The Reason Page 13

  Macey felt a wave of religious claustrophobia. It was all a bit much. “So, what is Mrs. Springsted’s follow-up?”

  Timmins smiled. “I’m sorry to impose my beliefs on you, Macey.”

  “That’s not it, Jerry.”

  “The Springsteds said they’d think about coming back in on Wednesday to let us check Mrs. Springsted out, just to make sure everything is okay. But they won’t be here.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I think they agreed to Wednesday just so we wouldn’t give them a hard time about leaving. But I’d be very surprised if they come back. Mrs. Springsted looked too good, and if you’d just lost five months to this place, would you be anxious to return?”

  Macey smiled. “Probably not.”

  “Mr. Springsted looked like he was ready to burst at the seams, yelling and practically pushing us out of the way to dance his wife down the halls.”

  Macey looked at her watch. It was 7:57 a.m. “Jerry, I have to be at the free clinic in a few minutes. Plan on me bothering you some more about this.”

  “It was a pleasure having you up here, Dr. Lewis. Don’t be such a stranger in the future.”

  “I won’t,” Macey said, standing and walking to the door before stopping to turn around. “Jerry, you said Mr. Springsted was yelling? After it was all over?”

  Timmins grinned and held up his hands. “Yep.”

  “What was he yelling?”

  “He kept saying that they didn’t need to come back. That they didn’t need doctors, nurses, medicines, and that they didn’t even need the hospital. Mr. Springsted kept yelling that there was only one thing they needed to do—”

  Macey could hear her name being called over the paging system at the same time Timmins finished speaking.

  “That’s me,” she said. “I’m sorry, Jerry, I didn’t catch what you said. What was the only thing Mr. Springsted said they needed to do?”

  “Only believe,” Timmins said.

  Macey felt her throat close. The McDonald’s cup slipped through her fingers. It was hard to breathe, and she felt her heart pounding at the walls of her chest.

  All she could see was the carpenter’s face.

  “Are you all right?” Timmins asked, taking her by the elbow.

  “I—I’m sorry,” she said in a small, breathless voice, belatedly remembering she’d dropped her cup.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Timmins said, patiently guiding her back to the chair.

  She struggled to catch her breath and then leaned forward in the chair. She stood again and walked slowly over to the windowsill. Dr. Timmins was right.

  “There are things that are bigger than medicine.”

  “Macey?” Timmins said softly. “What is it?”

  She turned the handle until the window was a little over halfway open and took in a deep breath of cold air before looking hesitantly over at the new wing—and then slowly down at the parking lot. She knew he was out there somewhere. Right here at East Shore.

  “And as much as we docs hate to admit it, bigger than us.”

  Timmins brought her a Dixie cup of water. “Here you go.”

  She took the water and was leaning against the windowsill as she heard her name being called again over the paging system. She could feel the sock on her left foot, soaked in coffee, uncomfortably sliding around the inside of her brand-new tennis shoe, and glanced down. The Nike logo on the shoe was now stained a dull coffee-brown. She didn’t care. She glanced at her watch again. It was five minutes past eight when she was paged a third time to the free clinic.

  Brooke and little Alex Thomas were waiting for her.

  FIFTEEN

  Alex liked the fact that he didn’t refer to his mother as mommy anymore.

  After all, he thought that mommy was little-kid talk, and he was almost six—almost big enough to play with the big kids. He knew because his mother had not only told him that next year he’d be getting a lunch box with a thermos, but she’d also said that the big yellow school bus would be coming to get him in front of the house to go to first grade every single day except Saturdays and Sundays. For the whole day.

  As he got older, there were more and more things that Alex learned about his mother, including what to not talk about. He had always done his best to avoid using words like grandma, grandpa, dad, and father around her because they seemed to make her sad. Sometimes there were other words that he thought put her in bad moods, like money, laid off, and car payment. But today he thought that there was a different one that was making her worry. The word was list.

  Why would Mom worry about a list?

