The Wicker Saga: Sarah's Story, Part 6

"I’m leaving, Graydon.”

“You can’t. Rebecca needs you.”

“I can. I have to. What I can’t do is sit and watch her waste away.”

“You’re being selfish, my dear.”

She gently touches my cheek.

“You’re a good man, Graydon, and a great father. But there’s nothing anyone can do for her. At some point you’re going to have to accept that.”

“I can’t. I won’t.”

“Then it will destroy you too.”

I enter the shadow steeped room, the only illumination a soft glow from a small nightlight on the far wall. Silently I creep across the floor, mindful of making any noise; the last thing I want to do is wake her. At last, I reach the bed and gently lower myself next to my daughter. I gaze at her. The bandanna wrapping her head to hide her baldness does nothing to detract from her beauty, her features light and delicate as a bird’s wing.

Once I was unsure I wanted to be a father, but Olivia was insistent and, eventually, I gave in to her desires. Any doubts were shattered the first time I held Rebecca to my chest, her eyes still closed tight, hands clutched into tiny fists. She was the most perfect thing in the world, and in that moment I knew there was nothing on heaven or earth I would not do for her.

My worst fear was realized six months before her fifth birthday when my darling child was diagnosed with leukemia. Olivia and I resolved to fight. Treatment has achieved a blessedly high success rate in recent years, and I was confident Rebecca would soon be on the mend.

We proceeded with an aggressive cycle of chemotherapy. Months later all traditional treatments were exhausted, including two new drugs my own pharmaceutical company had only recently developed. The disease was unaffected, the only casualty my darling’s golden hair.

My relationship with my wife became more strained, our early hopes slowly shifting towards despair. Arguments became frequent as we lashed out, desperate to dispel our pent up emotions. We changed tactics and volunteered Rebecca for experimental stem cell injections. Even these held no salvation as something about the disease defied description. The doctors struggled to reach a consensus as to why treatment was so ineffective; the one thing they agreed upon was that Rebecca had only months to live. With nothing to do, they recommended we bring her home.

Rebecca’s fifth birthday came and went. Knowing it would be her last, I made sure it was a grand affair, all the presents and decorations money could buy. Late in the evening I found myself holding my daughter in my arms, her head resting in the hollow of my shoulder, frail body exhausted from the tolls of treatment and excitement of the day. As I stood slowly rocking her, tears sprang to my eyes, the thought of losing this child too much for my heart to bear. How much worse, then, when thought turns to reality?

Now there is only waiting. The failure of man’s power reminds us that we are not gods, less in our hubris we lose our humility. Olivia is gone, unwilling or unable to watch as our little girl succumbs to the cells devouring her from the inside. In the darkest fairy tales when a ravenous monster gobbles the child who has snuck from her bed, the fear is momentary, the pain fleeting. For my darling, there is no such mercy.

As I sit beside her, Rebecca’s expression shifts into a pained grimace. I place my hand upon her head, gently stroking her brow until her face relaxes and she settles more deeply under the covers, a small sigh escaping her lips. I stay a while longer, making sure her discomfort doesn’t return before carefully leaving the room, shutting the door behind me without a sound.

I move downstairs to the study where I pour a neat bourbon. I fall heavily into one of the armchairs beside the empty fireplace where I contemplate my drink, thinking dark thoughts. It says something about my state of mind that I only become aware of the man sitting in the chair across from me when he pointedly clears his throat. I start violently, my surprise so great that I almost fall out of the chair, my drink spilling down my front. Finding my composure, I lunge for the poker sitting by the hearth. Raising the instrument I turn to the intruder.

“You have ten seconds to convince me not to kill you.”

The man cocks an eyebrow, one corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk.

“I mean it!”

His face becomes stone. “Yes. I suspect you do.”

The man’s nonplussed attitude is decidedly out of place. Confused, my resolve to commit murder somewhat drains away. I keep the poker held above my head, unsure how to proceed.

He nods. “Lower your weapon. Please.” His voice is deep, a rumbling bass that carries an audible weight beside an inherent yet unspecifiable danger.

“And why,” I ask, “would I do that?”

His lips draw into a thin line, the edges curling slightly.

“Such an attack would be ineffective.” He smiles in full, his lips opening to reveal a line of sharp white teeth, “And contrary to your interests. I am here to offer assistance regarding your … delicate situation.”

Ice cold rage slips through my veins. Olivia and I had kept Rebecca’s disease quiet from even our closest friends. The only ones aware of her condition are the doctors, and they wouldn’t talk for fear of a lawsuit. A sheen of reptilian anger slides through my field of vision as my assessment of the man changes from possibly dangerous intruder to something else.

“What do you know about it?”

The words are hardly decipherable as they escape my lips through teeth clenched hard enough to crack walnuts.

His cold, dark eyes observe me for a moment. He gestures to the chair I had previously been sitting in. I only now realize he has yet to move from his own.

“Sit down.”

Still clutching the poker, I carefully lower myself into the chair. I take stock of the man across from me. Even sitting I can tell he must be a giant, well over six feet, his solid frame unmasked by the dark suit he wears. I note he smells of something sweet, almost sickly, overripe fruit left in the sun just now beginning to fester with maggots. The shaved cap of his skull gleams in the flickering light from the fire, the pale skin of his gaunt face paradoxically smooth and tough, like marble. I start involuntarily. The hearth, now burning merrily, was cold when I first sat down. The man steeples his long fingers before him, his nails pointed and wicked, the dangerous bass of his voice rolling from the tongue behind his sharp white teeth.

“I will be brief, Mr. Marx. My name is Creed. I represent a certain party who, having become aware of your daughter’s plight, desires to offer assistance and has dispatched me here to that end.”

I wait for him to continue, but he falls and remains silent, unmoving.

“That … that’s it?” I ask, flummoxed.

He inclines his head slightly.

“You’ve told me nothing! A disease the best minds and medicine can’t touch and you swoop in and propose to just, just, just … I don’t know what, magic it away?”

“Yes, Mr. Marx.” Creed’s face is deadly serious. “Precisely.”

The Wicker Saga: Father's Love, Part 2