Chapter 9 #2
“Mon soleil!” Mother calls from the stairs.
The trilling French accent that meets me as soon as I make it to the center of the entrance hall, that is home.
My mother is every bit as elegant and regal now, pushing fifty, as she was in my earliest memories of her.
Shimmering blonde hair is swept into a perfect chignon, not a strand out of place.
In typical French style, she wears minimal makeup, just a little around the eyes and a delicate pink for her lips.
She wraps me in a tight hug before placing a kiss to each cheek, leaving no trace of lipstick behind.
We had seen each other on Tuesday before I left for the train station with Father, but Mother always greets her children as if we have been separated for months.
Father soon follows, and we shake hands like dignified gentlemen. The bones of his hands are more noticeable than they were only a few days ago, but he seems better rested.
“Thank you for your work on the tour, son,” he says as we take our seats in one of the first-floor sitting rooms and wait for Betsy and her team to arrive. Coffee has already been set out for us, and I refill my Portyard tumbler and dress my coffee.
“It was a pleasure, really.” More than just getting to spend a little time with Aurelia, it had been a good trip.
I hadn’t embarrassed myself or said anything out of line in any press interviews.
People had sought me out for advice or to promote some issue they were concerned about.
It almost felt like I had finally stepped into the role of heir.
I had gone straight from university to the military, and so the change in position that would have come when I reached adulthood had been put on hold.
Now, it feels like I’m starting to become the Prince Friedrich I have been training for my whole life.
It’s somehow both terrifying and gratifying.
“I want to start discussing your future opportunities,” Father says. “It is time for you to take a more active part in the day-to-day around here.”
I nod. This is what I’ve been waiting for despite my trepidation. I’ve felt a bit lost, more than a little useless since returning home. The remodel at RC has been the only thing keeping me from going stir crazy.
“The doctor will be by soon. I want you to join your mother and me for that. Then we can talk about the arrangements more.”
Betsy enters, a thick binder in the crook of one arm and her ever-present cellphone in the other hand.
This woman is more organized than anyone I’ve ever met, and her phone is the key to it all.
That and her impeccable binder-making skills.
Lord Wrimple, Father’s Lord Chamberlain, follows close behind, as does Lord Heston, the head of the parliamentary committee in charge of this farce.
“Let’s get started, shall we?” The middle-aged woman’s voice is as no-nonsense as her smart updo and tailored navy skirt suit. She sets her phone aside and starts flipping through her binder, and begins her brief.
The royal physician is so old I’m surprised he is still allowed to practice medicine. I guess age doesn’t really factor when all you’re doing is ordering tests and interpreting imaging.
Father sits behind his desk in his study, Mother to his left, as always.
Claus and I stand behind our parents and watch as the doctor leafs through a thick folder across the desk from us.
I imagine we cut a rather imposing picture, the king and queen, regal and straight-backed in their chairs, and the princes, tall and stoic with our arms clasped behind our backs.
It’s a pose that would have a photographer salivating.
Perhaps that’s why we’ve always stood this way together; years of practice for photos and portraits.
All that’s missing are my two younger sisters, but they don’t need to be in on the nitty-gritty of this whole business.
They need to enjoy their teenage years without the full burden of Father’s illness.
The next two in line, though, we have the pleasure of the gory details.
“The radiation appears to be shrinking the known tumors, Your Majesty,” the doctor says, looking to the king over his spectacles.
“But there are new metastases in your liver that are concerning.” He shuffles the chart again, consulting a report or image I can’t see from my vantage point.
“I think it’s time to revisit chemotherapy, Sir. ”
Father clears his throat. “We have discussed this before, Doctor LaRocque. No chemotherapy.”
Mother clasps his hand. Hers isn’t so small in his anymore. Not with his joints now more pronounced and the skin tightening around the bones. His simple gold wedding ring is only kept on by the knuckle of his left ring finger.
“Mon amor, let us hear what the good doctor has to say, non?” Mother’s voice is that gentle hum she had used with her children when we came to her with a nightmare or injury.
Father nods, and the old physician continues.
“There are a few options,” he rasps, pulling out a packet of papers from the file. “I have compiled a list for you: medications, gene therapies, surgical interventions. Ordered least to most aggressive with the benefits and risks involved in each.”
The king takes the offered papers and flips through quickly. I try to catch a glimpse over his shoulder, but he hastily turns the packet face down on the antique oak desk.
“Thank you, doctor. I will give this a look. Shall we meet again next week?”
