Glasgow Grace by Marion Ueckermann Page B

what you said earlier—about not losing me again?”
    “Every word.”

9
    Round, white walls enveloped her. How did she get here? One minute she was talking to Dr. Webber, the ENT referred by Dr. Allen two days ago, and the next the gray-haired doctor had a lighted scope up her nose. Before she knew what was happening, she found herself in Radiology, in the tunnel of an MRI machine.
    Her world swirled at Dr. Webber’s words as she sat on a high chair in his examination room, the thin flexible tube inserted up her left nostril into her throat. “There’s a lesion on your left vocal cord, Miss Hunter.” He glanced at the video monitor behind Skye. Part of her wanted to turn and see what he could see, satisfy her raging imagination. But what if her imagination was right?
    “Lesion? As in cancer?” Fear snaked its way through her body at the word.
    “We won’t know until further testing is done. Could be benign—a polyp or cyst. With your permission, I need to take a biopsy.”
    Biopsy? “W-when?”
    “Right now.”
    “Here?”
    Dr. Webber smiled. “Yes. I promise it won’t hurt.”
    Searching his face for signs of untruth and finding none, she relaxed a little and nodded. “Will it take long?”
    “Longest is the two minute wait for the anesthetic spray to numb your vocal cords.”
    “When will you do that?”
    Dr. Webber chuckled. “It’s already done.”
    “Really?”
    “Really.”
    “Now, if you can continue to distract me, you can surprise me again by announcing the biopsy’s done.”
    “Only if you don’t speak, Miss Hunter.”
    “Oh, yes, of course. Vocal cords.” Skye pretended to zip her lip and breathed long, slow breaths. They always helped before a performance.
    “Are you free now to go for an MRI scan?” Dr. Webber asked as he removed the endoscope from her nose. “I don’t want to cause alarm, but I think it would be wise to do this as soon as possible, especially given your occupation.”
    Was he kidding? With all the clamour inside of her head, she gave new meaning to alarm. She pinched her eyes closed as the donut-shaped machine churned around her. Tears spilled past her lashes and traced their way over her temples, disappearing into her hairline. You’re being silly. There’s nothing to fear. If only her mantra could convince her.
    But what did she fear most? Losing her career? Or losing Callum. She’d only just found him again. If the lesion was malignant, how far had the disease spread? She couldn’t saddle him with someone potentially terminal. No stranger to the big C , Skye remembered well the havoc it wreaked. Oh, Da. I’m so scared.
    “You can get dressed and wait in reception,” the radiologist told her when the machine came to a standstill.
    It wasn’t long before Skye was handed a big brown envelope, her fate sealed inside. She dragged herself back to Dr. Webber’s rooms and slumped into a chair, the envelope in her hand taunting, daring her to rip it open and read the contents. She set it down on the floor beside her chair. She’d wait. An expert would need to explain the report anyway.
    “Miss Hunter.” The receptionist’s voice pulled Skye from her thoughts. “Dr. Webber will see you now.”
    Willing herself out of the chair, she headed to the same seat she’d warmed just two hours before.
    As soon as Skye handed the envelope to Dr. Webber, he opened it and removed the contents, reading the report first then holding up the scans one by one. To Skye they looked like Picasso’s paintings in a transparent gray monochrome. Like the artist’s work, these pictures made no sense to her.
    Ripples formed on Dr. Webber’s brow. Setting down the scan, he clasped his hands and leaned across his desk. “I’d like you to see a surgical oncologist. The biopsy report will be ready within a day or two.”
    “A surgeon?”
    “The scan has shown metastases.”
    Skye’s forehead mimicked the ENT’s. This can’t be happening. She’d first heard that word at