We Own the Sky(60)

16

“Is he still sleeping?” Anna said, as I went outside onto the patio, holding my laptop under my arm.

“Like a baby.”

It used to be our joke when Jack was small. How was he sleeping? Like a

baby. Because he was a baby, you see.

Jack slept a lot, now that he was doing chemotherapy. When he was awake, he spent most of his time on the sofa, watching cartoons, surrounded by his favorite toys and books. When he slept, we watched  Poirot and  Homes Under the Hammer, always listening, waiting for Jack to wake.

Anna was cleaning the patio windows from the outside. The house had been

spotless since Jack was diagnosed. A cleaner came once a week, but that wasn’t enough, Anna said; she liked to do it herself. So every day, she scoured the bathroom and toilets. She cleaned under the sinks. She took on the oven, scraping off all the grime and then polishing it on the inside.

She kept her cleaning suppliers in a cupboard in the utility room. There was a box full of sponges and squeegees and microfiber cloths. On the top shelf, there were bottles of detergent, ammonia, white vinegar, all lined up as if they were in a trophy cabinet.

It was cold outside, even for December, and I was chilly in just a shirt. I took a deep breath and a large gulp of my coffee. “I’ve been looking into this clinic,” I said to Anna.

I expected her to say something, to turn toward me, but she carried on rubbing the windows with a cloth.

“It’s in the Czech Republic, run by this Dr. Sladkovsky.” A twitch in Anna’s face, a minuscule movement of her nose. I had the feeling that she was about to interrupt me, that I had to rush out my words.

“Look, I know how you feel about all of this, but please hear me out.”

“Hear you out?”

“Well, yes, I know we feel differently about the treatment options.”

Anna went back to her windows, targeting a spot close to the ground. “I’m not sure that’s how I would characterize it,” she said. “But I’m happy to listen. We make decisions together, right?”

“Right. Okay, it’s this clinic in Prague—I printed some stuff out for you—that does this immuno-engineering treatment. I have researched it quite a bit, and it seems there is a good deal of science behind it. The thing is, so many children have got better at the clinic, even children with brain tumors. I’ve been emailing this guy Nev from the forum. His son, Josh, also had glioblastoma and was treated at Sladkovsky’s. He’s now three years in remission.”

“Yes, Nev. I’ve seen his posts.”

“You have?”

“Yes, on  Hope’s Place. I’ve seen his posts about Dr. Sladkovsky.”

“Oh. I didn’t realize...”

Anna sighed. “I read the forum, as well, you know,” she said.

“So what do you think then?”

“About the clinic?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think much, really. I looked at the website a while back. I mean, it looks impressive with the testimonials and everything. But then I read some opinions on the forum about it and some piece on this  Quackwatch website. It said there was very little scientific evidence to back Dr. Sladkovsky’s claims, and there was zero evidence that immuno-engineering worked.”

I had read that long, snarky  Quackwatch piece she was referring to, which rambled on about peer review and Dr. Sladkovsky’s disregard for proper scientific method. I remembered being annoyed by the smugness and pedantry of the journalist, like one of those excruciating fanboys who picked plot holes in popular movies.

“I know, I know, I read that too. But maybe it will work. Maybe there is

something in it. People—other children—do get better. I don’t think these people are lying in these testimonials.”

Anna shrugged, and the gesture infuriated me, like a stubborn child refusing to say sorry.

“Look, I just think it’s worth a try,” I said, my voice cracking. “What else can we do now?”

She looked at me disapprovingly—like Jackie Onassis in her big bug-eyed

glasses.

“Do you not think that if I thought there was something in this that I would do it for Jack?”

“I know. I’m not saying that, I’m really not saying that...”

“And, regardless,” Anna said, “what about the money? It’s obscene to talk

about such a thing, but have you seen how much the treatment costs? Even if we wanted to, how on earth would we pay for it?”

“We’ll find it,” I said, “we’ll scrape around. There’s always money.”

Anna sighed. “Where is this money, Rob? Where is it? I looked on the

website, and the treatment can cost hundreds of thousands of pounds. I just don’t understand how you think we can pay for that. Scott is selling the company, Rob, he’s selling and I’m not working. So...so what? We won’t have any money coming in.”

“We’ll find it. I can ask Scott for a loan.”

“Jesus, Rob,” Anna said, snatching up her cloth and bucket. “Scott doesn’t have any money. He’s practically bankrupt.”

She walked back inside, and I followed her into the living room. “I’m sorry, I just can’t do this,” she said, sitting down on the sofa. “It makes me feel absolutely sick, like I just want to die, talking about the money. And if I thought the treatment would work, I would sell everything, the house, the car.