Panacea by F. Paul Wilson Page B

arrived.
    â€œWhat’s—?”
    She froze in the doorway with her jaw dropped open and her eyes showing white all around.
    â€œLook, Mom! Look!” He still had his pajama legs up. “I’m cured! Chet was right! It’s a miracle!”
    Then his mother went all white and dropped to the floor. She didn’t pass out, just landed on her knees. She wrapped her arms around Tommy and began to cry. Tommy cried too. He’d cried himself to sleep last night because nothing had happened and he’d thought Chet had lied. But these tears were different from last night’s. Today was the happiest day of his life.

 
    2
    â€œI don’t suppose I can go over to Emily’s tomorrow night,” Marissa said as she poked at her maple-flavored oatmeal.
    Laura stood at the kitchen counter with the first of her many cups of coffee for the day and stared at her daughter. Marissa had her parents’ blue eyes and her father’s strong chin. Before chemotherapy had denuded her scalp, she’d had her mother’s ebony hair. It had started growing back in patches but still had a long way to go. Thus the Mets cap that seemed grafted to her head—the first thing on when she arose and the last thing off before bed.
    Laura managed a neutral expression even though this sort of thing broke her heart.
    â€œThe way you phrased that tells me you already know the answer.”
    Though Marissa was only eight, Laura did her best not to talk down to her.
    â€œBut everyone’s gonna be there.”
    â€œYou can be there by Skype. You’re a whiz with Skype.”
    â€œIt’s not the same.”
    Of course it wasn’t. Not even close. But …
    Seeing tears start to rim her daughter’s eyes, Laura moved over and squeezed next to her in the chair. She snaked an arm around her and hugged her close.
    â€œIt’s not forever, honeybunch. Just till your immune system is running at full speed again. All sorts of viruses that your friends can simply brush off like dust will make you very, very sick.”
    â€œI don’t care! Everybody’s forgetting about me!”
    When acute lymphoblastic leukemia struck a year and a half ago, Marissa had been misdiagnosed as having juvenile rheumatoid arthritis. Not unheard of because the early symptoms were so much alike.
    But at least ALL was curable. Marissa’s leukemia, however, didn’t respond to the usual chemotherapy so she’d wound up with a stem-cell transplant—a successful one.
    But that meant up to a year of isolation. Laura and Steven and the visiting nurses had had to wear masks around her for the first few weeks. Bottles of hand sanitizer became a fixture around the house.
    Marissa’s illness had altered not only Laura’s quotidian existence, but changed her inside as well: It had shattered her sense of control. She had a medical degree, she should be able to protect her only child from a life-threatening illness. She knew how irrational that was, but still it rankled. She’d tortured herself with guilt—why hadn’t she prevented it, what hadn’t she done that she could have? Logical or not, a lot of her sense of control and some of her self-confidence had died with Marissa’s diagnosis.
    The good news was Marissa could be outside in the backyard as much as she wished. She wasn’t a Barbie-doll type of girl. Her passion was baseball. Laura’s sports growing up had been swimming and cross-country running, and tennis later. She’d never thrown a ball in her life. But she’d learned. Being a single mother—except on alternating weekends—hadn’t left her much choice.
    So, weather permitting, they played catch whenever Laura had the time. She’d bought her a baseball return trainer—with a catcher painted on the net—so she could practice her pitching on her own.
    Marissa’s favorite team was the formerly hapless Mets. Absolutely loved the