Page 104 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

“Same numbers,” she said. “They couldn’t both get it wrong.”

“Guys,” I said. “Would one of you please tell me what’s going on? I’m dying here.”

Lizzie threw her arms around me. “No, you’re not dying.” She kissed me repeatedly on the cheek. “You beat it, girl! Against all odds—you beat it.”

I looked at Byrne. “I’m not sure what she’s saying.”

“She’s saying your blood tests came back perfectly normal. You don’t have any sign of the disease.”

I let go of Lizzie, slumped in my chair, and held my hands to my chest. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” Byrne said. “If it were one lab, I’d retest you immediately. But this also went to Kensington, and their analysis is gospel.”

“So I don’t need chemo?”

“You don’t need anything. According to these numbers, you don’t show any indications of HLH.”

“I don’t understand. How... how did this happen? How is it even possible?” I said.

“I have no idea,” he said.

I pointed at my chart on his desk. “So how do you document my case for the insurance company?” I asked, half laughing, half crying. “Patient is fine now. Don’t ask me how.”

“Oh, heck, physicians are a much more devious lot than that. When someone with a life-threatening disease is suddenly cured with no medical explanation, we have a catchall phrase we use. Two words: spontaneous remission.”

“Well, guess what?” I said. “I’ve got two better words: fucking miracle.”

“Sorry, sweetie,” Lizzie said. “The medical community doesn’t believe in miracles. If doctors wrote the Bible, it would say, ‘The Red Sea unexpectedly parted due to unusual atmospheric conditions.’ Or, ‘After three days Jesus’s condition was reevaluated, and he was upgraded from dead to resurrected.’”

The three of us were laughing now. Giddy. Celebratory.

“Noah,” I said, my adrenaline soaring, “do you remember when I asked if you ever buy lottery tickets, and you said only when the jackpot is ridiculously big. You know you won’t win, but you buy a ticket because it’spossible.”

“Of course I remember.”

“Well, I didn’t do chemo, or transfusions, or any of the things my mother did to beat this disease, but yet I’m cured. It’s like I won the lottery without even buying a ticket. In my book, that’s a bona fide miracle,” I said. “I only have one question: How long can it last?”

“There are no rules, no guidelines. It could be days, months, or the next fifty years.”

I looked at Lizzie. “Is he telling me the truth?”

“A thousand percent,” she said, her eyes watery. “And don’t ask me any more questions, or I’m going to start sounding like a Hallmark card.”

“Congratulations, Maggie,” Dr. Byrne said. “I want to check your blood on a monthly basis for a while, but the good news is you’ve got your life back. I just can’t tell you how.”

He didn’t have to tell me. I knew exactly how.

There were only three people on the planet who knew the truth behind my medical miracle.

And now one of them was dead.

SIXTY-FOUR

one month before the funeral

It all began to unfold that afternoon in New York Presbyterian Hospital when Dr. Brubaker took me through my blood test results.

He’d barely gotten started when I cut him off. “That’s the wrong chart,” I said.