Chapter 56 Houston, Texas—Remy
Houston, Texas—Remy
The next morning at eight, the limo glided to a halt before the glass facade of MD Anderson. Charlotte had prearranged their arrival down to the minute. A patient escort stood waiting at the automatic doors.
“Good morning, Dr. Mallory, Mr. Benoit, and Miss Marshall. I’m Darlene Johnson. I’ll be your escort while you’re here,” Darlene said, her voice smooth and practiced. “If you come with me, I’ll take you to your first appointment.”
Skye craned her neck, her eyes wide. “This hospital isn’t just big. It’s a city.”
“Navigating one of the largest cancer centers in the world can feel daunting. But you have me for as long as you’re here, and I won’t let you get lost in its maze,” Darlene promised.
“What’s first on the itinerary?” Charlotte asked, her tone pragmatic. She had already walked Skye and Remy through the entire routine, studying digital maps and appointment schedules. The escort, as Charlotte had wisely suggested, was an emotional buffer against the stress of being there.
Darlene addressed Remy directly. “We’ll breeze through registration first. Your preregistration makes that a formality. Then, an introductory huddle with a member of your clinical care team—vitals, a preliminary review. After that, I’ll deliver you to your first appointment.”
Registration went quickly. Then, moments later, tucked into Elevator U, they ascended to the 7th floor, destination: the Genitourinary Cancer Center in the Mays Clinic.
As the elevator doors slid open, revealing the hushed waiting area, Remy turned to Skye and pulled her close, kissing her deeply, tasting the faint coffee on her lips. “This will take a while. Go shopping. Doan sit here and wear your heart out waiting.”
She hugged him fiercely in return, her hands clutching the back of his jacket. “We agreed, Remy. I have Charlotte for company, and I’m not leaving this floor without you.”
The assurance that the two women were just a text message away was a comfort.
Yet, as the heavy clinical door shut behind him, separating him from them, the cold adrenaline of deployment flooded Remy’s senses—that memory of stepping outside the wire in Afghanistan, aware that the worst, the unimaginable, could happen at any moment.
Over the next few hours, the urologist, Dr. Kawaja, performed a thorough clinical examination of his testicles and scrotum, followed by blood work, a scrotal ultrasound, and a CT scan. At three o’clock, Charlotte and Skye joined Remy for a conference with Dr. Kawaja to review the results.
The look Skye gave him was a mixture of fear, concern, and worry. Being here with him undoubtedly dredged up the memories of her mother’s disease, and now she faced that trauma again, and that twisted his gut into knots.
After the initial greetings and professional handshakes—acknowledgements of Charlotte’s reputation as a highly skilled surgeon—the urologist clicked a few keys on a computer, each sound decisive in the quiet room. A clear ultrasound image of Remy’s testicle flared onto the wall monitor.
“The scan shows an irregular right testicle. The ultrasound measured blood flow, and there is increased flow to the area of the lump,” Dr. Kawaja stated, his voice clinical.
“With the hyper-vascularity, the location of the lump, the blood tests, and a family history of testicular cancer, there is a high suspicion of a solid, cancerous mass.”
Even though Remy had braced himself for that specific news, the words still gutted him.
His heart hammered against his ribs, an icy sweat slicked his palms, and his hands trembled.
Of all the dangerous, life-threatening situations he’d faced, his reaction to this internal enemy was an almost immobilizing, primal fear.
“Are you certain it’s not just a benign cyst or inflammation?” he rasped, desperate for a reprieve.
“I’m sure,” Dr. Kawaja said, giving them the final, devastating verdict.
Skye’s hand found his, her grip tight as tears shimmered in her eyes.
She, too, had prepared for this outcome.
Still, the ashen pallor of her white face screamed that no amount of mental preparation could have softened the impact of the news.
Every instinct in Remy’s body screamed to get to the gym, to work out his fear on a heavy boxing bag.
He needed a physical release for the panic, but right now, focusing on controlled breathing to calm his nervous system was all he could manage.
A suffocating silence descended upon the room, allowing the weight of the diagnosis to settle and be processed. Charlotte’s throat cleared with a deliberate sound designed to shatter the silence. “What are the CT results?”
Remy’s breath caught, suspended in the tense atmosphere.
