The Reason Page 32

  “Faith?” Pastor Jim interrupted calmly.

  Zach looked at the cross on the wall behind Pastor Jim. He wanted everyone to feel the way he did . . . at peace, and secure with whatever was to come. He brought the tips of his fingers to his forehead and thought about Alex and how the boy fit into that equation.

  “Faith?” Pastor Jim asked again.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Think about it. Something tells me you do.”

  Zach looked away from the pastor, to the cross. A lot of things had happened in his life for reasons he couldn’t understand. Maybe he never would. But somehow, it was still okay. He’d been freed from making it all make sense, freed from making Amy’s death—and the patients he’d lost—count. Because their God had already counted them. It was up to Christ to save them, not Zach. Not me. Not me! And not Macey either . . .

  Even though it had taken him close to forty-one years, it was at that exact moment that Zach Norman knew he had something he never had before. He looked at Pastor Jim.

  “Yes, Pastor Jim,” he said. “Faith.”

  FORTY-TWO

  I’m just a little tired,” Alex said, rolling carefully onto his side. It hurt to move much. He scratched right above his belly button and ran his tongue around his top gums. He was tired of feeling tired, and even though the inside of his mouth was sore and the inside of his nose was feeling scratchy, he did feel pretty good today. He had been in the room for a long time, close to a month, Mom had said, and he was hoping maybe he could go home today. Mom promised that it was gonna be pretty soon.

  Maybe if I pretend I’m okay, they’ll let me go, he thought. But even the thought of pretending made him sleepier still.

  “Do you want me to turn the DVD off, then?” Dad asked, pointing up at the small television mounted on the wall. “You look like you need to take a nap.”

  “No,” Alex said, making his eyes open wider. Willy Wonka had just walked out of his factory.

  Aunt Carla was sitting in the chair next to Dad, playing cards. She set down a card. “If you ever try to pause, stop, or change a movie with Alex or Charlie in the room, you do so at your own risk.”

  “Yeah, Aunt Carla,” Alex said playfully. He licked his lips again. “Hey, Aunt Carla?”

  “What, Wonka boy?”

  “My nose hasn’t bleeded today.”

  “That’s great,” Aunt Carla said, her mask making her eyes really blue.

  “It’s okay even if it does, partner,” Dad said. “You’re doing really good.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Alex said. “Does that mean I can maybe go home?”

  “We still have a little bit to go, partner.”

  “Okay,” Alex said. That didn’t seem like too long.

  “Hello, Mr. Alex,” Nurse Kaitlyn said, entering the room. She pressed the buttons and wrote some numbers in the same folder that Dr. Lewis carried. “I just saw your mother outside.”

  “Unbelievable,” Dad said, smiling and shaking his head. “Brooke can’t stay at home for longer than a couple of hours, can she?”

  “And I think she wants to see the boss as soon as possible,” Nurse Kaitlyn said, tilting the edge of the folder at Alex.

  “I’m the boss?” Alex asked. He liked that idea.

  “Yes, you are, Alex,” the nurse said. “You sure seem chipper today.”

  “Yeah,” Alex said, not having any idea what Nurse Kaitlyn meant. Based on her smile and the way she said it, he decided that chipper was something good.

  “Is Brooke here by herself?” Aunt Carla asked.

  “No,” Nurse Kaitlyn said. “Shirley is out there with her.” The nurse closed the folder and looked at Alex. “Hey, Bossman, you sure have a lot of people who care about you.”

  “That’s good,” Alex said, wondering, If I had a candy bar with a golden ticket, could I go to meet Willy Wonka? He didn’t ever remember seeing a golden ticket before, just the silver wrapper part that he and Charlie tore in two pieces when they shared.

  “Why don’t we run down to the cafeteria and get something to eat?” Dad asked Aunt Carla. He checked his phone. “Then I gotta head over to work.”

  “Okay,” Aunt Carla said. “Then I can come back up and take Shirley home in an hour or so.”

  “That’ll work,” Dad said as he and Aunt Carla stood.

  “I’ll see you in a couple days, Alex,” Aunt Carla said.

  “Okay, Aunt Carla,” he responded. He always felt a little sad when any of them left. He wanted to be home with all of them. All the time.

  Dad rubbed his head. “I’ll be back tonight. You get some rest. Deal?”

  “Deal,” Alex said. “And then maybe you can take me home.”

  “Not yet, partner. But you’ll be home before you know it.”

  “THIS FOOD REALLY ISN’T THAT BAD,” CARLA SAID, STAB-bing her fork into the East Shore cafeteria’s version of chicken Caesar salad.

  Ian nodded and then took another bite of pepperoni pizza. “Brooke and I’ve been down here probably four or five times with Kaitlyn. She continuously steers us toward the pizza as some type of precautionary measure. But it’s not all bad.”

  “You spending the night here tonight?”

  “Probably,” Ian said. “They have only been letting one of us stay, and Brooke needs a break that’s longer than two hours.”

  “Yeah, she does,” Carla agreed. “But will she agree to it? That’s the question.”

  “I think so,” Ian said. “I think she finally believes that Alex is stable. And that she can trust me to watch him sleep.” He tossed her a wry grin.

  Carla smiled, closed her eyes, and rested her cheek in her palm. “I just want this to be over so they can both move on. I feel so bad for him, lying up there, hooked up to all those things. And for Brooke, fretting over him every day.”

