The Thieves of Heaven (9 page)

“I’m sure it’s nothing, honey. Hey, it’s not like I’m dying—”

“Did the doctor say that? I can’t believe you had these tests and didn’t tell me.”

Mary remained calm, always the optimist; everything would be all right, she was certain of it, it was her mantra. “Hey, look at me.” She touched his face gently. “I’m not going anywhere, Michael. We’re just getting our lives back on track. If I’m not worried…”

“I think we can treat it,” the doctor said.

Michael kept rubbing Mary’s back, as much an effort to calm himself as to calm her. Dr. Rhineheart took on a fatherly tone. “We’re going to treat it. We’ve a very high success rate and your condition doesn’t seem to have spread beyond the ovaries.”

They were sitting in a typical, sterile doctor’s office, oak desk, two guest chairs, a two-picture frame containing images of his middle-aged wife and two kids. Dr. Phillip Rhineheart, forty-five, balding and gray at the temples, stood leaning back on the front of his desk. He always found it too formal to sit behind it and discuss people’s lives as if they were just business. Michael and Mary St. Pierre were trying to be stoic for each other but Rhineheart saw through them. The doctor had seen it too many times: the hideous disease that eats away not only the human being but the human soul, wreaking havoc, infecting all the loved ones with a sheer sense of dread. “I know this is hard—”

“What about children?” Mary’s voice was distant.

Rhineheart shook his head. “Both ovaries are invaded.” He took a deep breath. “We’re going to have to remove them.” This was the worst part of his job and it had caused him many a sleepless night. “I’m sorry.”

Mary placed her hand upon her husband’s as he continued to rub her shoulder. Both of them strained to avoid eye contact, for to look at each other would surely shatter what little composure they had remaining.

“This treatment—how much does the—what does it…” Michael couldn’t finish the question.

“You can relax about that. It’s covered by insurance.”

“How much?” Michael pressed, afraid of the answer.

“Mary’s cancer is in an advanced state. It could cost upward of two hundred fifty thousand, depending on the regime we prescribe. Relax. It’s nothing experimental. Insurance covers all the phases.” Rhineheart paused to emphasize his confidence. “And I assure you our cancer facility is the finest.”

The small room was closing in on him. In all his life Michael had never felt more powerless, more inferior than right now. He felt like the reluctant executioner at the switch, powerless to save the life before him. “We don’t have insurance,” he said, as if decreeing a death sentence.

This was happening too often, people living unprepared. Rhineheart was one of the few doctors who pressed for mandatory governmental coverage of all U.S. citizens, but that was just a dream. Not enough profit to make it “worthwhile.” He turned to Mary. “What about the school? They should have an excellent insurance program.”

“I’ve only been there two months. It’s ninety days before you’re eligible,” Mary replied. The hope had slipped from her eyes.

“I see.” Rhineheart exhaled slowly. He’d donate his services but the surgery costs, hospitalization, the radiation and chemo—the hospital wasn’t a charity. Medicine was a for-profit business, the hospital had budgets to meet, shareholders to satisfy. Medicine was no longer about the patient; rate of return was the goal of medical care. He suddenly hated his job.

Finally, he stood up and said in a confident tone, “Well, I’ve got to get you started on some blood work, Mary, so we can design a treatment program. Michael, why don’t you speak to your bank? I’d be happy to help you with the paperwork—I’m sure you can work something out.”

Michael sat there, stunned.

Chapter 5

M
ichael emerged from the brass revolving
door into the First Bank of Byram Hills’ enormous rotunda and felt instantly dwarfed by its grand marble pillars and vast cavernous space. Businesspeople rushed by on all sides as he stood there in his only suit feeling way out of his element. He was five minutes late for his appointment and made to wait twice as long before the bank officer grimly gestured him into a chair.

Kerry Seitz, a tight-jawed VP of the bank impeccably clad in a three-piece suit, scrutinized Michael’s file. Seitz’s face was impossible to read as he absorbed the material. Not a sound passed his lips for fifteen minutes as he picked through Michael’s life from various sources: credit agencies, DMV, the state and federal court systems. Michael felt like a child in the oversized chair, trying to fit in, trying not to look desperate.

Finally, Seitz looked up. He ran his hand through his perfect hair and in the coldest tone Michael had ever heard said, “No. I’m sorry.”

“What?”

“We can’t help you.” Seitz tossed the application in his out-box.

“You haven’t asked me a single question.”

“I’ve read your application. We would need to secure the loan with an asset.” He had already put Michael’s request behind him, busying himself with another document.