The doctor bows his head. “Of course, Your Majesty. Will the same time be satisfactory?”
Father nods, but I cut in. “Forgive the interruption, but won’t Your Majesty be traveling back from Rome that day?”
He turns to me over his shoulder. “Actually, son, I was going to ask that you go in my stead.”
There it is, my next assignment. Yet another royal engagement that should be attended by the king. I keep my regal mask firmly in place, but Father can always see through my carefully practiced facade.
“No, I suppose I should attend the Pope myself.” He turns back to the old man on the other side of the desk. “Could I trouble you for a Saturday morning house call?”
“No trouble at all, Your Majesty.”
Father presses the black button under his desk, which signals the footmen in the hall that the meeting is done. He stands, as do Mother and the doctor. “Ten o’clock next Saturday, then, Doctor LaRocque.”
The older man bows once more and leaves the room, escorted away by the footmen. When the door is shut behind them, Mother collapses back into her chair.
“Oh, Aldric,” her voice warbles from behind her hands.
“Jacqueline,” he coos. “Now, now, my heart.” The king kneels by his wife’s side, one hand going to her hair and the other around her neck, pulling her face to his chest.
Claus and I turn to the window, neither one of us certain how to handle the sudden emotional outburst or the tender moment between our parents.
Such intimate gestures are not terribly uncommon between them, but throw in the bad news from the health report, and we are wading through new territory.
Both my parents have been rather stoic since Father’s stomach cancer returned last year.
Hearing Mother cry makes my chest feel like it is caught in a vice.
I lean against the sill and gaze out over the city.
The buildings around us are all short, an architectural understanding that nothing can overshadow the palace, and so I can see far out into my city from the third-floor window.
The trees around the palace are barren, but their branches twist gracefully into the grey background.
Red and white brick buildings stretch as far as I can see, many sporting colorful Christmas lights.
Gulls soar overhead, but their screeching is blocked by the thick glass that can stop even a large caliber round.
This place can protect us from an outside assassination attempt, but what happens when the body is the one making the trouble?
No amount of training or security or paranoia can protect against one’s own cells.
My jaw hurts, and I realize I’d been clenching my teeth since the doctor’s first breath of bad news. I push off the windowsill. My steps are heavy on the hand-woven rug as I make for the door. I half expect to hear footsteps behind me, but I reach the hall and no one has followed.
There is a mostly secret way to get to the grounds at the back of the palace from here.
Staff know about it and so does the family, but it isn’t common knowledge and is rarely used anyway.
I’m not keen on being stopped or even seen.
I don’t have a jacket, but I don’t care as I step onto the terrace, the winter wind whipping around me.
There is a gardening shed on the towering side wall that runs along the palace land. Aside from gardening tools and landscaping equipment, lawn games are stored there as well, including a battered football from my childhood.
The ball becomes the object of my frustration. The hollow thunk it makes when my foot collides with it is oddly satisfying. Over and over, I put my pain into the leather sphere, sending it careening at increasing velocity at the immovable force in front of me.
“Feel rather like that ball,” Claus says, making me jump and miss the next kick. He’s ready for my slip-up and takes his own shot at the wall. I hadn’t even heard him approach.
“What do you mean?” I ask as the ball flies to me again, and I send it back towards the stonework.
Claus returns the volley and replies, “Like I’m just being shot at something I can’t avoid. I know it’s going to hurt like hell when I collide with it, but there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”
“Never known you to be one for metaphors,” I mutter as we continue to take our turns kicking at the wall.
My younger brother shrugs. “I’m more than a pretty face.”
I snort.
“Oh, come on, Fritz. Everyone knows, you’re the brains, I’m the beauty.”
My shoulders drop a bit, and I can almost smile.
This is how Claus deals with everything, humor and irreverence.
Perhaps he has it right. I don’t see him walking around the palace with his shoulders up to his ears or knuckles white from clenched fists.
Maybe it’s because his biggest concern is always where his next lay will come from.
His worry for Father ends there, with fear for the man we love.
This illness doesn’t have the same implications for him as it does for me.
I settle the ball when it comes to me next. I give it a little roll and a flick to send it up into my arms. “Do you want to talk, or shall we just ignore our feelings like always?”
“I’d rather like a drink, but it’s only noon and I don’t want to miss out on all the fun tonight.”
I shrug. “Settle for gluttony instead?”
“I like where your head is at. Pizza?”
This time, I do manage a small smile. “What else?”