As the scout’s visit looms closer and the promise of UCLA grows clearer, the possibility that I might not find the other journals before leaving town next year starts to become real. I feel myself panicking just a little more each day.
My house and Alan’s house have been completely scoured from top to bottom. I’m clearly not able to search Meg’s house, but Mabel swears she’s looked and looked and there’s nothing else, and I’ve even been to the storage unit a couple of days this week before dropping Hope at day care, just to check again.
Meg didn’t really have any other friends besides Alan, and her aunts and uncles and cousins are all scattered around the country, so there’s no one else I can think of who she would have left the journals with. But they’ve got to be somewhere, goddammit.
On Thursday, I skip lunch and drive to Meg’s oncologist. He’s the only other person who she saw on a regular basis during those last months. Yeah, I’ll admit it: we’ve gone way past desperate.
I try to ignore the waiting room full of sick-looking people and explain to the receptionist that I need to see Dr. Maldonado.
“Do you have an appointment?” she asks.
“No. I don’t have canc—I mean, I’m not here for anything medical. I just need to talk to him for a couple of minutes.”
She studies me over the top of her glasses. “What is this in reference to?”
“That’s private.”
“Well, I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t let you in to see the doctor without a reason. He’s very busy.” She leans back in her chair and crosses her arms as if she’s a bouncer at a club.
I run my hand through my hair. “Fine. It’s about Meg Reynolds. Can you tell him that, please? He’ll know who she is.” I nod to the phone. The sooner she calls the doctor, the sooner I’ll leave her the hell alone.
Her face gets softer. “Meg Reynolds? My goodness, I never thought I’d hear that name again. We miss her so much around here. Were you a friend of hers?”
She looks at me so kindly, one side of her mouth turned up in a half smile brought on by some memory, and I suddenly don’t want to tell her who I am. Clearly this woman liked Meg—loved her even. I can’t tell her I’m the guy who singlehandedly brought on her demise.
“Yeah, we were friends,” I say. “I’m…uh…Alan.” I clear my throat. “Can I speak with the doctor for a minute or two? I promise it won’t take long.”
She nods. “Of course, dear. Have a seat. I’ll call you in as soon as he’s finished with his current patient.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m following the receptionist down a small corridor and into an office. Meg’s doctor—I assume he was Meg’s doctor; I’ve never actually met him before—is sitting at his desk, typing away. He’s an older guy, but really well put together, with slicked-to-the-side white hair, a close shave, and a perfectly knotted tie.
“Dr. Maldonado, this is Alan,” the receptionist says and then leaves us.
Dr. Maldonado looks up. “Have a seat, young man. I hear you were a friend of Megan Reynolds.”
“Yeah. I mean, yes, sir.”
He nods thoughtfully. “Such a bright young woman, she was.”
“Yes.”
“What can I do for you, son?”
Son? I’ve never been called that by anyone before. Not even my mom. It’s weird as fuck. “I…um…well, I know this is kind of strange, but I was wondering…did Meg ever leave a journal here? It would have been a regular, one-subject notebook.”
Dr. Maldonado thinks for a minute. “I do recall her carrying around a notebook or two. But I don’t think she ever left anything here.” He picks up his phone and pushes a button. “Ann, did Megan Reynolds ever leave a notebook here that you know of?” There are a few seconds of silence and then he says, “Thanks,” and hangs up. “I’m sorry, Alan, there’s nothing here.”
I nod and stand. It was a long shot. I knew that going in. “Thank you, sir.” I hold out my hand and he shakes it. “And thank you for…taking care of her.”
“Of course, son. That’s my job.”
I’m halfway out the door when a thought hits me. I turn back. “Um, Dr. Maldonado?”
“Yes?”
“Would Meg have lived? You know, if she hadn’t gotten pregnant and didn’t have to stop her chemotherapy? Would she have gotten better?”
The doctor’s lips press into a thin line. It’s the first sign I’ve seen that this guy is ever anything but cool, calm, and in control. “I’m afraid I’m unable to discuss specifics of my patients’ cases.”
Oh, come on.
“But I’m her…best friend. And she’s gone. What difference does it make now?”
“I’m sorry. Even after death, I’m still bound by a confidentiality clause.” His fingers are steepled under his nose, and he looks at me with apology in his eyes.
I nod and move to leave. My shoulders feel like they’re weighted with all the boxes in Meg’s storage unit.
“Alan.”
I turn.
He sighs and lowers his voice. There’s no way anyone outside the office would be able to hear him. I can barely hear him. “Her cancer was very advanced.”
That’s not really an answer to my question, but it seems like he’s okay with breaking the rules now, so I ask another one. “But you wanted to keep doing the treatment? Before she got pregnant, I mean?”
“Yes.”
“So that means you thought there was a chance it could work, right? It wasn’t completely hopeless?”
He looks at me, his gaze clear. “There was a chance, yes. A small chance. But a chance.”
“That’s all I needed to know.”