Page 167 - The Kite Runner

156 Khaled Hosseini

was called “Oat Cell Carcinoma.” Advanced. Inoperable. Baba
asked Dr. Amani for a prognosis. Dr. Amani bit his lip, used the
word “grave.” “There is chemotherapy, of course,” he said. “But it
would only be palliative.”
“What does that mean?” Baba asked.
Dr. Amani sighed. “It means it wouldn’t change the outcome,
just prolong it.”
“That’s a clear answer, Dr. Amani. Thank you for that,” Baba
said. “But no chemo medication for me.” He had the same
resolved look on his face as the day he’d dropped the stack of food
stamps on Mrs. Dobbins’s desk.
“But Baba—”
“Don’t you challenge me in public, Amir. Ever. Who do you
think you are?”

The rain General Taheri had spoken about at the flea market
was a few weeks late, but when we stepped out of Dr. Amani’s
office, passing cars sprayed grimy water onto the sidewalks. Baba
lit a cigarette. He smoked all the way to the car and all the way
home.
As he was slipping the key into the lobby door, I said, “I wish
you’d give the chemo a chance, Baba.”
Baba pocketed the keys, pulled me out of the rain and under
the building’s striped awning. He kneaded me on the chest with
the hand holding the cigarette. “Bas! I’ve made my decision.”
“What about me, Baba? What am I supposed to do?” I said, my
eyes welling up.
A look of disgust swept across his rain-soaked face. It was the
same look he’d give me when, as a kid, I’d fall, scrape my knees,