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Then back at us.
I hate her immediately.
Because she knows something I don’t.
Because she already knows what happens next.
Because she’s the only one who can help him now.
And I can’t.
“Acute myeloid leukemia is an aggressive form of blood cancer,” she says carefully. “There isn’t one survival rate I can give you. There are still things we need to learn about your leukemia, and those will help us understand your prognosis and determine the best course of treatment.”
Cancer.
The word echoes through my head.
Cancer.
Not just leukemia.
Cancer.
The same word they use in movies.
The same word that kills people.
“No.”
The whisper leaves my mouth before I realize I said it.
The doctor’s eyes find mine.
“Mrs. Raimondi—”
“No.” I shake my head, a tear escaping, and I wipe at it. I don’t want Damiano to see this.
“No, you’re wrong.” My voice cracks. “He’s twenty-five.” The room blurs. “He cooks six days a week.” I laugh. A horrible, desperate sound. “He picks me up and carries me to bed when I fall asleep…”
“He plays soccer every Sunday. And just last month he built a whole bookcase for me.” I look at Damiano. “He never gets sick.”
My husband squeezes my hand.
Hard.
I don’t squeeze back. Somehow I’ve lost all the strength I thought I had.
“He’s a healthy man.” My voice is just a broken whisper now.
The doctor waits, her grey eyes knowing not only what is wrong, but how it hurts me too.
And somehow that makes me even angrier.
“Tell her, Damiano.” I look at him desperately. “Tell her they’re wrong.”
His eyes meet mine.
Mediterranean Blue.