“My business is my asset,” Michael protested, seeing through to the man’s fearful stereotyping soul.

“Your background”—the words came icily—“for lack of a better word, Mr. St. Pierre, makes this impossible.”

“I know I’ve made some mistakes.”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t have a problem when I opened my business account here.”

“Holding your money and loaning you money are two entirely different things.”

Michael jumped out of his chair, barely containing himself from flying across the desk at this man’s throat. “I’ll go to another bank.”

“I’ll save you the time,” Seitz said, rising. The bank security guards were taking notice, edging closer. “Nobody is going to loan you a nickel. You’re a convicted felon with a worthless business and no credit history. You’re a risk that no one will take.”

“You son of a bitch, my wife is dying!”

“I’m sorry, but that is a burden you will have to shoulder on your own. Good day.” The guards arrived, flanking Michael. Without another word, he stormed out.

An obscenely white room. It’s remarkable that in this day and age, with everyone running around talking about bedside manner, hospitals have stuck with antiseptic harsh white. All the studies about how blues and yellows relax the mind were apparently lost on the medical world. “Impersonal” was the operative word here, a cold approach to treatments, attitudes, and architectural design.

Mary and Michael were eating one of those hospital meals: pot roast in watery brown gravy, soggy beans spilling into the mashed potatoes that were thicker than mortar, and a slice of pear of unidentifiable color. The meal was the obvious explanation for the assortment of chips and cookies strewn along the bed. Mary was propped up, tubes running in and out of her body from the most uncomfortable places. Michael had pulled up a chair, using her bed as a table.

“Can I get you anything?”

“I’m OK. How was work?”

“Fine.” He hadn’t been to work in three days.

He reached over, scooped up some mashed potatoes, and inhaled them. “These aren’t bad.” An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Michael looked at Mary lying there in that skimpy white hospital gown with the embarrassing slit up the back and realized he’d give his soul to trade places with her.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured.

“Don’t be silly. There’s nothing to be sorry about, you didn’t cause this.” Michael’s mind couldn’t seem to shake the thought that this terrible trial was a punishment for his past deeds.

“How are we going to pay for this?” she asked softly, knowing the pressure that just asking it put on Michael.

“Don’t worry.”

“Our savings are almost tapped out.” Mary struggled to hide the desperation in her voice as she nervously fingered the gold cross hanging from her neck. It was a habit she had developed in her teens: whenever her stress level rose, her fingers would run to the little cross seeking comfort and protection, like it was some all-powerful amulet. Over the years the gesture had become an unconscious reaction and Michael was sure she was unaware of it even now. She’d had the cross since her First Holy Communion, a gift from a beloved uncle. She rarely took it off. It always bothered Michael when they were making love and she was on top, the moonlight catching it as it dangled from her throat. He found the cross as intrusive as if someone was spying on their intimate moments. Although Mary insisted that it had always protected her, Michael’s doubt of that was surely confirmed by her current diagnosis.

“You just focus on getting better, Mare. I can finance it, not a problem.” His stomach was in knots. Through all the years they had been together, through thick and thin and most particularly through his arrest and jail time, he had never lied to her, ever. Maybe a little fib here and there—
I love your haircut; I’d love to see that movie; she’s not prettier than you
—but not direct, deceiving lies. Now, within two minutes, he had laid three at her feet.

“Michael?” Mary managed that smile that always warmed his soul.

“Hmmm?”

“We’re going to be fine.” And while she sincerely meant this, Michael couldn’t shake the fear that the worst was yet to come.

Michael was trying to get comfortable in the most uncomfortable chair he had ever been in. Mary was tubed and wired from head to toe, restlessly asleep. Varrisa Schrier was the night-duty nurse and chief of the nursing staff, ruling her people with a strict German discipline. To say Varrisa was big-boned was being kind; her ample body strained her white uniform. And her face…Well, her visage was just about as harsh as her big hands. But her nature was far from strict, for compassion ran deep in her. She was always assigned the tougher cases.

“Mr. St. Pierre?” He could hear the concern in the nurse’s voice as she poked her head in the room. “Go home, get some sleep, you need your rest just as much as your wife.”

“I don’t think I’ll be sleeping for a while.”

Varrisa nodded and stepped inside. Quietly, she went about cleaning up the magazines and newspapers, discarding the empty food bags and generally returning a sense of order and normalcy to the place. Michael looked at Mary and wished the industrious nurse could restore his wife’s health as easily.