That Elusive Cure 35

Dad had left a message on the phone saying he’d be heading over to the church Saturday afternoon. I wanted to be there. I trusted Dad, but I trusted Jimmy as well, and that hadn’t ended well.

I set off, the summer had taken a turn and it almost felt autumnal. Dad’s car was in the council lot again, and I found a spot near to him and got out, the wind bashing me as I walked to the church. Litter raced past me and I struggled to keep my hair out of my face. Bob’s call the morning before had left me emotional again. My hatred of being out of control coloured my day dull. The clouds raced past, barely giving the sun more than the odd moment to shine through. The expanse of grey above me didn’t help my mood.

The door to the church was locked. I banged on the door and thought I heard a “hello?” through the wood.

“It’s me, Kath,” I called out.

I waited, watching the traffic driving past and feeling exposed. My treatment should be finished. What if this Richard Newland kept tabs on his church? What if he drove by regularly noting the users? My guess would be he had the master key and the one I currently had in my possession was a duplicate. Maybe he’d been in the church when we weren’t here and already knew of the mess we’d made of his miraculous pod.

The door swung open and Dad greeted me with a grin. “You’ll never guess what I figured out.”

Well, if this wasn’t going to be another day for discoveries. I stood next to him as he locked the door again, staring not at the pod but the cross above. Jesus hung off the wood, eyes closed and an expression of suffering on his face. His arms stretched out, the pressure of his body pulling forward bringing the sinews out. Did he have a pod hidden away in that cave? I made a quick sign of the cross, thinking that was sacrilege of the highest order, and I needed everything in my favour, even the opinion of a god far above me.

Dad gave me a brief shoulder squashing hug and pulled me towards the machine. “Guess what I found out today.”

I shrugged and gave him my best sarcastic look. “That this machine works with pixie dust?”

“Better.” His grin widened. “Check this out.” He went behind the machine and closed the panel.

“Power restarting. Diagnostics initiating.” The machine spoke!

I ran around to the open side of the pod and knelt down, resting my hands on the mattress. The foam grabbed onto me as I listened for more.

“Pressure in the nanoparticle chamber is not high enough for functionality. Recommend recharging the system with nitrogen vapour. Nanoparticle density is not high enough for functionality. Recommend recharging with MicroHealth nanoparticles. Please contact MicroHealth representitve for necessary repairs.”

“See, I was right.” Dad had come around behind me. I glanced up at him. His grin had turned smug. “I fixed the leak properly and installed a valve as I’m not ferreting around inside there searching for the proper one.”

“But she spoke!”

“Yes, well,” he came over a little sheepish, “that I discovered by accident. My valve fix was a little cumbersome, so I had to make sure the panel would close. When I did, the lady started up.”

I let out a small laugh.

“Scared the life out of me when she spoke. You could have warned me.”

“This is amazing.” I slipped off my shoes and climbed into the pod. “Do you suppose the scanner still works?”

“Since you’ve not told me anything other, and I’ve had all my info second hand off your mother, I wouldn’t have the first clue what the machine does or doesn’t do even when it is working.”

I rolled my eyes at Dad, making sure he noticed. “The machine scans you and then fixes you using those little nanoparticles. If there’s power I don’t see why it can’t scan people still. I wanted to know if the MRI and this thing matched up. Having the same results would be the final acknowledgment that the machine really worked.

Dad poked the mattress. “Fascinating,” he said as it swelled around his finger.

“You think that’s fascinating, watch this.” I reached up and put my hand on the panel.

The lid began slowly closing. I grinned at Dad until the lid clicked closed.

The machine started speaking, “Scan initiating.”

Thank God. I snuggled into the mattress. The machine still worked, I couldn’t believe it. Should have got my father in on the fix days ago.

“Diagnosing.”

Would the pod match up with what the MRI saw?

“Two tumours found in the liver of 19mm and 10mm. Left and right lung now clear.”

