Julian coughs. Edwin hisses through his teeth.
Ben chuckles quietly under his breath.
I appreciate that. Hopefully, he sees where I’m going with this. I don’t want to admit how critical it is that he does. Like it or not, his opinion has weight, not only to the retreat, but to me. I trust him. And that for me is hard to acknowledge, having been on my own for so long.
“I think one of the most important things we can do when we disagree is communicate, so instead of standing here shouting at me and telling me how terrible I am, why don’t you join me? Walk through Bex Corrigan-Jones’s retreat and see what we’re offering families dealing with this terrible disease.”
I pause.
“Ask us questions. Ask why we’re building what we’re building. Ask what positive impact we expect this place to have.”
A woman steps forward. I recognize her from before. She moves around the silver barrier. Security starts to intervene, but I raise a hand.
“I’ll join you,” she says. “My son was denied a clinical trial through Opengate, but I’ll join you.” She looks straight at me. “Show me what you want me to see.”
Surprisingly, four more step forward. Four protesters. Faces grim, banners lowered. They move to stand beside the first woman. There’s a light reassurance in that, that maybe they’re willing to discuss what could be.
“What’s your name?” I ask the first woman.
“Bev,” she says. “Lead the way.”
Bev and her companions walk behind me, and then come the board and shareholders. Far enough back, I think, that they could run if the crowd turned lethal.
We take each building one at a time.
I talk through our plans for the retreat—what we’re building, what it will offer. I show them the rooms, the dining space, the communal areas. “Use your imagination,” I tell them.
I explain the medical equipment that will be on site. Then I turn to Ben. “Is there anything you want to add?”
He shakes his head. “I think you’ve covered most of it,” he says.
His lips curl upward, and I get a flash of the night before. I hold his gaze a fraction longer than I should.
“But speaking from an oncologist’s point of view, the biggest thing I see families struggle with is time.” He pauses. My heart drops; I know this too well. “There’s such a lack of time in the end. But there’s also an abundance of it. Most of that time is spent caring for the person you love.” He gestures around the communal space. “What we want to do here is give families time to cherish together, while the medical care is taken care of for them. In a place that isn’t tainted by hospital memories.
“Bex Corrigan-Jones’s retreat will be a happy place,” he says. “Somewhere families can remember the good times, not just the sadness.”
There are murmurs of agreement, especially from the protesters. I think they understand. I can see it in their eyes. People who have lost are broken even when they appear whole. Stitched together, rather than smooth.
“Who have you lost?” Bev asks.
I hesitate. This is professional, not personal, I want to say. But this is also the moment to be honest. My chest tightens.
There’s always a memory that arrives when someone asks why. Why I do what I do.
A cold bathroom floor. A wet bathmat beneath my knees. The knowledge that we were near the end.
I swallow. My throat aching, I’ve never mentioned Mikey. Not ever.
Ben takes a step forward, then stops halfway. I wish he’d come closer. But I set the boundary earlier. I did that.
“My son,” I say. “I lost my son.” The words land heavier than I expect, and for a moment, no one speaks.
Bev’s shoulders soften, and somewhere behind me, Julian swears under his breath.
Ben doesn’t move. But I can feel his attention on me like heat. The heat, low in my stomach, returns. I have to remind myself to breathe normally.
“I thought so,” Bev says. “I didn’t know who—but I recognize a healing woman when I see one.”