The Rule of Thirds

Chapter Seventeen

22 HOURS UNTIL VANTAGE POINT

“Yes,” Glenys says, when I pitch her on my idea for the theme. “I think it’s wonderful, Pippa.”

And I’m off to capture in a few hours what my dad never got the chance to do in his lifetime. Documenting the hospital, chronicling its stories, the symbols of hope made all the more powerful because they’re set against a backdrop of pain.

Lightness in a dark place. Light in dark.

Glenys has given me free rein to shoot wherever in the hospital I’d like. At first I just wander the halls, looking for inspiration. Then I get an idea— the pond. The hidden oasis for those who are sick. A retreat where they can forget about their illness, if even for only a few minutes. Framed against the tall reeds, the empty bench at first seems like a symbol of death. The way I first saw it. But now, I see it as possibility, as hope. As good will. A perch that offers respite to those who are sick, and those who are here visiting, loving them, for as long as they possibly can.

The crunch of gravel startles me.
“What are you doing?”
It’s Ashley. You’d think the two cameras around

my neck might be a dead giveaway. But I stifle a sarcastic response when I notice the green tint to her face.

“Are you OK?”

“No. Pretty much the opposite of OK. My friend had a party last night. Epic. But now I’m epically hungover. Can you take Mr. Winters to chemo?”

“I thought you loved doing chemo trips.”

“Any day but today.” She thrusts a clipboard at me then grabs her stomach with both hands and rushes down the hall.

Mr. Winters. Chemo. Again. Seriously? But I kinda owe Ashley for the panic-attack-in-storage- closet-with-Dylan day.

Mr. Winters is waiting in the chair at the end of his bed. I help him stand, making sure his tubes don’t tangle, and we set off on the long walk from his room to the cancer center. I try to ask him ques- tions as we’re walking, to take my mind off things.

“Do you hate going for treatments?”

“No,” he puffs. “It’s not so bad. Only twice a week. And so far my white blood cell count has been pretty good. Only missed one treatment. At this rate I’ll be done in two more weeks.” His courage reminds me of Dad’s. I guess he has to believe. What other choice is there?

The cancer center is eventually inevitable, a mere 10 steps away. The place I’ve managed to avoid for the past two weeks. Until now. Breathe in one, two, three, four, five. Out, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Close my eyes. Then open them. That’s when I notice how different the room looks. Not dark and cold and depressing, the way it used to be when Dad would come here, the few small win- dows on one wall the only source of natural light. Now, the room is bright, almost cheerful. I look up. Sunlight streams through three skylights, making the room come alive.

“Hang on here for a second.” I put the clipboard down on the table inside the door to free up my hands, then aim the camera up, focusing on the bands of light streaming into the room, the back- ground a haze. The perfect transition between light and dark. I come out from behind the viewfinder to appraise the rest of the room. Soft music plays. Not Pachelbel’s Canon. Some music I’d expect to hear in a spa. Still totally inappropriate—since they’ve prob- ably ruined aromatherapy massages for everyone in here for life. But at least it’s not Pachelbel.

Oversized leather chairs still line the walls, their occupants hooked up to IV tubes, some of them with hands and feet in ice—to prevent their fin- gernails from falling out, I know. Lots of blankets, toques and scarves to keep their bodies warm. And an arrow at the end of the hall: radiation. That’s all familiar. But the mood feels different. Or maybe it’s just me. A new perspective? Who knows.

The nurse points us toward an empty chair near the back and Mr. Winters settles in. He mumbles something, and I have to lean close to hear him. “The knitting basket,” he says. “Can you get some- thing for me?”

“The knitting basket?” I say, then try to mask my surprise by coughing.

“Yes, I know how to knit. My wife taught me years ago—she wanted us to knit each other slippers as a Christmas gift. I don’t think she ever wore the pair I made her—making a pair of anything the same size is harder than it seems.” He looks off in the distance for a moment, then snaps back to the present. “Never thought this would be the reason I picked it up again. Anyway,” he sighs. “It’s a communal basket. You just pick up where someone left off.”

“Like, when they die?”

He just looks at me, the way people who say insensitive things tend to get looked at.

“Between treatments,” he says. “Everyone shares in making the items—scarves, mittens, hats. Every- thing we make goes to help homeless people. Lets them know that someone’s looking out for them.”

Come on. Seriously? People who might not even make it themselves, sitting here, shooting up with near-lethal chemicals trying to kill the cancer that’s killing them, worried about people who don’t have enough money for warm clothes?

“I was working on an orange scarf. Can you see if it’s there?” On the way back from the these-people- are-way-better-people-than-me basket, I remember the clipboard I left at the intake desk. As I’m grab- bing it, a chart on the wall catches my eye, a list of patients’ names in erasable marker. Under Sunday 12:30 p.m. is the name Dylan McCutter. And an asterisk.

I scan the board, looking for a clue, something, anything to tell me what’s going on. In the bottom right-hand corner, the words are written like a death sentence: final treatment.