed the elevator button.

Tom gaped, unable to believe her matter-of-fact acceptance of his confession...her approval, even. He
'
d expected a more extreme reaction, either shock or anger or regret.

He didn
'
t even have to ask for understanding or forgiveness.

The elevator doors parted, revealing an empty car.
"
Wait!
"
said Tom.
"
I
'
ll go with you.
"

"
The invitation
'
s for me only,
"
said Sydney.
"
Mr. Mayflower will only see me if I come alone.
"

Tom didn
'
t like the sound of that at all.
"
Then don
'
t go,
"
he said, grabbing her shoulder.

Sydney pulled away and stepped into the car.
"
I won
'
t let you die,
"
she said, stabbing the button to select the ground floor as her destination.

Tom lurched forward, blocking the elevator doors from closing.
"
Come back inside,
"
he said.

Sydney shook her head.
"
Tom,
"
she said.
"
If I
'
d told you not to go to him, would you have stayed here and let me die?
"

For a moment, he stood and stared at her, holding the elevator doors apart. He knew she was right, but still...

He hadn
'
t saved her just so she could run off and put herself in danger again.

He reached for her arm, intending to pull her from the elevator. Throwing out both hands, she shoved him away with all her strength. She caught him off balance, and he fell backward and down onto the hallway carpet.

"
I
'
m sorry,
"
she said as the elevator doors closed.
"
I love you.
"

Tom was too busy coughing up blood to reply.

 

*****

For five endless days, Tom lay on the sofa with the television on and imagined the things Ignatius Mayflower would make Sydney do. It was about all he could manage, as he was having trouble breathing and was growing steadily weaker from his illness.

And it drove him crazy. He couldn
'
t sleep for worrying about her.

What would the billionaire ask her to do? And how far would Sydney be willing to go?

With her husband
'
s life on the line, Tom was afraid she might go far.

He thought of Mayflower on his balcony, looking out over the beautiful gardens...with Sydney on her knees between his legs, her face in his lap.

Tom imagined her naked with Mayflower in a vast, luxurious bed...or with Mayflower and another woman, or two or three or more. Or with Mayflower and other men, doing things. Having things done to her.

Enjoying it in spite of herself.

Tom pictured her carrying a gun into a darkened room, as he had, and killing a man. Or killing a woman. He imagined her doing it with a knife, or sprinkling poison powder in someone
'
s drink...or killing a man while having sex with him in a hotel room or the back of a car or on stage in front of an audience.

Enjoying it in spite of herself.

And the worst of it was, at the same time that he was repulsed and enraged at the thought of her being used sexually or forced to commit some murderous act, part of him couldn
'
t stop hoping that she would come through. That she would comply with the billionaire
'
s wishes and come home with the cure.

He hated himself for thinking like that. For being so selfish that a part of him would be willing to live at the cost of his wife
'
s suffering.

For wanting her to save his life whatever it took.

For wanting her to prove she loved him as much as he loved her.

 

*****

On the fifth night, he took a sleeping pill--three of them, actually--and finally managed to get some rest. It was a deep, dreamless sleep that stretched long into the next morning, a sleep as heavy and black as death itself.

When he woke, he saw garlands of tinsel hanging from the ceiling fan.

Turning his head, he saw the dancing Santa on the dresser and candles in the windows. Rolling over, he saw the artificial Christmas tree in the corner, strung with lights and hung with ornaments.

Tom
'
s heart skipped a beat. The decorations could mean only one thing.

Sydney had come home while he was asleep.

Forcing aside his lingering grogginess, he swung his feet to the floor and sat up on the edge of the bed.
"
Sydney?
"
he said, peering through the doorway and listening expectantly for some sound of her.
"
Honey?
"

There was no reply.
"
Sydney?
"
he called out again, but there was still nothing. Not even a sound.

Maybe she had come home and gone back out again to go to the store.

Tom turned to check the time on the digital clock on the bedside table...and frowned. A manilla envelope was propped in front of the clock, leaning back against the lamp.

And the envelope had his name on it, written in black marker in Sydney
'
s cursive scrawl.

Tom undid the envelope
'
s clasp and folded back the flap. As soon as he had it open, Sydney
'
s favorite perfume wafted up at him.

Reaching inside, he drew out a clear plastic baggie full of fine white powder. Relief flooded him; she had brought back the cancer cure, after all. She hadn
'
t let him down.

Placing the baggie on the sheets alongside him, he reached back into the envelope...and found another
powder-filled baggie. It was the second dose, he realized, the one that would make his recovery complete. Somehow, she had managed to get both doses in a single visit, instead of coming home with the first dose and having to return to Mayflower for the second.

Tom laid the second baggie atop the first and reached back into the envelope. He slid out a single sheet of Sydney
'
s stationery, covered with more of her familiar scrawl in blue ink.

"
Dearest Tom,
"
she wrote.
"
This is the hardest letter I
'
ve ever written. This is the hardest thing I
'
ve ever had to do.

"
Mr. Mayflower gave me your cure. He gave me all of it at once. Please take the first dose as soon as possible and take the second dose one week later.

"
I
'
m so glad I could help you, Tom. I love you so much! I want you to live!

"
But you were right about him, Tom. He did ask me to do something terrible.
"

Tom
'
s mouth got dry, and his stomach clenched. His hands shook a little as he continued to read.

"
It
'
s something that will last for the rest of my life,
"
wrote Sydney.
"
In order to save you, I can never see you again.

"
There
'
s no other way. If you ever try to find me, he
'
ll have you killed.
"

Tom was seized by a coughing jag. He sprayed blood on the note but couldn
'
t tear his eyes from the terrible words as he hacked.

"
I
'
m so sorry,
"
wrote Sydney.
"
It
'
s so hard to go through with this, but I
'
d rather be apart from you than let you die. I
'
d give anything for you, Tom, even our life together.

"
Please don
'
t hate me! I love you, Tom! I love you!

"
Goodbye! I
'
ll love you forever!

"
Love, Sydney.
"

Tom tried to read the note again, but his cough was too severe. He doubled over on the bed, eyes filled with tears, and sprayed blood all over himself and the floor.

Wracked with rage and sadness and physical pain, he looked at the powder-filled baggies on the bed, the miracle cure paid for by his wife
'
s sacrifice. The thought of being healed didn
'
t hold the same appeal for him anymore.

He had lost the woman he loved. She might find suffering...she might find happiness...but she would never return. If he tried to get her back, he would be killed.

And yet...

And yet, he reached for the baggies anyway, scooped them up and hobbled to the kitchen to make tea. If he had to die, and he had the option, he would rather do it later.

He would rather do it for a good reason.