Treatment
McKayla rubbed her eyes. It wasn’t just that she had been staring at a screen—it was the content she was studying: explanations of cell division, images of irregular nuclei, and the multitude of information the internet had on malignant growth.
Three soft knocks came from her door.
“Come in,” she said.
Her father slowly opened the door. She could see the trembling carrying through his loose clothes from across the room. She knew he was exhausted but still appreciated his respect for the sanctuary of her room.
“How are you doing, Kay?” he asked as he walked in.
“Fine,” she said. The answer was unconvincing even to her own ears.
He entered and eased himself down on the bed with a jaundiced hand on the nearby dresser. “I got a call from Mrs. Cleary today.”
She stiffened and he continued.
“She says that you haven’t been turning in assignments. You were doing so well the first quarter.”
“Hm,” she said. She crossed her arms unconsciously.
“Will you come sit by me?” he asked.
She came over and he put an arm over her shoulder. She looked down to his thin fingers. The ever-narrowing segments between pronounced knuckles reminded her of the skeleton model in the corner of her health class. Her vision blurred with tears.
“I know this hasn’t been easy,” he said, “but I only have four more rounds of treatment and I’m going to feel better soon.”
She clenched her teeth. She knew it wasn’t true.
“But I also want to make sure you haven’t been distracted by… practicing again. I can’t have what happened to your grandma happen to you,” he said.
McKayla remained silent. She knew the story about the drunk driver that veered toward her mother and aunt when they were children. McKayla’s grandmother deflected the car away with her ability but died from the exertion. Her parents held it as the proof that McKayla must never practice, all the while glossing over that it was the right decision.
“Promise me?” he asked.
McKayla only nodded and nestled her head against her father’s thin chest. She listened to his wheezing breaths and slid her arms around him. She wasn’t sure if she was ready, but she didn’t have any more time to prepare. Her hands adjusted closer to his blackened liver. He shifted as if to move back to speak with her. McKayla gently squeezed him.
“Can we stay here just a little longer?” she asked.
He settled back into place and wrapped his other arm around her.
She closed her eyes and began sensing through the tips of her fingers. Her sense broadly probed the exterior then interior of the organ. It found the clumps of dark growth and the pathways between them.
“You know, I had a slump in high school too. Did I ever tell you about that? It wasn’t long after…” he said.
Her resolve wavered. She used to roll her eyes when he droned through old stories, but his days were literally numbered and she didn’t want to miss anything he said. She took a deliberate breath and resolved to focus on the only chance they had for wiping that number away. She concentrated on the largest growth on the distal side of the liver and prepared the first movement.
“…and I didn’t show up to class for a week. I was…” her father continued unheard.
The contorted double helixes of the rampaging cells fragmented. Organelles and walls split apart and crumbled. A few at first, then more, followed by a cascade of collapsing cells. Beads of sweat formed on the back of McKayla’s head.
“…I realized I had to make the choice—not anyone else—to start….”
The lump deflated into a ruined mess and McKayla sensed her way to the next. She cut through it with precision and speed unknown by conventional medicine. As she went onto the third, she felt vaguely dizzy.
“…so when I graduated from college it was all due to—”
Her mouth was dry and she felt a burning sensation behind her sinuses, but more lumps remained. She continued shearing through cell structures with no less precision, but she was slowing. Random spikes of pain began touching off around her head.
“…and it all came down to moderation,” he said.
Her sense approached the fourth darkened mass. Her shearing force stood before the unguarded cell walls, hungry to tear them down. Muffled words seeped into her narrow awareness.
“I had to pace myself,” he said.
She hesitated.
“I couldn’t do any of it right if I didn’t take care of myself,” he said.
She gradually withdrew to assess her progress. The remaining lumps were smaller, but she couldn’t deceive herself into thinking she could finish. She blinked away the disorientation from sudden withdrawal. Her father tilted his head so he could see her eyes. His eyebrows knit with concern. She wiped her face and forced a response.
“Yeah dad, that makes sense.”
She met his eyes and waited. He smiled before struggling up to his feet. She slumped down on the bed while he faced away so he wouldn’t see her uncoordinated drop. She didn’t plan on sitting up again until noon the next day. He stopped at the door and turned toward her.
“I’m glad we did this. I always feel better after our little talks,” he said, standing more upright. He wrinkled his brow in confusion and added to himself, “Especially today.”