Chapter 17 - The Morning Without Hair|
Anna woke before sunrise on the morning of her next treatment.
For several minutes, she lay still, listening to the quiet sounds of the house. The radiator clicked. Rain tapped against the window. Somewhere downstairs, a door opened and closed as the household staff began their day.
Gabriel slept in the chair beside her bed.
He had refused to return to his own room after her blood counts dropped. He had also refused to let the staff wake him unless Anna needed something.
She watched him for a moment.
He looked younger when he slept, less like the man whose name could silence a room and more like the boy he must once have been before the world taught him that fear was a form of respect.
She reached for the blanket.
Gabriel woke immediately.
“What's wrong?”
“Nothing.”
He sat forward.
“Are you sure?”
“I'm sure.”
He studied her face, then relaxed.
“Sorry. I'm learning.”
She smiled faintly.
“It's going to take a while.”
“I know.”
He rose and brought her a glass of water. When she asked for help tying her scarf, he sat behind her and followed the instructions she gave him.
“Not so tight.”
“Like this?”
“A little looser.”
He adjusted the fabric.
“Better?”
She looked in the mirror.
“Yes.”
He stood back.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Anna's hair had become so thin that she had decided to shave what remained. She had thought about doing it the night before, but the prospect had frightened her more than she wanted to admit.
Now she looked at herself in the mirror and felt the familiar pressure rise in her chest.
“I don't recognize myself,” she whispered.
Gabriel moved beside her.
“You're still you.”
“I know that in my head. It doesn't feel true yet.”
He nodded.
“Then you don't have to believe it today.”
She looked at him.
“You don't think I should be brave?”
“I think you've been brave enough for one morning.”
Her eyes filled.
She leaned against him, and he wrapped his arms around her carefully.
“I hate this,” she said.
“I know.”
“I hate the hospital. I hate the tests. I hate that people look at me like they want to say something encouraging but are afraid they'll say the wrong thing.”
Gabriel rested his cheek against her head.
“You can hate all of it.”
“What if I never feel normal again?”
“Then we'll learn what normal looks like now.”
She closed her eyes.
For the first time, she allowed herself to cry without apologizing.
After breakfast, they drove to the cancer center together. Gabriel left his security team outside and entered the treatment area with Anna's permission. He sat beside her while the nurses reviewed her medication and checked her blood pressure.
When the treatment began, Anna gripped his hand.
He didn't tell her everything would be fine.
He didn't promise that the medication would work.
He simply stayed.
At one point, she turned toward him.
“Tell me something ordinary.”
He thought for a moment.
“The kitchen staff has decided the new coffee machine is terrible.”
Anna laughed softly.
“That's not ordinary. That's a crisis.”
“Apparently. They have formed a committee.”
“A committee?”
“Three people. Very serious. They have submitted a written complaint.”
She smiled.
“What did it say?”
“That the machine makes coffee that tastes like wet cardboard.”
Anna laughed again, and the sound filled the small room.
Gabriel felt his own eyes burn.
He had forgotten how much he missed hearing her laugh without effort.
After the treatment, Dr. Reed explained that the team would monitor Anna's response closely and adjust the plan as needed. There were reasons for concern, but there were also options to explore. No one could promise a particular outcome.
Anna listened, asked questions, and made notes.
Gabriel listened too.
When they returned home, she was exhausted. He helped her into bed, then sat beside her until she fell asleep.
That evening, Lucia came to the door.
“May I come in?”
Anna nodded.
Lucia carried a small box.
“I found this among your father's belongings,” she said to Gabriel. “I thought you should see it.”
Inside was a photograph of Gabriel as a child, sitting beside his father in a hospital waiting room. His father looked tired, but he was smiling. A younger Lucia stood behind them with one hand on Gabriel's shoulder.
On the back, his father had written:
The people we love are not problems to solve. They are lives to share.
Gabriel stared at the words.
He had never seen the photograph before.
“Why did you keep it?” he asked.
Lucia looked at him.
“Because it reminded me of the man your father wanted to be, before fear changed him.”
Anna reached for the photograph.
“He sounds like someone who was trying.”
“He was,” Lucia said. “And sometimes he failed.”
She paused.
“I hope you'll allow yourself to fail sometimes too, Gabriel. You don't have to become a perfect husband overnight.”
He gave a small, tired smile.
“I appreciate the permission.”
Lucia kissed Anna's forehead and left.
Later that night, Anna asked Gabriel to bring the bathroom mirror closer.
She studied her reflection for a long time.
Then she removed her scarf.
Her hair was almost entirely gone.
She touched her scalp, tears gathering in her eyes.
Gabriel stood beside her but did not reach for her until she asked.
“Hold my hand.”
He did.
She looked at herself again.
“I thought losing my hair would make me feel like I'd lost everything.”
“What does it feel like?”
She considered the question.
“Like I've lost something I loved. But not everything.”
Gabriel kissed her hand.
“No. Not everything.”
She leaned against him.
For a while, they watched their reflections together.
Then Anna noticed something on the bathroom counter.
A folded note had been slipped beneath the edge of her hairbrush.
She opened it.
The message contained only one sentence.
The treatment you received was not the treatment your doctor originally ordered.
Her face went white.
Gabriel took the note from her hand.
At the bottom was a signature.
DR. MARTIN SHAW.
May you like
The retired family physician who had supposedly left Chicago months earlier.
And beneath his name was a date from the previous week.
