Henry Franks(50)

“How?” Frank put his coffee mug down untouched, then walked up to her but she turned away when he tried to put his arms around her. “What would you like me to do? The stem-cell transplant failed. It made things worse, for crying out loud.”

“I don’t care how, just save him. I can’t stand by and watch him die and do nothing.”

“I love you,” he said, but if she heard, she gave no indication. “Chrissy?”

She looked up at him, a single glance before turning away.

“Have you talked to Dr. Saville?” he asked, the words as neutral as he could make them.

“About?” she said, then spun around to face him. “The fact that my son is dying? Everyone knows that, Frank.”

“Your medication?”

“Please, like you’d notice if I took it or not.” She rubbed her eyes, then pasted a smile on her face. “Like you care,” she said, so quietly the words were no more than a hiss.

“Are you?”

“They made me sick,” she said. “Well, sicker. I’d rather be me than nauseous.”

He sat down, dropping his head in his hands and biting his tongue to keep quiet. Taking a deep breath, he looked back up at her. “There are other medications you can try, remember?”

“So I can force myself to be happy while my son dies, Frank? Is that the cure you want for me? No, I will not. Never. I’m sorry I can’t be the happy little homemaker you thought you married.” She laughed, a bitter sarcastic sound that lacked any trace of warmth. “Or do you still think we’re the perfect family?”

He looked up at her, his breath short and hard as his heart tried to escape his body and break into little pieces.

“I love you.”

“I know,” she said, a smile just touching the edges of her chapped lips. “I’ve just forgotten why.” The words hung in the air long after she ran from the room.



“What would you have me do, Chrissy?” he asked the emptiness. “What?”

She came out of nowhere, barreling into him, her fingers clenched into claws raking down his face. The tips came away bloody and her eyes, wide and red and staring, didn’t even blink as she tried to catch her breath. A thin line of drool fell from her mouth to the floor. She snarled, then slammed her fist against the wall when he ducked her punch.

She gasped with the pain, then slid to the floor in a heap, her chest rising and falling faster than he could count. He reached a finger against her throat, trying to check her pulse, but she rolled away, kicking out at him.

“Save him,” she said, her voice somewhere between a whisper and a moan. Then she screamed, the sound high-pitched and painful. “Save my son!” She gulped air in between words, trying to catch her breath.

“How?” he said, trying to get his arms around her, to calm her, to hold her down. Her fingers clawed against his hands and the scratches on his face burned as she twisted around to try to bite him. She thrust her head back and up, into his chin, and he felt the rush of copper as he bit through his tongue.

Still, he wrestled her to the ground, forcing her down, her heart beating so strongly that he could feel it where his chest rested on her back. She shook beneath him and then released a harsh sob.

“Save my son,” she said, more like a little girl asking Santa for a present than a grown woman talking to her husband. “Save him. Please, Frank. You can do that for me, right? You always said you’d do anything for me, to make me happy, to make me marry you. You said that. You promised.”

“I’m sorry, Chrissy.” His voice was quiet where he nestled his face in her hair. The usual sweet smell had been replaced by an acrid, sweaty odor, and dandruff flakes fell to the floor with her motions. “There’s nothing I can do. The cancer’s spread through most of his body. The stem-cell transplant was the last best hope.”

“Then transplant something else,” she said. Her voice, raw from screaming, still hissed out, like a child’s doll talking. “If you love me, Frank, you’ll save him. Transplant something else. Won’t that work? You promised. Transplant everything—I don’t care, just save my son!”

She beat her head against him again but he didn’t feel the blows, his eyes tearing as her words echoed in his head, his heart still within his chest.

He let her go and didn’t even watch as she scrambled across the floor, crawling down the hall to Henry’s room.





twenty nine




“Dr. Saville?” Henry asked, his voice little more than a whisper.

“Chrissy’s doctor. Your mom told her, after the operation. She wanted to help but there was nothing she could do.” His father looked around the room and his shoulders slumped.

“Victor.” Henry said, the name strangely familiar when spoken out loud.

“Was dying. A suicide,” his father said. “How do you know all this?”

“It wasn’t easy.” Justine closed the distance between herself and Henry, stretching out for his hand.

Her fingers were warm, and strength flowed through her grip where they merged with his own. When he looked at her, she smiled, warm honey-brown eyes lit from within, glowing in the midst of the storm.

“It took months, practicing, studying, before I was ready,” his father said. “I was so afraid you’d die before I found a donor match.”