"What else is there to know?"

He smiled. "Glad you asked. It means you're hearing me."

"Oh, believe me, Doc; I haven't missed a word of this."

"Good. Let's talk treatment. People with leukemia have many treatment options."

"Thank God."

"Yes. The options are watchful waiting, chemotherapy, targeted therapy, biological therapy, radiation therapy, and stem cell transplant. At least that's most of what we have in our arsenal."

"So which do I do? Or do I do them all?"

"That's between you and Donald Rabinowitz. He's the oncologist I refer my leukemia patients to. Best man in Chicago. Out of Northwestern Med. Like yours truly."

"That's good to know. That's who I'd want."

"Of course. Sometimes a combination of the treatments I've mentioned will be offered. But really, the choice of treatment depends on the type of leukemia."

"Type?"

"Whether yours is chronic, myelocytic, or lymphocytic. And your age is a factor. What are you twenty-six? Twenty-eight?"

"Twenty-eight, almost twenty-nine."

"That's a good number. That plays in your favor."

"Okay. What else?"

"It also depends on whether leukemia cells are found in your cerebrospinal fluid."

"So I see Doctor Rabinowitz. Then what?"

He spread his hands and peered at Morgana over his spectacles. "Well, people with acute leukemia need to be treated right away. The goal is to destroy signs of leukemia in the body and make symptoms go away. We call this remission-you've heard the term, I'm certain. After the symptoms go away, there's maintenance therapy. Your case might be different, because you don't have symptoms. So you may not need treatment right away."

"Without treatment, how long do I have?"

"If it's acute leukemia? Maybe six months. Maybe eight."

"Shit."

"But it's not acute, right Doctor Romulus?" Caroline asked, almost pleading. "Plus," she added and pointed at Morgana, "you're getting treatment, of course."

They both stared at the young lawyer, who nodded and said, "No problem there."

Dr. Romulus continued. "But you will of course opt for treatment. We've called Doctor Rabinowitz for you. Monday, nine a.m. This is his card with address. Do not reschedule. You need to get in stat."

"I won't reschedule. I'll be there Monday."

"That's about it, for my part so far."

"My God. Now I go for treatment?"

"A bit more study and then treatment, possibly, yes. Doctor Rabinowitz will make his treatment plan with your input. You won't be left hanging by this guy. He's the best we have."

"And what do I tell Caroline?"

It was asked as if she wasn't there. She wanted Caroline to hear it directly from Dr. Romulus.

"Tell her you have the best internal medicine doc, and the best oncology doc, money can buy. Tell her you're in great hands. Tell her you're scared to death. Trust me, Caroline will know what to do."

Morgana wondered why she herself couldn't ever remember that.

Caroline grabbed Morgana's arm and steered her for the door. "Let's go to Starbucks. We need caffeine and words."

16.

Caroline didn't take the diagnosis as well as Dr. Romulus had predicted.

Morgana couldn't blame her. They had been girlfriend-girlfriend since they were sophomores in high school. They were like twins in love.

A week later they kept the appointment with Dr. Rabinowitz. He was quick and direct. "Chemotherapy, beginning one week from today and not a day later. This is a difficult type of illness to control."

They rode home in silence. Caroline drove, Morgana stared out the window and tried not to think.

At first Caroline tried to comfort Morgana. "Nobody really dies of leukemia anymore," she told her.

She prowled the Internet for the next six hours, reading everything she could find on her disease and treatment modalities.

It was seven at night. They had ordered ribs and fries, delivery, thrown it down and washed barbecue sauce off hands and table. Bones were dumped in the trash, the rest of it down the garbage disposal.

They were sitting in their kitchen at the large round maple table. Morgana hated the captain's chairs with their bony backs, but Caroline loved them. Morgana had long ago made a case for chair pads, but so far Caroline was sticking to her guns. She wanted only wood. It looked better, cleaned better, and so on. So, they had wood and they hurt Morgana's back, especially that night. Then it occurred to her that maybe she was overly sensitive to pain because of the cancer. Maybe it was in her back too.

