Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
Antonia
Worms. That’s what Mikey always called them. It used to be the reason he’d eat his dinner. We’d kid on and play games, then he’d shovel a blue plastic forkful of spaghetti between tiny lips. His favorite meal. Sauce splattered over a three-year-old’s face. He never saw four.
“The usual, Ms. Antonia?” Fredrico says, interrupting my thoughts.
“Please.”
He’s been my server here every Friday for almost twenty years, since I started my weekly tradition of stopping after work. My defiance to not go home to the quiet. And it stuck.
Now, I arrive whenever I finish work on a Friday.
Rico asks if I want my predictable meal, and I eat.
Mikey loved it here. They’d bring him coloring books and crayons when we visited.
Then he’d polish off with ice cream and chocolate sauce.
It always amazed me how much food could fit in a tiny belly.
The spaghetti bolognese slides into view. Rico places my fork and spoon beside it.
“Enjoy, Ms. Antonia.”
His footsteps recede, and I’m left in peace to eat my meal.
The restaurant is quiet; only myself and one other table.
Over the past few years, I’ve seen demand drop season to season.
In years gone by, it was almost impossible to get a seat.
On more than one occasion, I ate at the bar.
But life has moved on. And the restaurant hasn’t.
The lace curtains still hang limp, pearlescent wax continues to drip over green glass, but the food remains amazing. I’ve eaten here hundreds of times and cannot remember a poor meal. The familiarity is comforting, almost like stepping into my past.
I finish my meal, the empty plate cleared within moments. Then my espresso arrives on cue. Not a word from either of us, Rico knows what I need.
Once done, I stand and wave goodbye. They’ll put it on my tab, which Clara will settle at the end of the month, like always.
***
My apartment block looms ahead. All dark stone and happy families. I cross the road, weaving between the grid-locked cars. Their frustrated drivers are creating a tone-deaf tune with their horns. Lights flash. Voices raise. I ignore them, making a beeline for the front door.
Once in the safety of my apartment, I kick off my shoes.
Usually, I’d throw myself in front of the TV, not watching anything, but at least it’s noise.
It quiets my brain for an hour or so. But today, it’s different.
My visit to the retreat location opened wounds I haven’t admitted to in years.
Memories surfaced that I’ve buried deep.
Locking them away safely because they hurt too much.
In the back of my wardrobe is the small box. It’s blue, decorated with white sheep, and the name, Michael, hand-painted on the lid. I keep it hidden behind the winter coats, somewhere I won’t see it without planning to. I haven’t opened it in years.
My reflection in the mirrored door takes me by surprise. I’m tired, and I look it. Between the constant protests outside the office and juggling the fallout, it’s taking its toll. Perhaps going here tonight isn’t the best idea.
But after today, after discussing all Ben’s ideas, I want to remind myself of why I started Opengate all those years ago. And what I’ve lost to make it real.
I push back the door, and it glides flawlessly on perfectly clean runners. Then I fish out the box. At first, I can’t find it, and the panic twists in my chest. The ocean of jackets and coats swarms around me, then my fingers meet plastic, and I breathe. It’s here. I pull it from the chaos.
My bed is precisely made. Perfect white sheets. Deep navy pillows. The bamboo silk cost a fortune.
I’m never in it for long. My nights are short, interrupted by work emails or never-ending firefighting. Some of my best brainstorming happens at three in the morning, when the world is quiet but I’m alert. Sometimes it’s easier to be working than to sleep; the memories stay hidden then.
The little blue box sits on the white silk, begging to be opened. I consider returning it to the sanctuary of the wardrobe untouched. Maybe if I don’t look, it won’t hurt. But it already does. I know what’s in there.
I lift the lid with a familiar click. Slowly, my fingertips brush over the white paint, tracing each letter of the little boy I lost all those years ago.
I was a young mother. Barely twenty-one when I gave birth.
Mikey had been a welcome but challenging surprise for his father and me.
Newly married, struggling to make ends meet, we hadn’t planned to start a family quite yet.
But Mikey had other ideas, and I remember that twelve-week scan like it was yesterday.
“And there’s the heartbeat,” the nurse said.
Luke squeezed my hand. He’d been so excited to become a father. As soon as we knew, he’d been out buying onesies in his favorite soccer team’s colors—just in case it was a boy.
My ex-husband and I were high school sweethearts. Together since thirteen, best friends to lovers. It was a story for the romance books. We’d married young; our parents hadn’t been keen, but we did it anyway. And back then, we were happy.
Mikey’s hospital bracelet sits on top of the pile of paperwork below. A tiny blue teddy beside it, the one his father gave him the day he was born.
I lift the bracelet first; his name now faded on the label.
That brittle plastic is fragile between my fingers.
I turn it over. He was so tiny when he was born, barely seven pounds.
No complications, just small. But oh so damn perfect, with his father’s eyes and my nose, then a tuft of jet-black hair that eventually turned red like my own.
As he grew, so did the freckles on his cheeks. Mikey smiled, and everything felt better, even if we were living paycheck to paycheck. Then tragedy hit: a cough that wouldn’t quit, and a doctor’s appointment I wish I’d never had to live through.
He was tired, but what three-year-old isn’t after a busy day?
I thought it was a virus. Fatigue, a cough, a nose that wouldn’t stop running.
Multiple trips to the doctors, various child-safe medicines, and weeks of begging for more tests came to nothing.
