Saving Meghan(22)

As was her routine, Becky had also done due diligence on this new doctor. It was far from her usual deep dive, that could come later, but she did gather basic facts from the internet. The most revealing discovery had come when Dr. Fisher shared the story of his tragic past, the death of his son from the disease he had devoted his life to curing. Her heart broke for him, for what he had endured, because the pain of a losing a child, no matter the age or circumstance, was familiar to her on the most personal, primal, and visceral of levels.

Nothing Becky found out in her quest for answers brought her much comfort, but as expected, the new diagnosis elicited a fresh rush of attention and outpouring of support. She took in every good wish, every hug from a concerned neighbor—Holly included, despite the distance that had come between them—every cooked meal, every phone call, and used them to fill the empty part of her soul that her mother had cratered out. Maybe if Holly still had a sick child, they would have stayed close friends. Becky understood the distance between them was her fault. It was shameful to admit, petty as can be, but it hurt to be around Holly because Becky wanted so desperately to have what she had—a healthy child.

Her Facebook group was full of the sick and struggling, and it was there Becky sought solace. Veronica Del Mar and other online friends helped her ascend the mito learning curve quickly. Though Becky found most of what they shared distressing, she had come to depend on her virtual support network to get her through the day. She felt off-kilter without their messages and regular information dumps.

After finishing dinner prep, Becky decided to FaceTime with Veronica. No one else could understand or relate to her struggles the way Veronica could.

When Veronica’s face appeared in the FaceTime window, it looked to Becky as though she’d been expecting to video chat. Her hair, a shade of blond that came only from a box, was styled, full of body, and slightly feathered in a wink to the 1970s. Dark mascara called attention to her blue eyes, and makeup had turned Veronica’s sun-kissed skin the reddish hue of Martian rock. A pair of dazzling silver earrings hung low and tinkled like wind chimes every time she moved her head.

Off in the background, Becky could see a pair of tall green plants bracketing a pass-through door into a galley kitchen, as well as a maroon tile floor that kept the apartment cool in Florida’s blistering heat.

“Becky, sweetheart, I was just thinking of you.” Becky smiled, knowing Veronica would say that even if a man had just climbed off her. “How’s Meghan doing? I’ve been thinking of her and you tons.”

“She’s doing okay,” Becky said. “Sleeping a lot, probably too much, but I don’t know what else to do.”

“What about you-know-who?”

The “you-know-who,” of course, meant Carl. To Becky’s surprise and great relief, he’d been a better husband since the diagnosis. He was more attentive; a real presence around the house, for a change. He’d started looking her in the eyes when they spoke. On occasion, he’d offer to rub her shoulders, or snuggle in bed without asking for favors in return.

“Same thing happened with Don and me when a doctor thought Ashley had celiac disease,” Veronica said glumly. “Suddenly, I wasn’t Mrs. Crazy. In a day, I went from being obsessive and manipulative to brilliant, dogged, and determined. He got on board with the treatment plan, became Mr. Wonderful for all of three months, and then slipped right back into old habits when the diagnosis didn’t stick, denying anything was ever wrong, blaming me for perpetuating the drama.”

Becky tried not to let her annoyance show. She had so few good days that any moment there was cause to celebrate needed to be cherished, not squashed. Carl’s active role had done wonders for Becky’s mood, and nobody—not Veronica, not anybody—was going to bring her down.

“How is Ashley doing?” Becky asked, looking for a change of subject.

“Nothing new to report,” Veronica announced with a sigh. “We’re going to try this homeopathic healer in New Mexico my friend swears by, but I don’t know. It seems a bit nutty to think some shaman across the country could heal Ashley remotely when so many doctors around here haven’t done diddly.”

“Desperate times,” said Becky, reciting a refrain familiar to members of her Facebook group.

They talked at length about Ashley’s ongoing stomach cramps, her evident weight loss, and Don’s unconscionable lack of compassion for his daughter’s plight. Becky suggested Ashley get tested for mito because the disease was nimble enough to fit most any symptom. It was a better plan than some damn fool shaman, and she felt on friendly-enough terms with Veronica to share that exact thought.

“Maybe you’re right,” Veronica said, sipping clear liquid from a glass tumbler that probably contained more parts vodka than tonic.

Before they could say anything more, Meghan appeared in the doorway. “Mom, I don’t feel well,” she announced weakly.

Becky swiveled in her chair to focus on Meghan, who looked pale and sweaty. She clutched at her stomach in evident pain, nearly doubled over, shaky on her feet. Meghan’s eyes blinked rapidly as though they were trying to adjust to a sudden bright light.

Becky bolted from her chair to go to her daughter’s side. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” she asked, gripping Meghan’s bony shoulders.

“I feel sick,” Meghan said.

Oh God, no, thought Becky. This was it—the fast decline she most feared.