Ashley Bell. Dean Koontz
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Valiant girls routinely did brave things or else they lost their chance to be above the herd. Thereafter they became sad, timid women, washed-out wallflowers, pitiful drudges condemned to drab lives in gray rooms. Bibi had been boogie-boarding since the age of seven, full-on surfing for almost a year now, and she had no intention of becoming a would-have-been, had-been, washed-up, washed-out loser either now or fifty years from now.
You had to drop in from the peak, shoot the curl, tear it up when the surf was off the Richter. No fear. That was the difference between a true surf rat and a goob, a spleet, a wilma, and a wanker. Valiant girls could never be goobs, spleets, wilmas, or wankers.
She turned the knob and opened the bedroom door.
Everything remained pretty much as it had been back when the apartment was occupied. The bed had been stripped of its spread, blanket, and sheets, leaving only a mattress cover, and the pillows had been put away in a linen closet. Otherwise, nothing had changed.
Like a ghost sea, like high tide as high as it might have been a million years earlier, thick fog pressed at the two windows, and only a murky drowned light found its way inside. Because the bedroom lay at the back of the apartment, the lamps that Bibi turned on could not have been seen from the bungalow even if there had been no fog.
The bathroom stood open, but the walk-in closet door was closed. She surprised herself by knocking on it.
No response.
She thought, Drop in from the peak, rip it, don’t hair-out.
She opened the door, turned on the light. Valiant girls didn’t believe in boogeymen, and there wasn’t one waiting for her.
A pull rope hung from a ceiling trap door. She knew that if she yanked on the rope, the trap would come open on sturdy hinges and springs, and a segmented ladder would unfold from the back of it.
For the first time during this visit, she heard noises that she hadn’t made. They came from the attic.
She considered the rope, but, somewhat to her chagrin, she did not at once reach up for it.
Someone must have pushed hard on the trap door from above, for it swung open and the springs sang like an annoyed cat. The ladder unfolded to the closet floor.
Peering into the gloom above, Bibi said, “Captain? Are you up there, Captain?”
How Sweet It Would Be If It Could Be True
THIS TIME, THE MRI MACHINE SEEMED NOT IN the least ominous, not a tunnel of doom, but instead a passageway to resurrection. Bibi didn’t need the earbuds that she had required previously, didn’t want the music, because her racing thoughts were music of a better kind, the equivalent of up-tempo jazz full of sizzle and sparkle, thoughts shot through with amazement, astonishment, wonder, and not a little awe. The impossible had happened. She knew. She knew. She didn’t need to wait for the test results. She felt the truth of remission in her bones, in every part of her healthy body. They said that gliomatosis cerebri never went into remission. Until now. Let them do it all again: the functional MRI, magnetic-resonance angiography, magnetic-resonance spectrography. They would find nothing. Not even one cluster of cancer cells. Her joyfully spinning thoughts repeatedly spun back to the incredible mystery at the heart of this new chance at life, to the unfathomed reason for her reprieve, a puzzle that challenged the writer in her to understand the hidden story.
After the MRI, they wanted to repeat certain other tests. She could tell by their expressions that they were thunderstruck by the results they had thus far seen. None of them was rash enough to tell her that the impossible had happened, not yet, not before they were absolutely sure, but Bibi knew. She knew.
Mira Hernandez was young to be the head of nursing in such a large hospital. She appeared to be no older than forty, a pretty woman with glossy sable hair, wide-set eyes as black as the fur of a Halloween cat, and full lips, the bottom one of which she kept chewing as she listened while Bibi answered her questions.
Nurse Hernandez sat in a chair by the window, the one in which Dr. Sanjay Chandra had sat the previous day, when he had delivered the dreadful prognosis. Bibi sat facing the nurse in what she now thought of as her lucky chair. In fact, every item in the room now seemed to be a lucky something: the lucky table between them, the lucky bed, the lucky TV that she had never turned on, her lucky silk robe, her lucky slippers.
“I need you to help me understand,” said Nurse Hernandez. “You think the golden retriever cured you?”
“No. Maybe. Hell, I don’t know. The dog had something to do with what’s happened. It must have. Listen, I’m not saying it’s a miracle dog. What would that mean, anyway, ‘miracle dog’? Sounds ridiculous. But the dog and the man who brought him—they must know something. Don’t you think so? I think so. Well, the man might know something. The dog wouldn’t necessarily know. Who knows what dogs know? And even if the dog knew something, it wouldn’t be able to tell us what it knew, because dogs can’t talk. So we need to talk to the man.”
Nurse Hernandez regarded Bibi in silence for a moment and then said, “You seem to be agitated.”
“No. Not agitated. I’m hyper. Good hyper. Hyped up. Wouldn’t you be, too, if you were riddled with brain cancer one day and free of it the next?”
The nurse didn’t want to encourage false hope. “Let’s not get ahead of the doctors, Bibi.”
“See, the thing is, I had a huge seizure last evening, when no one was here. I thought I was dying. Passed out. Later I woke when a nurse checked on me. She figured I was asleep. But I was paralyzed, and I couldn’t speak, and it was awful. I knew I was nearly gone, almost out of here, worm food. The next time I woke, it was the dog. After the dog, I wasn’t paralyzed anymore, I could talk. And this morning, when I woke like this”—she made a fist of her previously weak left hand and pumped it in the air—“I knew something good had happened, the biggest good thing possible.”
As nice as she might be, as patient as she was, Nurse Hernandez nevertheless looked as if she wanted to say, But that’s the point—it isn’t possible. Instead, after typing a note on her laptop, she said, “See, my problem is … we don’t allow any therapy dogs in the hospital after visiting hours. There weren’t any here last night.”
“There was one,” Bibi insisted cheerily. “A beautiful golden.”
“Are you sure you couldn’t have dreamed it or hallucinated it?”
“My hand was warm and sticky with dog drool.”
“Okay, well, so the man with the dog—what did he look like?”
“He was backlit, just a silhouette, and then in shadows.”
“What was the dog’s name? Do you remember?”
“I don’t know. The owner didn’t say.”
“The first thing they usually do is introduce the dog.”
“Maybe usually, but not this time.”
After the nurse typed on her laptop again, she looked up and smiled, but there was a look of misgiving in her eyes when she said, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean this to sound like a police interrogation, Bibi. I really do want to understand if …”
“If it turns out I’m cured? It’s okay. You can say it. You won’t be encouraging false hope. I am cured. You think I’m hyper now? Just wait till Dr. Chandra tells me there’s no cancer. I’ll be bouncing off the walls. That’s the kid in me. Most people can’t wait to leave kidhood behind. But I keep the kid in my heart, you know, and once in a while she gets out. It’s a writer thing. The past is material. You never want