Until the fever came, and his little body became a boiler. We ran to the emergency room.
Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia (ALL).
That’s what the doctor told us. Luke and I sat in the consulting room in shock.
“It’s aggressive,” he said. Something about white blood cells and limited time.
Everything went dark. Only the clock ticked down the seconds, which I knew now were more precious than before. Luke held me tight.
And that was the end of my family as I knew it.
I place the bracelet and teddy on the bed, then take the first piece of paperwork from its resting place. It’s folded neatly into a perfect square. I gently unwrap it.
Patient does not meet eligibility criteria to continue treatment.
Ten months in, and it had been our last chance. A new drug with a pending trial, specific to childhood leukemia. Mikey was accepted for the primary doses. He perked up slightly, but then regressed, barely waking some days.
The doctors told me there was nothing more they could do.
One blood marker fell outside acceptable parameters.
I begged. Like really begged on my hands and knees in the consultant's office.
He said no. The acceptance was withdrawn. That was the end of the road, and we were moving to palliative care.
It’s a feeling I’ll never forget. Staring at that piece of paper, knowing one person on the other end of the keyboard decided his fate.
Luke grieved by holding his son’s hand. I threw myself into research.
And what I found was quietly devastating: thousands of patients rejected from treatment programs due to inconsistent data.
Thousands of families grieving and loved ones left to die because results were misread.
On a few occasions, conscious choices made by scientists to not include subjects who could skew data.
Companies were choosing who could live or die.
And now, so do I.
Day to day, if stocks are limited and patients are abundant.
Now, I understand.
After he passed, my husband and I tried to live on. Luke suggested trying for another baby. Mikey wasn’t to be replaced, and I was never opening myself to that pain again.
He wanted to redecorate. Change things. I said no to it all.
Opengate was born one night when I was deep in a chat room, gathering evidence for a protest against a pharmaceutical company withholding drugs due to non-payment.
We had a small group, mostly visible online, who would investigate malpractice.
Looking back, we were more like teen sleuths than spies. but it kept my mind busy.
Then I came across her comment. A poster deep in the chat. Her son, three, was rejected from a trial drug scheme. She was adamant he met the criteria. I private messaged her and asked for the paperwork. And my new life course was born.
The paper burns my fingers, not from heat but from loss. I scrunch it into a ball, then throw it on the floor. When I checked, the decision to refuse Mikey treatment stuck. My son didn’t meet the criteria as the document said.
Next, I find my divorce certificate. I’m not sure why I kept it in here rather than the filing cabinet. but it just seemed right.
Weeks turned into months. I was barely home. Luke continued to try to build our family, suggesting dinners and vacations. I only saw Opengate. All I was interested in was the next case to challenge.
Eventually, he left. He wasn’t angry or vile, just tired of our marriage that had died with our son. I didn’t blame him. Part of me couldn’t look at him without seeing what I lost. Him leaving was a relief in the end. Freedom to lose myself in other people’s grief.
He remarried in time. Two kids, a wife, and a Labrador.
I built Opengate, while still living here, with the ghosts of the past.
***
Monday morning arrives. I walk past the protestors again, but this time with newfound vigor. With an 8 a.m. board meeting scheduled, I’m planning to start this week off with some changes. And I know Julian won’t be happy.
The board saunter in, men taking their own sweet time.
Clara and I are already in our places at the top of the table.
“Can we make this quick?” I say sharply.
All eyes turn to me, then the men quickly scurry to their seats. I don’t give their backsides a chance to warm the chairs.
“My visit to the proposed terminal illness retreat on Friday was positive.”
“You attended the site?” Julian says, eyes wide, nose pinched. “I wasn’t aware”
“You didn’t need to be.”
He sits slightly straighter, chest puffed out as if wanting to argue. I ignore him. This is my business. And my choice.
“We’re moving forward. Draft the agreement.”
Julian claps his hands together. “Excellent. This will be perfect for Opengate.”
“No,” I say, locking eyes with him. “This isn’t about Opengate. It’s about the families.”
“Antonia, I think—”
“You don’t need to think. You just need to draft the agreement.”
Clara chuckles beside me. She’s enjoying the show, her hand doodling hearts on her notebook instead of the details.
“Opengate isn’t at the center of this project,” I say. “We’re supporting it. No exploitation. Just funding.”
Julian pushes his chair back, and it rolls over the tiles as he stands. Chin locked, he looks furious. “Antonia, if we can’t utilize the angle, it’s hardly worth doing.”
The room goes deathly still. All I can hear is Clara’s pen sweeping over paper.
“I think you may be in the wrong job.” His eyes narrow. “If you believe supporting dying people is a marketing strategy, you’re working for the wrong company.”
“Antonia—”
“No excuses. Just draft the agreement.”
I walk to the window, looking down on the signs below, signaling to the men in the room that this conversation is over. Footsteps echo, then the door clicks closed.
I breathe out, finally alone.
“Would it have helped?” Clara whispers as she appears at my shoulder.
“What?”
She snorts under her breath. “The retreat. Would it have helped your family?”
We stare at each other, woman to woman, never having discussed what happened in my past. She knows, but never pries. I respect that.
“We would have been able to forget for a while,” I murmur. “Perhaps not everything would’ve been lost the way it was.”
She nods. But leaves the air empty for me to speak.
“Perhaps not every memory would’ve smelled of disinfectant.”