  It didn’t make sense to him. He thought lists were good. He knew it wasn’t the shopping list Mrs. Lindy sometimes gave his mother when they went to the store and came back with food. And it sure wasn’t the Christmas list like the one they made when his mother asked him what he wanted from Santa (even though he figured Santa must not have read the whole list). He knew that the list that was worrying her was different. It was special. The list was special because Dr. Alisoni said that a special list was coming and for them to all wait in this room until the special list came.

  He didn’t like it when his mother worried—and he could tell she was really worried. Her feet were tapping on the ground, she was pinching at her forehead, she was eating the ends of her fingers, and she also was asking Mrs. Lindy lots of questions he didn’t understand. He had a plan to make her feel better, though. He’d found something he thought was cool, and he was going to distract her from thinking about the special list by showing it to her and making her laugh.

  “Look, Mom!” he said excitedly, pressing his small foot down on a funny silver garbage can peddle, making its lid open and close. “I can make it talk! ‘Hi, Mrs. Lindy,’” he said in a funny voice.

  “Oh, you’re good at that, Alexander,” Mrs. Lindy said, sitting right next to Mom.

  “Hey, Mom,” Alex said, holding the lid open and looking curiously into the can at the trash inside. “How long before we can go home?”

  “I’m not sure, baby,” Mom answered, biting on her fingers again. “I’m worried, Shirley. What do you think it is?”

  Mrs. Lindy blinked real slow and shook her head at Mom. “I don’t know. Let’s just see what the special list says, honey.”

  Mom rested her chin on her hand. “I can’t understand a word Dr. Alisoni says. How am I going to decipher what a special list has to say?”

  “Brooke, honey, just trust. God sees us here. He’ll help us.”

  “But why even bring in a special list?” Mom said. She was making that worried face again.

  Alex’s foot came off the foot lever, causing the lid to clank heavily as it fell shut, and he moved over to a cool painting of a yellow-haired clown with big, square teeth who was getting lifted off the ground by a whole bunch of balloons. His eyes moved over to the next painting, and he took two big steps sideways to stand beneath it. “What’s this say, Mom?” Alex asked, pointing at the words.

  Mom didn’t answer, but Mrs. Lindy did. “It says Norman Rockwell.”

  Alex figured the painting had to be done in what Mom called the olden days. In the painting he could see an old rocking chair with a blue seat. Next to the chair he could see a scale. Alex remembered that he weighed forty-six pounds now. In front of the scale there was an old-fashioned shoe and a big mitten on the floor. He thought they really looked funny, and he wouldn’t want to wear them. Then there was the boy he guessed was around nine or ten, standing up on another chair and squinting at a piece of paper that was stuck on the wall. He didn’t like the boy’s T-shirt that didn’t have sleeves on it, and he noticed that the boy’s pants were pulled partly down and that he could see his—

  “What the heck?” Alex said, laughing. “Hey, Mom! I see that kid’s bare butt!”

  “Shh,” Mom said.

  “It’s right there in the picture! Look at it, Mom! His butt!”

  “Shh, I see it, baby.”

  He knew w
hy she didn’t laugh. He was pretty sure it was that list. He looked back at the rest of the painting, and his head swiveled curiously back and forth as he studied it. There was a doctor in the painting who was tall, reminding him of Pastor Jim, but not as tall as Charlie—nobody was as tall as Charlie. The man was turned around and holding something in his hand. Alex looked closer at the man’s hand. What are you holding? he thought. A crayon? No, it’s a pencil. No, a pen. No, it’s—uh-oh . . . Alex’s eyes widened, and his stomach suddenly felt sickish.

  “Are you okay, buddy?” Mom asked as Alex stutter-stepped back quickly from the painting. He didn’t answer. He pointed frightfully at the picture.

  “Alex?”

  “Alexander?” Mrs. Lindy said.

  “He has a shot, Mom! This is a shot room!”

  “No, it’s not, buddy,” Mom said.

  He continued to point at the painting in terror. “Mrs. Lindy! It’s right there!”

  “That’s just a painting, Alexander,” Mrs. Lindy said.

  He removed his Tigers ball cap and rubbed his head nervously, still not quite sure how this couldn’t be a shot room. “Are you sure?”

  Shadows appeared under the door, followed by grown-up voices.

  “Someone is here,” Mrs. Lindy said.