It was pitch-black outside, there was a TV playing in the family room, and supper had been brief.

Morgana was trying to hold all her feelings inside, then the dam burst.

"Who the hell told you nobody dies of leukemia anymore?" she cried. She was frustrated and just about ready to take it out on Caroline, which would have been the wrong thing to do. It wasn't Caroline's fault she had leukemia. During the course of just a few hours Morgana had invented her own explanation for why she had received the devastating diagnosis. The way she saw it, the disease was punishment she had coming for the trials she had been winning where the little guy got screwed over. In her panic, she felt her whole life slipping away, in the knowledge that there was such a thing as karma and that she had played the game one time too many. Now she had to pay and she was in a rage inside. She was angry and she thought it was up to Caroline to help her keep it together.

Caroline stood and positioned herself behind her. She began slowly massaging her shoulders. "It's okay," she whispered. "If you have to be angry, I get it. Go ahead and vent."

She began humming softly. Her college degree was music performance, voice, and she was the lead singer for a group called Rosemary. Who was Rosemary? Nobody, just a name. Her voice was somewhere between Bonnie Raitt and Janet Joplin, and her range would make Mariah Carey jealous. All Morgana ever wanted to do was listen to Caroline's guitar and voice weave their magic. It was a dazzling fabric, the combinatory art that issued. Rosemary had four CDs out and toured in a bus all year. They were sixty days on the road, then fourteen days at home. That day was day seven.

But this leukemia thing was throwing both of them right out of the gate. Caroline was talking of canceling the rest of Rosemary's tour and Morgana wasn't trying to discourage her. Communicating was fast becoming difficult. Morgana could tell that Caroline didn't really know how to talk about it and didn't know all Morgana might be needing to hear from her. That first night neither gave a damn about any of the relationship stuff anyway. Instead they were focused on whether Morgana was actually going to survive to see her next birthday. That was going to be big, for them.

"What did Doctor Rabinowitz say?" Morgana asked as if she hadn't been there. In her fright she had missed things. She was trying to go back over, to rehash, to make sure.

"He said there is a lot of help for you."

Morgana stared blankly. "I think we're doing chemo and something else."

"He said chemo and maybe a biological transplant. Bone marrow."

Caroline was right. She had been there with Morgana, of course, and had heard what the doc had to say. Morgana was so scared she had missed some, but Caroline hadn't. Caroline said Morgana was in her amygdala loop, that that was why she couldn't remember some of it.

"Now I remember."

"And there was something else I talked to him about. While you were in the bathroom giving your ones and twos samples."

"What was that?" Morgana asked. This was curious, she could tell by Caroline's voice.

"I want to have our baby. In case something happens to you."

Morgana tried clamping her hand over Caroline's mouth but she jerked away.

"What?"

Tears flooded Caroline's eyes. She pressed up against Morgana and nuzzled her face into her hair. "I want to get pregnant before you start treatments. Just in case."

"In case what?"

"You know. In case of something horrible."

"Oh, Jesus. You want to get pregnant? Now? Can't I even have my goddamn treatment first?"

Caroline was crying into Morgana's hair. "In case something happens to you, Morgana. I want our baby to stay with me. There. I said it and it's cruel and selfish but I had to tell you. It's been eating me alive."

"Oh, crap. I cannot believe this bullshit! I don't even have a job and I'm probably dying!"

Morgana stormed out of the kitchen and went upstairs to her office, where she slammed the door, slumped in front of her computer, and began Googling "leukemia and life expectancy."

She read for hours.

Finally she turned in. Caroline was already asleep.

Morgana stayed as far away from her as possible in the bed that night.

It was just too much to comprehend, having a baby in case Morgana didn't make it. Hell, they didn't even have a donor picked out, test-tube or alive.

Didn't even compute.

17.

The weekend passed slowly-too slowly, for Morgana.

