Cover

Part I

An Icarus Love

NDA

“All right, Mr. Bell. You’re all set here, I think.”

The nurse is that peculiar, unique brand of brusque efficiency and Zen-like kindness you only find in an oncology department. She fiddles with the IV line puncturing my left arm, the off-white, veiny medical tape securing it to my forearm. Her eyes are brown, the exact shade of a chocolate Labrador’s fur. She is warm, and caring, but lurking beneath that veneer of caregiver kindness is the detached iciness of someone whose job it is to watch people die.

“It will take a couple hours for this to drip through, and then we have to monitor you for—”

“I know,” I interrupt. I open the lid of my laptop. “I’ve been through this a few times.”

She smiles. “Of course, Mr. Bell. If you need anything, just press the call button.”

I hesitate a few seconds and then say, “There is something.” Then I glance at the curtain which is not quite pulled shut.

She catches my meaning and brings the two ends of the curtain together, the metal rings rasping with a rattling ring. “What can I do for you, Mr. Bell?”

I reach into my messenger bag, sitting on the floor next to this monstrosity of a chair—a freakish, Frankensteinian thing, not quite a lounger and not quite a clinical, medical device, but something in between. It’s made from a rubbery plastic or vinyl material that squeaks at every slight movement, and is too hard and too upright to be truly comfortable, but when you kick back in it and lift the footrest, it forces you into a near-horizontal recline in an unnatural defiance of gravity.

The chair is distracting, and I hate the chair almost as much as I hate the ward, the IV, and the whole damned morbid circus.

In my bag is a thin manila folder. On the label I’ve written three letters in neat block handwriting, in black Sharpie: NDA. I withdraw a single sheet of paper, on which are two and a half paragraphs, single-spaced. It’s in tight, clear legalese, drawn up by my attorney, printed on formal, intimidating letterhead. I hand it to the nurse whose nametag, clipped to her pale green sleeve, announces her as Tiffany Snell, R.N, O.C.N.

“This is an NDA, a nondisclosure agreement.”

She allows a frown, briefly. “Okay?”

I keep my voice low, not whispering, but pitched for her ears only. “I’m here alone, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“Yes. Which is why your observation period has to be so long.”

“I know.”