  “Come here and sit on my lap, silly,” Mom said.

  Alex skipped quickly to his mother, who picked him up and spun him around on her lap. She wrapped her arms around him, took his cap off, and lowered her chin softly to the top of his head.

  “I want to go home,” Alex said nervously, looking back at the shot doctor in the painting.

  “We have to wait for the doctor,” Mom said as someone knocked and then opened the door.

  Dr. Alisoni walked into the room, followed by Kaitlyn, and then Dr. Lewis.

  “Macey and Kaitlyn!” Mom said, tapping on Mrs. Lindy’s arm. “Boy, am I glad to see your friendly faces.” She nodded at Dr. Alisoni.

  “Good morning, everybody,” Dr. Lewis said, smiling in a way that Alex liked. “How did that cross look this morning? Still standing?”

  “It looks perfect,” Mom said. “Pastor Jim and I went out and touched it to do a reality check. It’s hard to believe how good it looks.”

  “James can’t wait for the congregation to see it,” Mrs. Lindy added.

  “It certainly is good news,” Dr. Lewis said. Alex was looking at the doctor’s feet, noticing that one shoe was a lot darker than the other. She kneeled in front of him and held out her hand for a high-five. “And a special hello to you, Mr. Alex.”

  “Hi, Docca Lewis,” Alex said, grinning bashfully and smacking the doctor’s open hand. “Mom says you guys are coming to the party Saturday. I like SweeTarts if you want to bring some.”

  “I could maybe bring some,” Dr. Lewis said.

  Alex wondered why nobody else was talking. He glanced over at Mom. She seemed worried again and was looking at Dr. Lewis. In fact, all the big people were looking at each other. It got real quiet.

  “It’s you, isn’t it?” Mom said. “You’re the special list?”

  Dr. Lewis ran her hand through Alex’s hair and stood. “Yes, I am.”

  Now nobody was talking and it got super-duper quiet.

  “But didn’t you say yesterday that you worked with kids who have—”

  “Brooke,” Dr. Alisoni interrupted. “Maybe we should—”

  “Alex has it?” Mom asked. Alex squirmed out of her arms and stood up to look at her. Her chin was shaking real fast.

  “Yes,” Dr. Lewis said.

  “You okay, Mom?” Alex asked. He was beginning to think he might have to get a shot after all.

  Mrs. Lindy grabbed Mom’s hand. “It’s okay, honey.”

  “No. No, it isn’t, Shirley.”

  “Please, Brooke, let’s just see what Dr. Lewis has to say.”

  “Why didn’t you . . .” Mom stopped talking and wiped her lips. She looked back up at Dr. Lewis, then down at Alex. “Why didn’t you tell me this yesterday?”

  “It would not have been appropriate, Brooke. And for that, I am sorry.”

  “Shirley,” Kaitlyn said, “I’m really glad you are with us today. Maybe you and Alex wouldn’t mind stepping into the next room with me for a little bit?”

  “Certainly,” Mrs. Lindy said. She put her hand on Mom’s shoulder. “Brooke—”

  “Not Alex,” Mom whispered, looking down and then burying her face in her hands.

  “Not me, what?” Alex said, really scared now. “I feel good, Mom. I don’t want a shot.”

  Kaitlyn smiled and leaned down in front of Alex. “Hey, buddy, why don’t you and Shirley follow me?”

  “Am I going to get a shot in there?” Alex asked. Maybe if I run when they open the door—

  “No, sir,” she answered believably. “But let me tell you, there are some really fun things to do in there.”

  Alex looked at Kaitlyn and then back at Mom. “You okay, Mom?” he asked again, facing her and then plopping his hands on her knees when she just stared at the clown painting, her eyes wide and blank.

  “Let’s go,” Mrs. Lindy said, gently taking his hand. “We’ll be right next door, Brooke. It’s okay, honey.”

  As Alex followed Mrs. Lindy and Kaitlyn out of the room, he watched his mother’s mouth slowly move, but nothing was coming out. Her eyebrows looked funny and her bottom lip was starting to move real fast again like her chin. It had to be that special list. In fact, he knew it was, and it was dumb and he didn’t like it. Not one bit.

