Half Life by Jillian Cantor (easy to read books for adults list txt) 📕

“And I swear it, they are all the color of your mercury flame. Every time I’ve walked by them, I’ve thought, How Marya will love these flowers.”

I didn’t have a garden in Warsaw like I’d had in Krakow, and besides, I felt too old to tend to one now. It was harder to breathe than it once was, and as Pierre and I walked, I had to slow down. I began to cough.

“Marya?” Pierre stopped and turned to me. “Are you ill?”

“No, no,” I said. “Just a little cough, that’s all.” But inside my chest, my lungs constricted, pushing against my ribs, so that the words came out of me in a wheeze. Pierre’s face fell with concern. “Don’t worry,” I told him. “I will have Lou examine me when I get back to Warsaw, hmm? But I’m sure it’s nothing. Come, show me your delphinium.”

I DID NOT EXACTLY LIE TO PIERRE, BUT I DID NOT LET LOU examine me for six months after I returned to Warsaw. And maybe it was because deep down, I knew. I was a scientist and a teacher; I knew the body, my own body, well enough to understand it was failing me. But still, I could not push past my own denial, my own stupid hope that if I simply ignored it, it would go away. I would improve.

A little bit of the grippe coming back to haunt me, that is all, I reassured a worried Kaz for months and months as I coughed.

But by the winter my cough had become unbearable, my breathing more labored, and I could not ignore it any longer. I took the train out to Anin one Thursday when Kaz was teaching a class, wanting to go alone.

“Oh, ciotka,” Lou said, examining my chest X-ray. Three months earlier, she had married a writer she’d cured of tuberculosis in their clinic, and up until this very moment, her face had been pink with joy.

“Just tell me the truth,” I told her. “Don’t soften it.”

She handed me the X-ray so I could examine it myself. The large black spots on my lungs confirmed what I already knew deep down. There was a cancer growing inside of me. And perhaps it was not at all surprising, after all the smoke that had filled my lungs day in and day out in the lab in Krakow.

And still, I felt shocked by it. That it was happening to me. My hands shook with disbelief. “Are you sure this is my X-ray, Lou?” I asked, handing it back to her. Perhaps it had fallen from the machine, belonging to someone else, another patient.

Lou put her arms around my shoulders, holding on to me. She stroked my hair with her hands. “It is too much to operate,” she said quietly after a few moments. “And we have no treatments for cancer other than surgery, you know.”

I nodded, I did know. There was nothing to be done for cancer, no curative therapy to treat it. “How much time do you think I have?” I asked her.

She didn’t say anything for another moment; she just held on to me. And then finally she said, “If you’re lucky and the cancer isn’t too aggressive . . . Maybe a year?”

Marie

Warsaw, 1932

There is a great big Radium Institute opening in Warsaw, entirely devoted to Curietherapy, using my radium for the curative treatment of cancer. I travel to Poland by myself for its grand opening at the end of May; neither of my daughters can make it.

Irène has recently given birth to a baby boy she named Pierre, a tribute to her father, and she and Fred are back in Paris looking after him, and my lab. I’ve had to admit I was wrong about Fred. Irène is right; he is kind and he is funny; he is a good scientist and now a good father, too. Everything my Pierre would’ve wanted for Irène. I have not lost Irène to Fred at all, but I have, instead, gained another scientist and a son-in-law. Irène is better than me; perhaps for her, love and science really can be one and the same.

I’ve spent most of the last years traveling, raising money for my institutes, giving speeches, and accepting honors, and it has been good to have Irène and Fred back in Paris. I’d much rather be in the lab with them, but who else will do these things, raise the money to keep my work going, if not me?

When she is not otherwise engaged with her piano performances, Ève accompanies me in my travels. She is nothing like me, or Irène—she is a dreamer, her head in the clouds, like her father. I am wont to remind her to pay attention every time she crosses the street. But it is silly, because she is the one looking out for me as I walk, as my eyes have failed me so. I wish she could’ve come to Warsaw with me, but she is busy, and she does not understand how important this particular journey is to me either. It is not just another speech, another honor—I have finally given something to my homeland.

Still, the train ride to Warsaw is very, very long, and very lonely to undertake by myself. I’m exhausted by the time I arrive, and it is hard to remember why I’ve been looking forward to this trip so. My entire body aches.

But then my sister-mother and my sister-twin are both waiting for me at the train station, and seeing them again, holding on to them again, I feel a glimmer of happiness.

THE CITY IS QUITE EXCITED TO RECEIVE ME, BESTOWING UPON me honorary degrees and so many kind words. It is a strange thing to reconcile this with the city I knew as a poor young girl, with the country who refused to hire me, to want me, to love me and Pierre, once. Now, I stand here in front of my new institute, hearing a crowd cheering, for me?