Monday she would start chemotherapy and she was dreading it. In her world, when she would have a trial coming up, she could prepare. She would depose all the witnesses, review all documentary evidence, handle and make her notes about all physical evidence, hire and depose expert witnesses, learn from them, learn how to cross-examine the other side's experts from her own experts, and visit premises, hospitals, doctor's offices, surgical suites, speak with doctors and RNs, radiologists and lab rats-all of it in preparation for the moment she would get to stand up in front of a jury and say Ladies and Gentlemen, what I am about to tell you is....

But there was no such preparation for chemo.

All she knew was that she was going to be sicker than anyone could be and still survive. She knew there would be chemicals that would ruin her digestive tract, cause hair to fall out, keep her wired and awake all night (steroids), and all the rest of the calamities she had read about and discussed with others in support groups who had survived the same ordeal. But there was nothing she could actually do. She had to put her life in the hands of other people and for a trial lawyer that's the hardest thing on earth.

And her foul mood and silence affected Caroline. For one, Caroline was terrified, though Morgana wouldn't find out just how terrified until much, much later.

Also, Morgana was anxious to get on with her next move, her new life, now that Jones Marentz was in the rearview.

Caroline encouraged her to slow down. "Take it out of overdrive, baby, and enjoy the beginnings of a new life with me and with a baby"-an idea Morgana was slowly warming to. "We're going to beat this thing and we're going to create a family."

"Is this really the time to have a child?" Morgana asked for the hundredth time. The reality of possible parenthood settled over her, and she found herself struggling to see how she was going to pay for a child and make their monthly nut without a steady income. Maybe it was time to update the resume? Talk to some other med-mal defense firms?

Saturday noon she finished studying the Post and her page-twenty trial article. Then she changed into sweats and bounced a basketball over to the HOA court, where she spent an hour working on her jump shot. Still had it cold. She tried ten shots from beyond the three-point line and made four of them. Forty percent, not all that great, though most driveway players would kill for that.

She returned home, showered, and set off with Caroline for a slow afternoon of a game they called Tourista. What it was, was they would prowl Michigan Avenue and watch the tourists as they drove by and gawked. When the car was directly beside them the next up had to yell out which state the plates were from. As the car passed and the license plate rolled into view, they kept score. First to twenty-one won. That particular Saturday there were the usual majority of Wisconsins, Indianas, and Missouris, of course. Occasionally they got stumped by a Maryland or New Mexico. No one ever got an oddball like North Dakota or Idaho.

"It's hard to tell, anymore," Caroline said. "Americans are all starting to look the same wherever they're from."

"I like the bucking bronco plate from Wyoming," Morgana said. "That should be worth ten points right there. Wildcard thing."

At 3:30 they headed over by the Art Institute, found a small restaurant, and got a table on the sidewalk. It was still cold out, but Chicagoans prided themselves on seeming not to feel cold weather. Sub-zero Bears games were the norm. Morgana ordered a long-neck Coors and Caroline scowled at the menu and raised her eyes at Morgana. There passed between them a quick understanding: what if there was a baby on the way? No more alcohol, not that Caroline ever drank more than one wine anyway. Caroline settled for Diet Coke. "And an order of wings, bleu cheese," she added.

To which Morgana also added cheese fingers.

Not much else was said that afternoon. Caroline was into baby world, but Morgana knew she was actually trying to ignore the upcoming chemo. As for Morgana, she was into chemo and work world. First one, then the other, then back to the work issues. As for the chemotherapy, it was less than forty-eight hours away, but Morgana refused to let her mind dwell there. It's fourth quarter, seven seconds left, LeBron guarding you, down by three, and the throw-in comes right at you.

So they talked about everything but. They would work it out.

They always did.

Morgana went to bed feeling a little more peace. Time spent with Caroline always gave her that.

And that night Morgana was very grateful and slept very peacefully, untroubled by the dreams that lately had her coming awake in the wee hours gasping and struggling for air.

18.