“So go,” I urged.
She gave a short laugh. “It’s not that easy.”
“Why? It sounds pretty clear to me. Once he’s out of here, you hop in the car and go.”
“Our insurance won’t pay for it,” she said. “Not now, anyway. He’s getting the appropriate standard of care—and believe it or not, the insurance company has been pretty responsive so far. They’ve paid for all the hospitalizations, all the interferon, and all the extras without hassle. They’ve even assigned me a personal caseworker, and believe me, she’s sympathetic to our plight. But there’s nothing she can do, since our doctor thinks it’s best that we give the interferon a little more time. No insurance company in the world will pay for experimental treatments. And no insurer will agree to pay for treatments outside the standard of care, especially if they’re in other states and are attempting new things on the off chance that they might work.”
“Sue them if you have to.”
“John, our insurer hasn’t batted an eyelash at all the costs for intensive care and extra hospitalizations, and the reality is that Tim is getting the appropriate treatment. The thing is, I can’t prove that Tim would get better in another place, receiving alternate treatments. I think it might help him, I hope it will help him, but no one knows for sure that it would.” She shook her head. “Anyway, even if I did sue and the insurance company ended up paying for everything I demanded, that would take time… and that’s what we don’t have.” She sighed. “My point is, it’s not just a money problem, it’s a time problem.”
“How much are you talking about?”
“A lot. And if Tim ends up in the hospital with an infection and in the intensive care unit—like he has before—I can’t even begin to guess. More than I could ever hope to pay, that’s for sure.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Get the money,” she said. “I don’t have a choice. And the community’s been supportive. As soon as word about Tim got out, there was a segment on the local news and the newspaper did a story, and people all over town have promised to start collecting money. They set up a special bank account and everything. My parents helped. The place we worked helped. Parents of some of the kids we worked with helped. I’ve heard that they’ve even got jars out in a lot of the businesses.”
My mind flashed to the sight of the jar at the end of the bar in the pool hall, the day I arrived in Lenoir. I’d thrown in a couple of dollars, but suddenly it felt completely inadequate.
“Are you close?”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head, as if unwilling to think about it. “All this just started happening a little while ago, and since Tim had his treatment, I’ve been here and at the ranch. But we’re talking about a lot of money.” She pushed aside her cup of tea and offered a sad smile. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. I mean, I can’t guarantee that any of those other places can even help him. All I can tell you is that if we stay, I know he’s not going to make it. He might not make it anyplace else, either, but at least there’s a chance… and right now, that’s all I have.”
She stopped, unable to continue, staring sightlessly at the stained tabletop.
“You want to know what’s crazy?” she asked finally. “You’re the only one I’ve told this to. Somehow, I know that you’re the only one who can possibly understand what I’m going through, without having to feel like I have to be careful about what I say.” She lifted her cup, then set it down again. “I know it’s unfair considering your dad….”
“It’s okay,” I reassured her.
“Maybe,” she said. “But it’s selfish, too. You’re trying to work through your own emotions about losing your dad, and here I am, saddling you with mine about something that might or might not happen.” She turned to look out the cafeteria’s window, but I knew she wasn’t seeing the sloping lawn beyond.
“Hey,” I said, reaching for her hand. “I meant it. I’m glad you told me, if only so you could get it off your chest.”
In time, Savannah shrugged. “So that’s us, huh? Two wounded warriors looking for support.”
“That sounds about right.”
Her eyes rose to meet mine. “Lucky us,” she whispered.
Despite everything, I felt my heart skip a beat.
“Yeah,” I echoed. “Lucky us.”
We spent most of the afternoon in Tim’s room. He was asleep when we got there, woke for a few minutes, then slept again. Alan kept vigil at the foot of his bed, ignoring my presence while he focused on his brother. Savannah alternately stayed beside Tim on the bed or sat in the chair next to mine. When she was close, we spoke of Tim’s condition, of skin cancer in general, the specifics of possible alternative treatments. She’d spent weeks researching on the Internet and knew the details of every clinical trial in progress. Her voice never rose above a whisper; she didn’t want Alan to overhear. By the time she was finished, I knew more about melanoma than I imagined possible.
It was a little after the dinner hour when Savannah finally rose. Tim had slept for most of the afternoon, and by the tender way she kissed him good-bye, I knew she believed he’d sleep most of the night as well. She kissed him a second time, then squeezed his hand and motioned toward the door. We crept out quietly.
“Let’s head to the car,” she said once we were out in the hallway.
“Are you coming back?”
“Tomorrow. If he does wake, I don’t want to give him a reason to feel like he has to stay awake. He needs his rest.”
“What about Alan?”
“He rode his bike,” she said. “He rides here every morning and comes back late at night. He won’t come with me, even if I ask. But he’ll be okay. He’s been doing the same thing for months now.”
A few minutes later, we left the hospital parking lot and turned into the flow of evening traffic. The sky was turning a thickening gray, and heavy clouds were on the horizon, portending the same kinds of thunderstorms common to the coast. Savannah was lost in thought and said little. In her face, I saw reflected the same exhaustion that I felt. I couldn’t imagine having to come back tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that, all the while knowing there was a possibility he could get better somewhere else.
When we pulled in the drive, I looked over at Savannah and noticed a tear trickling slowly down her cheek. The sight of it nearly broke my heart, but when she saw me staring at her, she swiped at the tear, looking surprised at its appearance. I pulled the car to a stop beneath the willow tree, next to the battered truck. By then, the first few drops of rain were beginning to hit the windshield.
As the car idled in place, I wondered again whether this was good-bye. Before I could think of something to say, Savannah turned toward me. “Are you hungry?” she asked. “There’s a ton of food in the fridge.”
Something in her gaze warned me that I should decline, but I found myself nodding. “I would love something to eat,” I said.
“I’m glad,” she said, her voice soft. “I don’t really want to be alone tonight.”
We got out of the car as the rain began to fall harder. We made a dash for the front door, but by the time we reached the porch, I could feel the wetness soaking through the fabric of my clothes. Molly heard us, and as Savannah pushed open the door, the dog surged past me through the kitchen to what I assumed was the living room. As I watched the dog, I thought about my arrival the day before and how much had changed in the time we’d been apart. It was too much to process. Much the way I had while on patrol in Iraq, I steeled myself to focus only on the present yet remain alert to what might come next.
“We’ve got a bit of everything,” she called out on her way to the kitchen. “That’s how my mom’s been handling all of this. Cooking. We have stew, chili, chicken pot pie, barbecued pork, lasagna…” She poked her head out of the refrigerator as I entered the kitchen. “Does anything sound appetizing?”