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Back Doctors and Friends
Chapters (42)
  1. Cover
  2. TITLES BY KIMMERY MARTIN
  3. NOTE TO THE READER:
  4. Dedication
  5. Epigraph
  6. CHARACTER SPECIALTIES
  7. PART ONE
  8. 1
  9. 2
  10. PART TWO
  11. 3
  12. 4
  13. 5
  14. 6
  15. 7
  16. 8
  17. 9
  18. 10
  19. PART THREE
  20. 11
  21. 12
  22. 13
  23. 14
  24. 15
  25. 16
  26. 17
  27. 18
  28. 19
  29. 20
  30. 21
  31. PART FOUR
  32. 22
  33. 23
  34. 24
  35. Epilogue
  36. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  37. BIBLIOGRAPHY
  38. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  39. Readers Guide
  40. DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
  41. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  42. What’s next onyour reading list?

“He’s—he’s okay, darling.” I’d be damned if I’d tell Rorie Beau was dying. If Rorie didn’t make it, she’d go out as peacefully as I could ensure, and that meant without blaming herself for having contributed to her brother’s death.

But Rorie knew; I could read it in her eyes. She shook her head.

“Honey, I have to try this. I can’t—I don’t want to lose you. Please, my love.” Rorie’s face blurred behind my tears. I fought to keep my hands steady.

Rorie reached across to block the port of her IV. “Beau,” she said.

In a flash, I understood. Rorie wanted me to give the drug to Beau. She must have overheard the conversation with Wally. I wracked my brain; what, exactly, had I said? What should I say now?

“Beau is very sick,” I told Rorie finally. “I don’t think it will help him.”

I had replaced Rorie’s mask strap, but there was still no mistaking the word Rorie mouthed. “Try.”

Rorie kept her hand over her IV port. I swung my head toward Wally, who stared back, wild-eyed. Rorie removed her hand from the port and fumbled around for my hand, trying to say something else. I lifted the mask again.

“My life,” said Rorie. “My choice.”

My tears blinded me, but I heard Rorie’s next words.

“This is what I want, Mommy. Please, give it to Beau.”

PART FOUR

AFTER ARTIOVIRUS

22

I Feel Guilty for Not Feeling Guilty If You Feel Guilty

KIRA

ATLANTA, GEORGIA

Eighteen Months After Patient Zero

They surround me in the garden of this Buckhead home, the three of them: Vani, Hannah, and Compton. Vani leans into me, one of my hands clasped in hers; Hannah and Compton stand behind the iron bench, their arms encircling us both. The night is not cold enough to see the vapory condensation of their breaths, but I can hear each of their soft exhalations, mingling and swirling together in the night air around me, creating some invisible protective bubble. I’m not a hugger by nature, but the embrace works the way they intend; for a moment, gratitude for the decades-long friendship I’ve had with these women supersedes my other thoughts. It doesn’t quite drive from my mind the images that plague me—that moment in the hospital room, making the fateful choice between my children—but it soothes me enough that I can function again.

“Vani,” I say, still immobile, “you’ve made my fingers go numb.”