Two Detective Walter Duncan #2
I hate the medicinal smell. Despise the flowery print of the paper on the accent wall in the lobby.
Can’t get comfortable in the burgundy upholstered chairs that remind me of the endless vials of blood they sucked from my wife’s body like vampires.
I’ll bet they didn’t think about blood when they chose the decor theme; they were probably too focused on matching the jewel tones of the accent wall.
I wouldn’t have known it was called an “accent wall” if my wife hadn’t told me.
She always wanted an accent wall in our living room, she’d said.
Surprised, I told her I didn’t recall her ever mentioning such a thing.
I would gladly have papered a single wall for her.
By then, there wasn’t time for her accent wall.
Maybe that’s why I’d rather look at just about anything other than that damn accent wall in this damn lobby.
Appointment after appointment, you sit in this lobby, watch the same tired, pain-filled faces until one day you come for an appointment and one of those faces is gone.
Next time, it’s another one. Then a new face appears.
After a while, you come to realize one thing with complete certainty: Soon it will be your face that doesn’t show for a scheduled appointment.
You’ll be the one who died since the last appointment.
The one who was planted over at Woodlawn or Spring Hill.
A nurse appears and calls my name. I stand and follow her through the door and then down a long, sterile corridor.
She weighs me, checks my blood pressure, then smiles and leaves me waiting in a plastic chair in this all-white room with its cold stainless steel surfaces and wrinkled copies of last year’s magazines.
I hate this place.
There are other oncologists in this city. I guess I could have gone somewhere else, but I figure better the devil you know. Besides, this clinic is closer to my house. I know the staff. Know what to expect. I also fully grasp why I’ve found myself at this place—smoking.
Lung cancer. Terminal, probably. The Pall Malls I smoked for thirty-five years will now claim a second victim.
First it was Stella, my precious wife, who never smoked a cigarette even once in her life.
My secondhand smoke killed her. She swore it wasn’t me.
Her father had smoked, too, she reminded me.
Died at the ripe old age of eighty-one still puffing on those unfiltered Camels.
Stella insisted her lungs were already damaged before she and I ever met.
Between the Camels and the coal the family had used to heat their home when she was a kid, she was doomed from birth, she insisted.
None of that changes the fact that I blame myself.
I was the one she lived with for thirty-five years of her life.
She only lived with her father for twenty-two.
I’m the one who killed her. Just like I’ve probably killed myself as surely as if I stuck my service weapon to my temple and pulled the trigger.
And all this time I thought I was a pretty smart guy.
Next will be the treatments to try to slow down the progression.
That was the route my sweet Stella chose.
Fury tightens my lips. And for what? The chemo treatments made her so damn sick.
Her beautiful hair turned pure white, and then it all fell out.
She wasted away to skin and bone. In the end, the treatments didn’t slow down the progression one little bit.
The only result was the additional misery she suffered the final days of her life.
All that extra pain and torment for nothing.
She died in three months, just as the doc had speculated when he first gave us the bad news.
Why the hell would I repeat the same steps and expect a different outcome? Isn’t that the very definition of insanity?
I think of Liv and feel instantly contrite.
But I wouldn’t be doing Liv any favors by dragging this out.
She would only feel obligated to take care of me.
I don’t want to put that on her. She has enough on her plate.
I remember how she took care of me after Stella died.
Liv had just made detective the year before and landed me as a partner.
When Stella got sick and then died, I wasn’t fit for duty—I recognize that now—but I couldn’t stay at home.
Liv held me up, covered for my fumbles, and watched my back until I was myself again.
Hell no. I will not shovel more worries onto Liv’s back, and I will not be a guinea pig for this clinic’s research.
If I’m dying, game over.
No retiring in two years and moving down to Florida to go into the PI business with my former partner.
I shake my head. Bob Stack and I were partners for nearly as long as Stella and I were married.
God, I miss that woman. Miss Bob, too. Liv is a good partner, though.
I just hope she and that fiancé of hers figure things out.
He might be rich and from one of Nashville’s most prestigious families, but that doesn’t make him right for her.
The truth is, from what she tells me, they couldn’t be more different.
I don’t claim to have all the answers, but I do know that when you love someone, you love flaws and all.
I stand, stretch my back, and exhale a blast of impatience. Eventually, I take the three steps across the exam room to stare at the vivid illustration of the human lungs mounted on the wall. Too bad mine no longer look anything like that. More in the range of black tar pits, I imagine.
I check my Timex. Quarter to five. My appointment was at 4:20.
Another breath of frustration heaves from my chest. Then I cough until I lose my breath.
My heart pounds and my face burns with the rush of blood there.
When I can breathe again, I wipe my mouth with my shirtsleeve and struggle to slow my frantic heart.