  DR. ALISONI STEPPED FORWARD TO KINDLY EXCUSE HIMself in his best broken English. “Miss Thomas, Dr. Lewis tell me you meet her already before. I leave you now to let her discuss Alexander with you.”

  Brooke didn’t say anything, and it seemed to her that Dr. Alisoni didn’t walk out the door but melted through the wall. She wanted out of the room too—out of the bad dream. This couldn’t possibly be happening.

  Macey sat in the chair next to Brooke, who immediately stood, wanting to run away from it all. Brooke’s heartbeat became a dull thud, a foreign body in her chest, distant, not her own. Her mouth felt like it was coated with windblown sand, and her legs wobbled like rubber garden hoses, unable to support her weight. As she collapsed back into the chair, she felt stuck—a trapped animal—glued to this room, this awful place, this now-soundless box of panic and horror. She was suffocating in the cruel moment, waiting to hear the actual words formally announcing that Alex had cancer.

  “You said you worked with kids . . . who have . . . have cancer,” she said, her words spilling out slowly. She already knew, but for some strange reason she found herself needing to hear it again. Hear it straight. “Does Alex . . . have cancer?”

  Macey looked right at her. “Yes, he does, Brooke.”

  Brooke felt a cold finger tap lightly on her heart as she recoiled from the force of the answer. Alex has cancer. My Alex. Alexander, my son, has cancer. Capricorn, Aquarius, Aries, and Cancer. Cancer. This is a nightmare happening right here and now. Please, God, not this . . . Cancer is for old people. Alex is only five. Only five!

  “Brooke . . . ,” Macey said.

  Brooke grabbed at her own pant legs and squeezed tightly. Wake up, she thought. Please wake up, Brooke. This is really not happening—this terrible thing that you occasionally hear about. It’s one of those awful things that happens to other people’s children— not Alex. She lifted her hands to her ears and could feel herself starting to shake. “Please, please, not Alex. What am I supposed to do? Please help him. Please help us.”

  Macey put her hand on Brooke’s shoulder. “We will, Brooke.”

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” Brooke said. “Why am I not crying right now?”

  “Brooke,” Macey said, “I don’t have children, so I can’t fully understand what you are feeling. What I can tell you, though, is that you are going to have a lot of different feelings. This is new to you. This is a lot at once—and I know it is scary.”

&n
bsp; “Where?” Brooke asked. “Where is the cancer?”

  “Alex has leukemia.”

  “Leukemia?” Brooke repeated faintly.

  “Brooke, I’m telling you right now. We are going to beat this.”

  Leukemia? Brooke asked herself. Yeah, Brooke. Leukemia. Just like in the sad movies, where the ending isn’t always happy. Alex has leukemia.

  “Brooke, leukemia is—”

  “Hang on a second,” Brooke said, rubbing her eyes. She started to think about Alex’s costume for Saturday’s harvest party. He knew what he was going to be, but he didn’t have his costume yet. He also didn’t have a bike without training wheels permanently attached, his first baseball glove, or his first adult tooth. Alex did, however, have leukemia.

  “Brooke, what are you thinking about right now?”

  Brooke looked at the doctor. “Is he going to die?”

  “When I said we are going to beat this, I meant it.”

  “I don’t even understand what leukemia is.”

  “And Alex doesn’t either,” Macey said. “And he won’t. But what he will understand is that he doesn’t feel well during many parts of his treatment. And the way he feels is going to get a lot worse before it gets better. I saw firsthand the wonderful support group Alex has, and he is going to need all of us. And when I say us, I mean you, me, Pastor Jim, Shirley, definitely Charlie, Carla, and our whole pediatric oncology group here. Together, we will beat this.”

  Brooke stood and closed her eyes, turning away from Macey. Why? Why? Why?

  It wasn’t the first time she had asked herself what terrible thing she possibly could have done to deserve something like this. She couldn’t stop herself from thinking about the past.

  She was a little girl, not quite a year younger than Alex. It was the night that home had changed forever. The night a highly intoxicated police officer drove south on northbound I-75 into oncoming traffic. He walked away from the resulting accident physically unscathed.