Liz held her tongue all the way back to the hotel and let Alan do the talking. He calmly told Joe that they would be going to Portland for more tests on Friday, and hopefully the doctors would figure everything out. Meanwhile, they had half of Wednesday and all of Thursday to kill. Alan put Joe to bed and sat in the chair, looking at his son sleep.
Alan heard Liz pacing in the adjoining room. He wondered if they had downstairs neighbors. He wondered if anyone had complained to the front desk about the crazy stomping coming from room 220.
When Joe’s breathing evened out—even asleep he still looked troubled—Alan limped to the door and shut it most of the way behind himself.
“Liz, you have to stop pacing,” Alan said.
She was walking a tight line, back and forth, between the bed and the TV.
“I can’t, Alan.”
“I know how you feel. Why don’t you go down to the gym and use the elliptical or something? Don’t they have an indoor pool there? Maybe you can do some laps.”
“One, I don’t have gym clothes or a bathing suit. Two, I put my head in there the other day—the chlorine would kill me. You know my eyes can’t deal with that.”
“Then go for a run. Do anything except fill up this room with your nervous energy, please?”
“Fine,” she said. She picked up her key card and walked to the door. “But didn’t I suggest he had a tumor weeks ago?”
“Liz,” Alan said. “What good does it do us…”
Liz cut him off by closing the door quietly. It was clear that she wanted to slam it.
Alan stretched out on the bed. He turned the TV on but muted the sound. The announcer talked while charts flipped by over her shoulder. The market was up. Somehow the people of the world kept moving through their irrelevant lives while something might be growing inside Joe’s head. Alan couldn’t fathom it. He couldn’t wrap his brain around the concept.
It felt like cancer kept coming up. It was October’s recurring theme.
Alan set a timer on his phone for four hours. He would need to check Joe’s temperature again then. With that done, he drifted off to fitful sleep. The day they’d spent at the doctor’s office had been exhausting, but his mind wouldn’t stopping spinning. Alan spent the night in a endless pattern of napping, taking Joe’s temperature, and staring at Liz. Ever since she’d returned, she’d done nothing but sit at the little desk and read information about Joe’s possible illness. Alan knew that she would be an expert on the subject by the time Friday finally arrived, but she would insufferable for most of Thursday.
He drifted back to sleep.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Halloween
OCTOBER 31
ALAN WOKE on Thursday morning when Liz came in to the room holding a tray of food.
“Is it time to take his temperature?” Alan asked.
“No,” Liz said. “But I thought he might be hungry when he wakes up, so I got us some food from the breakfast buffet.”
Alan nodded. He rubbed his eyes. He’d spent the night on top of the covers. Liz had spent the night at the desk, but she looked better rested than he felt. She moved to the door to Joe’s room and pulled it open enough to look through.
“Don’t wake him up,” Alan said. He looked at his timer. “We have to check his temp again in ninety minutes.”
Liz winked at him. She went into Joe’s room and closed the door.
Alan swung his feet to the floor.
Inspiration came to him in flashes of bright white light exploding in his brain. He closed his eyes. Alan reached for his phone.
“Hello?” Bob answered the phone.
“Bob, you remember that book we read?”
There was silence on the line.
“Bob?”
“Yeah?”
“In that book—did you get the sense that anyone could do that process, or that it had to be done by one of the women in that lineage?”
“Well,” Bob said, “one of them thought it could be anyone. I think it was Marie. She seemed to think that with the right process anyone could tame the… you know.”
“So why not anyone?” Alan asked.
“What do you mean?”
“What did Sophie call cancer?” Alan asked.
“Sophie—well all of them in the book—called cancer ‘demons.’ If someone had cancer they would say they had demons in their blood. If the women of that family had any inherent skill above their training, it was the ability to spot cancer. They’re like cancer-sniffing dogs. What are you working on, Alan? Why all these questions about the book?”
“Bob, Joe has cancer,” Alan said.
“What?”
“It’s not one-hundred percent, but we’re pretty sure he has brain cancer. At the beginning of the school year, Polly told him that he had demons in him. I think she knew it back then. He’s supposed to go to Portland on Friday for an MRI.”
“Oh, shit, Alan. I’m sorry to hear that,” Bob said. “If there’s anything I can do.”
“Do you mean it?” Alan asked.
“Of course, why? Can I help with something?” Bob asked.
“Yes,” Alan said. “Come to my hotel and help me teach my wife the process. If the Prescott clan can do it, then Liz can. She can learn anything. We’ll give her a crash course and then she can perform the process tonight.”
In the generic hotel room of American Suites, with Joe watching TV in the adjoining room, Bob and Liz sat in the chairs. Alan sat on the edge of the bed.
They’d been talking for the better part of an hour. To tell the story, Alan started all the way back with Joe’s first school confrontation with Polly. He condensed six weeks down into a brief outline. Liz simply listened. Bob told the parts of the story he’d witnessed, and he described what he understood from the diary. Liz crossed her legs and bounced her foot. Alan finished with his proposal—they would perform the procedure the Prescott women had documented. If it worked as described, the process would draw the migrators to remove Joe’s cancer.
Liz looked between Alan and Bob.
“Do you two want some time to discuss?” Bob asked.
“No,” Liz said. She turned to her husband. “This is quite the leap, Alan. It’s not like you.”
“I won’t deny it—I’m grasping at straws. I’m looking for a miracle,” Alan said.
“You think this has a chance?” Liz asked.
Alan nodded. “Yes.”
“Let me see the book,” Liz said.
Alan went back to the farmhouse first. He drove his little Toyota into the barn and parked it. Under his jacket, he was sweating with nervous energy. He walked out through the barn door and regarded the house. The sun had set over the trees and the light was soft and thick in the dooryard. The house was dark. It was a nice evening for trick or treating, but they wouldn’t get any kids in this neighborhood. As long as they left the house dark, they shouldn’t need to worry about unexpected visitors.
Bob pulled up the drive. He parked his SUV to the side, in front of the Cook House.
Alan walked around to the passenger’s door.
“You want to give me a ride down the road? I want to retrieve the truck from the woods,” Alan said.
“Hop in,” Bob said. “I heard a rumor over at Christy’s this morning.”
Bob turned around and then turned left at the end of the driveway.
“What did you hear?” Alan asked.
“Apparently there are a lot of Prescotts missing from town lately,” Bob said.
“Really?”
“Seems like they’ve found compelling reasons to move away.”
“Huh. That’s interesting. I’ll get the truck, then use that to move wood for the fire,” Alan said.