He watched Charlotte, a woman usually cloaked in professional control, battle the cracks appearing in her mask.
The efficiency of doctor mode was dissolving, revealing the protective core of a mother.
An image flashed through his mind: Charlotte, running through the burning streets of Richmond in 1865, all guts and determination, her strength of will alone capable of demanding terms from Confederate officers.
But cancer was different. It was a siege she couldn’t stare down or command into submission.
“The CT delivered a series of detailed scans of Mr. Benoit’s pelvic and aortic lymph nodes,” the doctor confirmed, his voice a balm. “They’re clean. So are the liver and lungs. They show no evidence of cancer beyond the testicle.”
Remy had refused to believe that the cancer had spread. Yet, the wave of relief that crashed over him now exposed the truth—the terror had lived in him all along, a presence he had ignored until this moment of reprieve.
“Are you recommending the orchiectomy as the best course of action?” Charlotte’s voice was steady once more—the armor clicked back into place.
“I am, yes.”
“What stage is this?” Skye asked, her voice choked, fresh tears shimmering in her eyes.
“We won’t know the exact stage of the disease,” the doctor replied gently, “until the pathologist examines the tissue sample.”
“Oh, that’s right.” The words were barely a ripple in the air. “Charlotte told me.”
“It’s also possible,” the doctor continued, his voice a dispassionate murmur of clinical facts, “that Mr. Benoit will need some chemotherapy.” The word hung in the space like a death sentence.
Remy’s gut twisted at the memory of his père—hollow-eyed, frail, a shadow of the man he’d once been—flooded his mind. A wave of nausea followed. But Remy would endure the pain, the treatments. He would do whatever it took to cling to life.
Dr. Kawaja shifted, his gaze softening. “I want you to see a reproductive endocrinologist—a doctor who specializes in the reproductive needs of cancer patients.” The focus shifted from survival to what came after.
Remy forced a stiff nod. “And I assume that doctor will explain the logistics of sperm banking?” he managed, the topic feeling detached and intimate all at once.
“The number of deposits,” he explained calmly, “will depend on several factors: the viability of your sperm, your future fertility goals, and the assisted reproductive technology you might eventually need.”
Beside him, Skye shook her head slowly, her brow furrowed in genuine confusion. Her voice was small, lost. “I don’t understand.”
With amazing sensitivity, Dr. Kawaja offered an explanation. “The specialist will walk you through all of that in much greater detail. If you both sit down tonight and write out your questions, you’ll be prepared for tomorrow’s consultation.”
Skye turned to Charlotte. “Will you help me do that?” she pleaded, with a desperate need for a familiar anchor in a rising tide of medical jargon.
“Of course,” Charlotte replied with a reassuring smile. Her practical nature kicked in then, slicing through the tension. “When can you schedule the surgery?”
“I have an opening on my schedule for two weeks from today,” the doctor stated, a slot of time defining the moment Remy’s life would change.
Stomach acid took the express train straight to the back of Remy’s throat. He swallowed convulsively, fighting a wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. It took a long, agonizing minute for his insides to settle before he could force out the next crucial word: “And reconstruction?”
Appearances had become important the moment Remy started working for Elliott.
His wardrobe had received a major overhaul—tailored suits replacing casual wear—and his hair styled to match.
When you traveled with a man who still commanded every room, turning heads even in his late seventies, you were expected to look your part.
Having a body that matched that polished image was linked to Remy’s self-worth.
A shallow vanity, maybe because his former lovers never cared about his balls.
Skye was the first woman who seemed interested, although that was probably because he wouldn’t have one of them for much longer.
Either way, the thought of showing up in a locker room—or a bedroom—with only half his equipment was not an option.
“I can do the reconstruction immediately after I remove the right testicle,” Dr. Kawaja assured him. With a definitive click, he turned off the monitor. “I want to schedule an appointment for tomorrow afternoon, right after you’ve met with the endocrinologist.”
Before they could leave, Charlotte posed a question, which flowered into another, and then another.
The depth of her knowledge didn’t just amaze Remy.
It left him awed. He’d always thought he knew the important stuff—the rough edges of survival.
But listening to her questions and the doctor’s answers, Remy realized he hadn’t even scraped the soil, let alone dug beyond the surface.
There was a universe more to understand.
He might not retain the information, but Charlotte would.