What if I’m in trouble?
What if…it’s serious?
“How long have you been coughing, Ren?” The elderly doctor with jowls from losing weight clicked his pen, waiting for me to reply.
“Two and a bit years, give or take.”
“And this is the first time you’ve coughed up blood?”
“Yes.” I rubbed at the red stain on my clothes, then placed my hand over it as if I could stop it from being real. I didn’t want to reveal my ever-growing fear, but I couldn’t stop my question. “Is that bad?”
“Well…” The doctor stroked his jaw. “Sometimes, yes. Sometimes, no. If you were coughing a lot, you could’ve just irritated the lining of your throat and burst a few blood vessels. However, if the blood came from your lungs, it’s a different matter.”
“Oh.” My heart skipped a beat.
“First, before we go down scary roads like that, let’s just see how your health is in general, okay?” He narrowed his eyes. “Do you exercise? Eat well?”
“I’m active and try my best.”
“Okay, have you ever been on medications or dealt with long-term illnesses?”
“No.” I massaged the back of my neck. “Never.”
“Any heart palpitations? Lack of appetite? Abdominal pain? Chest pain? Shortness of breath?”
Shit, I’d had all of those on and off over the past few years.
I glanced at John who sat beside me.
Just like there hadn’t been any discussion about money or I.Ds, there’d been no discussion if he would accompany me into the appointment.
“Go on, Ren. Answer the man.” He scowled, angry with me but also afraid. I understood his fear came from Patricia dying—that he’d leap onto anyone ill because he’d lost someone. But just because I understood didn’t mean I liked being smothered or being told what to do.
The doctor probed me again. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-ish.”
“You don’t know your date of birth?”
“No.”
“So you don’t know your family history and if lung issues are common?”
“No.” I crossed my arms. “Can’t you just give me some antibiotics and clear it up? I probably should’ve had some a couple of years ago when I got the flu. It turned into a chest infection.”
His eyes narrowed as if I’d given him a clue. “Do you often get chest infections?”
“He had pneumonia when he was a lad. Fifteen, I think,” John said gruffly. “Occasionally, he’d get a cold, and they’d stick on his chest for a while, but he was healthy apart from that.”
I threw him a look. “Didn’t know you were keeping such close tabs on me.”
He smiled sternly. “I notice when all my kids are ill.”
I swallowed hard. I knew John loved me like his other sons. Hell, he’d often called me son and treated me no differently.
But to have his concern overflow, to have him bristle beside me and force me into this all because he was worried, made me feel warm and cared for—despite my temper.
Tapping his pen against his lips, the doctor re-read his notes, the wrinkles on his forehead growing deeper. His blue eyes met mine with an intensity I didn’t like. “Have you ever been around asbestos?”
“The building stuff?”
“Correct. Sometimes it’s blue, brown, green…white.”
“Not that I recall.” I snapped my fingers. “No, wait, that’s not true. The police said there was asbestos at the farm I visited last week.”
“Did you inhale any of it?”
I shook my head. “No, we weren’t close enough.”
John went dangerously still. “He lived there. When he was a boy.”
“Ah.” The doctor nodded, his face falling. “How long did you live there?”
My insides went cold and still. “Two years.”
“How long ago?”
I bit my lip, begging my brain to do simple math. “Um, twenty years ago, I guess.”
His pen scratched on paper, wrenching hope from my achy chest. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, studying me as if he had X-ray vision and could see my lungs and the secrets they hid.
Finally, he glanced at John before asking me, “And in that time, did you play with any building supplies or have contact with such things?”
I laughed before I could stop myself. Play? There was no play. I’d been beaten with a piece of lumber, had wall debris smashed over my head, and a hot brand driven into my skin.
If that was play, I didn’t want to know what abuse was.
The doctor, whose name hadn’t been provided, pursed his lips. “Something funny?”
Swallowing a twisted chuckle, I said, “Sorry. No. I didn’t play, but I did use the tractor to break apart an old shed that Mcla—the farmer didn’t want. I buried it.”
“And have you done any other work around suspect buildings?”
I went to shake my head, only a horrible thought appeared. “I did. In 2015 when I got a job as a menial labourer. I was paid cash to dismantle unwanted structures at night. It seemed…shady, and no one else wanted to do it.”
Fuck.
I’d been so happy to take the extra cash.