One millimetre difference in the measurements, but otherwise identical to what that doctor told us at Clatterbridge. I felt the excitement building in me. If we could get some that gas and refill the system the machine could finish the job it started. My thoughts were interrupted by the pod-voice.

“Three sessions of the five recommended have been completed. One remaining to fix cancer sites. One to reverse the stoma. Sessions can be resumed after required maintenance.”

“End session?” the machine asked.

“Yes,” I said and the lid opened began opening.

I smiled as Dad’s face came into view.

“Speechless, Dad? Astounded? It’s pretty amazing, isn’t it?”

Dad’s mouth worked, but no words came out. “We need to fix this miracle,” he finally said.

He took my hands and helped me out of the pod.

“Do you think I could have a go? I mean, I feel fine, but it would be good to have a body scan. At my age you can never be certain of anything.” A rose tint grew on his cheeks.

I glanced back at the pod. “Don’t see why not…”

“You don’t think it’ll mess up your sessions?” He placed his hand on the mattress, pulling away as it tried to grab on.

“Things are already messed up, Dad. Go for it.”

I sat on a pew as Dad took off his shoes and climbed carefully in.

“Don’t worry about the mattress. It’s like memory foam, kind of. It won’t swallow you or anything like that.”

Dad lay down. “You sure about that, I swear it’s trying to eat me.”

I laughed. “Stop being a baby and lie down.”

He settled down and stared at the lid. “What do I do, say close sesame or something?”

Shaking my head and trying not to laugh more, I pointed to the panel above him. ”Put your hand on that. It’ll close then.”

“Okay…” He reached up tentatively and spread his left hand on the smooth metal. The lid immediately began to close. Dad lay there, arms stiff at his sides, not far off a state of terror and I remembered all that medicine it pumped into me to calm me down. Would that still be working?

The lid clicked closed and as clearly as if I’d heard it inside the pod, the voice said, “Heartbeat and blood pressure raised. Antihypertensive being administered.”

That must have come from a different system to the nanoparticles. How many kinds of medicines did this thing have stored in it?

“Scan initiating.”

Even out here, sat on a dusty pew the soft words of the woman relaxed me.

“Diagnosing.”

I suppose she’d find some arthritis. Dad was 79 years old. Surely he’d have a couple of age-related issues to fix by now. The machine seemed to be taking ages. I sat waiting, picking my nails and tapping my foot.

Finally, the voice stated up again. “Tumour found in the prostate measuring 4mm.”

Oh my god. No, not my dad. I sat stiffly on the pew, this wasn’t right. The machine was wrong.

“Two sessions recommended. Sessions can begin after required maintenance. End session?”

Dad mustn’t have realised he needed to respond, and the voice spoke again.

“End session?”

This time I heard Dad say, “Yes.”

The lid popped open and slowly opened. Dad laid there, his face pale and slack. I guessed I probably looked similar.

“Oh, Dad. I’m so sorry.”

He sat up, the colour already returning to his face. “It’s not that much of a surprise. I’m sure I read that any man who lives to 100 will have developed prostate cancer.”

“Don’t be flip, Dad. This is too serious for jokes.”

“No it isn’t,” he said, his tone sharp. “It’s my body, I can joke about any problems I have if I choose to.”

I backed away and sat on the pew. “Okay, fine.”

“And 4mm is tiny. Even if this magic machine of yours never works again, I can get the doc to lop the thing out of me.” He held one of his hands up and held his thumb and finger apart. “That’s all it is. Like a petit pois pea.”

The air in the church suddenly felt cloying, I had to get out. I thought for a minute, I didn’t need to just get out. I needed ice cream. And not just ice cream, I needed a great big sundae with a mountain of whipped cream and hot fudge and caramel sauce.  

“Come on, Dad. Want to drown your sorrows with me? We can be depressed cancer buddies.”

He looked sideways at me. “The pub?”

“No, silly. Much better than the pub. Ice cream.”