Page 96 of Look on the Bright Side

“Well, he’s a fool.” Robert’s face looked strange, since he rarely was anything but happy or struck by wonder.

“Thanks, Robert.”

“Is he taking the appropriate steps to come crawling back to you?”

She laughed, surprising herself. “Yes, I guess he is. I just…don’t know if I want him back.”

Robert shook his head. “Love is so fragile,” he said. “It cracks a thousand times throughout the years. But what I’ve found, Ellie, is that if you glue it back together, it gets stronger. More durable if less shiny, shall we say. And you and Gerald have had a very shiny marriage.”

She nodded. “Yep. That’s true.”

He reached over the table and took both her hands in his. “I’m on your side,” he said. “People say not to take sides, and to that, I say, ridiculous! There’s right and there’s wrong. I’m on the side of right. Whatever you choose to do, Elsbeth, your old father-in-law loves and admires you.”

She gave a wet laugh. “This is why the kids worship you, Robert. We’re all so lucky to have you.”

“I’m not sure my son will agree, once I take him to the woodshed. I’m generally against corporal punishment, but at the moment, I could be swayed.” He squeezed her hands, then let them go. “I must head out, my dear. Frances and I have a date. We’re learning about astronomy! I’ve always wanted to recognize the constellations, but with these old eyes, time is running out!”

That was the magic of Robert Josiah Smith. Ninety-one years old, and the happiest, most optimistic person she knew. Ellie had always felt she was a happy person, too. She was tired of feeling this way…hurt, angry, sad. Time to take action.

After Robert left, she went back upstairs, grabbed a few more clothes from the bureau, washed the glasses and, after thinking about it for five minutes, wrote Gerald a note.

Let’s set a date and discuss next steps.

Her marriage wasn’t bulletproof, she thought, and it had taken a direct hit. It was in critical condition, but it wasn’t dead yet.

EIGHTEEN

LARK

In addition to reading case studies on new oncology treatments, listening to oncology podcasts, and taking online classes in oncology, Lark was getting a lot from being a hospice volunteer.

Her last client had been a sweet old man who smiled when she came into the room and enjoyed holding her hand. She had read to him—Odd Thomas by Dean Koontz—and while he’d been nonverbal, he’d smiled in places at the unique way the title character spoke. He had died after three weeks—cerebral vascular disease. His lovely wife had written Lark a note afterward, thanking her for cheering him up. Lark would keep that forever, she knew.

She’d also visited with a Mrs.Kaye, whose profile said she enjoyed listening to Dean Martin songs. Lark had pulled some up on her phone, and the old lady had smiled at the sound of the crooner’s voice, though she didn’t open her eyes. She died the next day, and though they’d only had that one visit, Lark felt a pang.

Lark wasn’t allowed to act as a physician in the program. She was just a person, not allowed to administer meds, adjust the patient, even give a drink of water. Her job was simply to be present, and it was strangely difficult not to be able to help in some way—to bathe the patient, or transfer them from bed to chair, or help them in the bathroom. Her job was to talk if they wanted to talk, ask the family members how they were doing. To listen. Not to fix.

She’d just come off the night shift in the ER and was washing up in the locker room when she got another request from Darlene, the head of the hospice volunteers.

Lark liked the night shift (so far, anyway). She had the advantage of being single with no kids, so she could go home and fall into bed afterward. Generally, the patients who came in at night were more of the true emergency types—cuts, falls, seizures, accidents. There were also more patients suffering substance abuse, whether it was alcohol or heroin or anything in between. The “my foot hurts” type of patient was less likely to show up at 3:00 a.m. than 3:00 p.m.

Lark liked the camaraderie when the department slowed down for a collective breath, as it seemed to at least once per night. Last night had been a good shift—two heart attacks, stabilized and sent upstairs; an obstructed bowel, sent upstairs; a baby with a stomach virus, given IV hydration and heading home. The loser of a fight had required three stitches in her chin; the winner required a cast on her hand, since she’d broken four bones delivering the punch. A very bloody woman had cut her head on the corner of a cabinet—she looked like Carrie on prom night—but had required only two staples. Three frequent fliers had overdosed, been rescued in the field, brought in, observed and sent out to use another day, unfortunately, having rejected the offer of counseling. The opioid crisis had its claws deep in Cape Cod.

But that was life in the ER. Lark was getting used to it. Every shift, someone was made better. That was something. It was good to be busy. She was sleeping better than when she’d been an oncology resident. That was notable, too.

She was washing up when Darlene’s text came in. A patient’s husband had asked for coverage this morning so he could do a few errands. An hour, ninety minutes tops. Lark hesitated, then offered to go. It was on her way home, after all.

Great, Darlene texted. Sending you the info now.

Nancy Doane, a fifty-six-year-old woman with end-stage stomach cancer. Married, three grown children, the youngest about to graduate college. She has a four-month-old granddaughter, her first grandchild. Family is very close and involved. Nurse thinks days, not weeks.

Shit. For a minute, Lark thought about rescinding the offer. She could just call Darlene and say she couldn’t make it. She was tired and deserved a long nap. Fear of what she’d see at the patient’s house made her knees feel weak.

But if Lark wanted to be an oncologist, she was going to have to make friends with death, as Dr.Hanks had said.

She said goodbye to Mara, who had worked the night shift with her, and hello to the oncoming shift, then drove to Dennis, where the patient lived.

Lark got out, took a breath of the damp air, and went in the house.

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