“I’m fine,” he said.
“You can get dressed now.”
He went into the small anteroom, the tiles cold under his bare feet, pulled on his clothes. Soft music was being piped in, some white girl singing about rain on her wedding day.
When he was dressed, he went out to the main desk, stood at the counter. The woman in flowered scrubs was typing on a computer.
“You’re all set, Mr. Morgan,” she said. “Dr. Kinzler will get the results this afternoon.”
“How do I pay?”
“We’ll bill you,” she said. She peered at the screen. “Are you still at this same address?” She gave the name of the hotel.
“I may be moving,” he said.
“I’m sure we’ll catch up to you,” she said without looking up. “We always do.”
Outside the hospital, he used his cell to call a cab. He hadn’t wanted to drive the Monte Carlo around Newark in daylight. Around him, a half-dozen people, some in scrubs with no coats, smoked cigarettes, shuffled in the cold. None of them seemed to notice him.
It was nine o’clock, and he was watching cable news with the sound low, stretched out on the motel bed, the Beretta beside him. On the nightstand, his cell began to buzz. He reached for it.
“Mr. Morgan? Dr. Kinzler.”
Morgan sat up, used the remote to mute the TV.
“Sorry to call so late, but the MRI results got back quicker than I expected. I’m tied up here in the office anyway, so I thought I’d give you a call.”
“What did you find?”
“I know Dr. Rosman probably explained to you how goblet cell manifests itself. It’s a slow grower. If we diagnose early and get all the tumors out, we have a pretty high curability rate.”
“What are you saying?”
“That pain you’re having in the abdomen. The MRI shows a series of tumors in your small intestine. They’re confined to that area, though, from what we can see. That’s good.”
On the TV, a woman anchor mouthed words, stock market prices crawling along the bottom of the screen.
“Mr. Morgan, are you there?”
“How many?”
“What?”
“Tumors.”
“Maybe seven in all, from what I can see. They’re small. I wouldn’t say any are more than one centimeter in diameter, though we won’t know for sure until we get them under a microscope. At that size, there’s a good chance they haven’t metastasized yet.”
He laid a hand on his stomach, thought about what was there, beneath the skin, beneath the muscle. His body betraying him.
“What do we do?” he said.
“We go in there as soon as we can. Take them out, have a closer look. If we get them all and there’s no immediate recurrence, you’ll be in good shape. However, there’s always the chance of undetected microscopic cells remaining, though they might not show up for a number of years. We’ll keep you on a steady program of surveillance, testing.”
“Then what?”
“If they occur again, we’ll go to the chemo. But Mr. Morgan, all this is speculation until we get in there and have a look. Have you been having issues with diarrhea or difficulty breathing? A flushing of the skin maybe?”
“No.”
“If you do, let me know. We need to move on this as soon as possible. Until I can examine the tumors, we can’t decide the best route to go with treatment. I can’t overestimate how important time is here.”
Morgan heard a warning tone. The phone was nearly out of minutes.
“I need to leave town for a little while,” he said. “Do some business. Couple, maybe three weeks.”
“Can you postpone it?”
Morgan took a breath. “No.”
“Then that puts us into mid-November, and, as I said, we don’t want to hesitate too long here. There are other things that need to be handled as well. Pre-op testing, paperwork-”
“I know. Do what you need to get it started.”
“Have you looked into any of the things I mentioned, as far as insurance is concerned?”
“No.”
“You should. This could turn into a long and costly process.”
Another tone, only a few seconds left.
“Set it up,” Morgan said. “When I get back I’ll call you, and we’ll do this thing. I’ll have the money.”
“Call my office as soon as you get back, Mr. Morgan. And I mean that day.”
“I will,” Morgan said, and then there was a final tone and the phone was silent.
NINE
Sara was in the kitchen, drying the last of the dishes from dinner, when her cell trilled on the counter. She looked at the display. Billy’s number.
It was a little after eleven, Danny asleep, JoBeth home. After leaving Tiger’s, Sara had driven aimlessly, until the crying stopped, not wanting JoBeth to see her like that. She felt tired, drained.
The phone trilled again. She wiped her hands on a dish towel, picked it up. Thought about pushing the SILENCE button, setting it back down, ignoring it.
She hit SEND.
“Hey, Sara. I’m glad I got you.”
She leaned back against the counter, closed her eyes.
“Sara? Are you there?”
“I’m here. What is it?”
“I’m really sorry about that. I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.”
“It’s Lee-Anne. Sometimes she’s just… I don’t know.”
Something flared inside her. When she’d seen them in the truck, she’d felt only shame. Now came anger.
“Billy, I don’t want to have this conversation.”
“I embarrassed you, and I’m sorry about that. I shouldn’t have let that happen.”
“It’s none of my business.”
“I’m trying to apologize, Sara. Can you let me do that? Just this once?”
There was something in his tone, almost a pleading, and she felt herself soften. She shifted the phone to her other hand.
“I don’t know what to say, Billy. I don’t know what you want me to say either.”
Silence on the line.
“Billy?”
“I used to be able to make you laugh,” he said. “I loved that sound.”
“Billy, please-”
“I’m sorry it all ended up like this.”
She felt the sadness then, moving like slow fatigue through her body. You are not going to cry. Not now.
“I’m sorry too,” she said.
“I’m getting you upset again. I didn’t mean to.”
“Billy, I’ve got too much going on in my life right now to deal with this. To deal with you. We make our choices, and we live with them. I’m living with mine. Why can’t you do the same?”
“I’m trying,” he said. Something seemed to break in his voice. “I’m trying my best, Sara.”
“It’s late. I have to go.”
“I’m sorry for everything,” he said.
“Good night, Billy,” she said, but he was already gone.
At 2:00 A.M., she was still awake. She looked at the red numbers on the nightstand clock, pushed the covers aside. The central air was on, but it was still warm. She lay in the darkness, thought about Billy, remembered his hands on her.
You ended it. It was your choice. And it was the right one.
For months after she’d found out about Angie, she’d kept her distance from him. He’d made promises, pleaded with her, cried on the phone, but her humiliation had been too fresh, the hurt too deep. She’d see him at the SO or Tiger’s, but always with others around. Later on, when her anger had come to seem pointless, irrelevant, there had been long nights when she’d wished he would call. He never had. Then Lee-Anne had come along.
She rolled onto her side, pulled the other pillow closer. It was cool against her skin. You have to get up in four hours. You need to sleep.
She closed her eyes, trying to will herself to sleep, knowing it was no use. Realized then she was damp. Her hand crept down to the waistband of her sweatpants, tugged at the drawstring. Her nipples were already hard, pushing against the thin T-shirt.
When the sweatpants were loose, she slid her hand in, found her wetness. She imagined Billy standing in the darkness, a silhouette against the window, then turning to her, coming closer. She could almost feel him there in the dark, smell his skin, hear the creak of the bed as he lay down, reached for her.