I nod. This is what I’ve been waiting for despite my trepidation. I’ve felt a bit lost, more than a little useless since returning home. The remodel at RC has been the only thing keeping me from going stir crazy.
“The doctor will be by soon. I want you to join your mother and me for that. Then we can talk about the arrangements more.”
Betsy enters, a thick binder in the crook of one arm and her ever-present cellphone in the other hand. This woman is more organized than anyone I’ve ever met, and her phone is the key to it all. That and her impeccable binder-making skills. Lord Wrimple, Father’s Lord Chamberlain, follows close behind, as does Lord Heston, the head of the parliamentary committee in charge of this farce.
“Let’s get started, shall we?” The middle-aged woman’s voice is as no-nonsense as her smart updo and tailored navy skirt suit. She sets her phone aside and starts flipping through her binder, and begins her brief.
The royal physician is so old I’m surprised he is still allowed to practice medicine. I guess age doesn’t really factor when all you’re doing is ordering tests and interpreting imaging.
Father sits behind his desk in his study, Mother to his left, as always. Claus and I stand behind our parentsand watch as the doctor leafs through a thick folder across the desk from us. I imagine we cut a rather imposing picture, the king and queen, regal and straight-backed in their chairs, and the princes, tall and stoic with our arms clasped behind our backs. It’s a pose that would have a photographer salivating. Perhaps that’s why we’ve always stood this way together; years of practice for photos and portraits. All that’s missing are my two younger sisters, but they don’t need to be in on the nitty-gritty of this whole business. They need to enjoy their teenage years without the full burden of Father’s illness. The next two in line, though, we have the pleasure of the gory details.
“The radiation appears to be shrinking the known tumors, Your Majesty,” the doctor says, looking to the king over his spectacles. “But there are new metastases in your liver that are concerning.” He shuffles the chart again, consulting a report or image I can’t see from my vantage point. “I think it’s time to revisit chemotherapy, Sir.”
Father clears his throat. “We have discussed this before, Doctor LaRocque. No chemotherapy.”
Mother clasps his hand. Hers isn’t so small in his anymore. Not with his joints now more pronounced and the skin tightening around the bones. His simple gold wedding ring is only kept on by the knuckle of his left ring finger.
“Mon amor, let us hear what the good doctor has to say,non?” Mother’s voice is that gentle hum she hadused with her children when we came to her with a nightmare or injury.
Father nods, and the old physician continues.
“There are a few options,” he rasps, pulling out a packet of papers from the file. “I have compiled a list for you: medications, gene therapies, surgical interventions. Ordered least to most aggressive with the benefits and risks involved in each.”
The king takes the offered papers and flips through quickly. I try to catch a glimpse over his shoulder, but he hastily turns the packet face down on the antique oak desk.
“Thank you, doctor. I will give this a look. Shall we meet again next week?”
The doctor bows his head. “Of course, Your Majesty. Will the same time be satisfactory?”
Father nods, but I cut in. “Forgive the interruption, but won’t Your Majesty be traveling back from Rome that day?”
He turns to me over his shoulder. “Actually, son, I was going to ask that you go in my stead.”
There it is, my next assignment.Yet another royal engagement that should be attended by the king. I keep my regal mask firmly in place, but Father can always see through my carefully practiced façade.
“No, I suppose I should attend the Pope myself.” He turns back to the old man on the other side of the desk. “Could I trouble you for a Saturday morning house call?”
“No trouble at all, Your Majesty.”
Father presses the black button under his desk, which signals the footmen in the hall that the meeting is done. He stands, as do Mother and the doctor. “Ten o’clock next Saturday, then, Doctor LaRocque.”
The older man bows once more and leaves the room, escorted away by the footmen. When the door is shut behind them, Mother collapses back into her chair.
“Oh, Aldric,” her voice warbles from behind her hands.
“Jacqueline,” he coos. “Now, now, my heart.” The king kneels by his wife’s side, one hand going to her hair and the other around her neck, pulling her face to his chest.
Claus and I turn to the window, neither one of us certain how to handle the sudden emotional outburst or the tender moment between our parents. Such intimate gestures are not terribly uncommon between them, but throw in the bad news from the health report, and we are wading through new territory. Both my parents have been rather stoic since Father’s stomach cancer returned last year. Hearing Mother cry makes my chest feel like it is caught in a vice.
I lean against the sill and gaze out over the city. The buildings around us are all short, an architectural understanding that nothing can overshadow the palace, and so I can see far out into my city from the third-floor window. The trees around the palace are barren, but their branches twist gracefully into the grey background. Red and white brick buildings stretch as far asI can see, many sporting colorful Christmas lights. Gulls soar overhead, but their screeching is blocked by the thick glass that can stop even a large caliber round. This place can protect us from an outside assassination attempt, but what happens when the body is the one making the trouble? No amount of training or security or paranoia can protect against one’s own cells.
My jaw hurts, and I realize I’d been clenching my teeth since the doctor’s first breath of bad news. I push off the windowsill. My steps are heavy on the hand-woven rug as I make for the door. I half expect to hear footsteps behind me, but I reach the hall and no one has followed.
There is a mostly secret way to get to the grounds at the back of the palace from here. Staff know about it and so does the family, but it isn’t common knowledge and is rarely used anyway. I’m not keen on being stopped or even seen. I don’t have a jacket, but I don’t care as I step onto the terrace, the winter wind whipping around me.
There is a gardening shed on the towering side wall that runs along the palace land. Aside from gardening tools and landscaping equipment, lawn games are stored there as well, including a battered football from my childhood.
The ball becomes the object of my frustration. The hollowthunkit makes when my foot collides with it is oddly satisfying. Over and over, I put my pain into the leather sphere, sending it careening at increasing velocity at the immovable force in front of me.