  “They’re both troupers. They’ll get through this. We all will.”

  “You really think everything’s going to be okay?” Carla asked.

  “It has to be,” Ian said. He took the napkin off his lap, folded it neatly, and placed it on top of the table.

  “You’re a lucky man,” Carla said.

  “I know,” Ian said. “In more ways than one.” He thought about all that’d happened to him—he’d gained a son, some true friends, and for the first time, something that resembled a relationship with God.

  “God is good,” Carla said, smiling shyly. “Everything good comes from him. It’s awesome.”

  Ian’s cell phone chirped and he answered it by the end of the second ring.

  “What?” he said, standing quickly. He felt like ice water was pouring down the inside of his chest. “We’re on our way.”

  “What?” Carla asked, dread on her face.

  “Alex is having a seizure,” he said, and then he turned and ran.

  FORTY-THREE

  Ian and Carla raced past the third-floor nurses’ station and down the isolated hall that led toward the BMT corridor. They slowed at the solid double doors that led into the unit, and Ian slammed his fist against the shiny metal square button on the wall that automatically opened them. Ian could see Shirley and Brooke standing down the hallway. Brooke was crying and had her face buried in Shirley’s shoulder; the two women stood outside of the door that led to yet another hallway and then to Alex’s room.

  “What happened?” Ian asked. “Where is he?”

  “It was terrible,” Brooke said, lifting her face and then letting go of Shirley to hug Ian. “His eyes rolled back, and he was shaking so hard. And then . . .”

  “And then what?” Ian asked, pulling back and looking at Brooke as he held her out in front of him by her shoulders. “Brooke, is he all right?”

  “And then they put all of these ice packs on him . . .”

  “They said he is going to be all right,” Shirley said. “Try to—”

  “I want to know what happened!” Ian said, putting his hands on his head. “He was fine just a second ago! Where’s Dr. Lewis?” he b
ellowed down the hall, toward a nurse.

  “Please, Ian,” Shirley said, taking a step toward him. “They said for us to stay out here. Macey’s in there with him.”

  “I’m going in there!”

  “Please, Ian,” Shirley said again, blocking his way. “We’re not—”

  “He needs me!”

  “Yes, he does,” Shirley said. “But he needs them more right now.”

  Ian glanced at Brooke, who seemed to agree with Shirley. He tilted his head up to the ceiling and closed his eyes. He had never felt so helpless.

  “C’mon,” Shirley said, holding out her arms as if she were talking him off of a ledge.

  “I don’t understand it,” Ian said, running his hand through his hair again. “We just left here, and he seemed fine.”

  “He was fine,” Brooke said, her eyebrows wilting as she glared back at the door. “And then all of a sudden, his hands went into little fists and his eyes rolled back.” She paused, noticing that the door was moving. Macey came out and pulled down her surgical mask.

  “Is he all right?” Ian asked. “What happened?”

  “It’s called a febrile seizure,” she said. “He’s okay. It’s caused by an abrupt increase in body temperature.”

  “But how in the world did that happen?” Ian asked. “All of the things he is hooked up to. You can read his temperature right there on the machine. We just left the room about—”

  “Ian,” Macey said, holding up her hand. “Febrile seizures can happen in a matter of seconds. We are prepared for when things like this happen. What’s important is that he is stable right now.”

  “But why—what caused the increase in his temperature? I don’t understand.”

  “There are several things that could have caused it.”

  “Like what?”

  “Ian,” Macey said again, this time putting her hand on his arm. “It may only be a side effect of the transplant, but we are taking blood cultures right now to make sure.”

  “Make sure of what?”

  “That it’s not something else.”

  “When can we go in there?”

  “When they’re done,” Macey said firmly. “I don’t want you in there right now.”

  “Why not? Why can’t we go in there?” The more she said he couldn’t, the more he wanted it.

  “Because,” Macey said in a way that entertained no argument, “he’s going to be very uncomfortable while they take those cultures. You guys are his protectors—”

  “Exactly. As his protectors, we—”

  “No,” Macey said, lifting her hand. She took a deep breath and dropped her hand. “These cultures are going to be painful for him. It’s this simple: I don’t want him to watch you watch us hurt him. There’s nothing you can do to help him, and trust me, he won’t understand.”

  “Oh,” Ian said, glancing at Brooke and regretting that he’d asked. Now all he could imagine was Alex screaming, reaching out for him, begging him to make it stop. Dad.

  “They’re probably done already, okay? Just hang tight for a minute. I’ll be right back.”

  She opened the door and then pulled it closed behind her.

  Brooke began to weep again, and Shirley pulled her into her arms.

  “It’s probably over already,” Ian said, desperately repeating Macey’s words, failing his crash course in helplessness.

  “He’s going to be okay,” Shirley said. “She said he’s stable. That’s the important thing.”

  “Stable?” Brooke said through choking tears. “If you could’ve seen him, Ian . . . His back arched off the bed, and the sound of him choking on his tongue . . . They all came running in and put their hands over the bed rails so he wouldn’t thrash against them.”

  The door opened back up, and Kaitlyn stepped out.

  “He’s all right,” she said, motioning with her hand to Brooke and Ian. “But he wants to see you two.”

  Ian and Brooke followed Kaitlyn through the door and into the small area where they put on their masks, gloves, and caps.

  Macey stepped out from behind the curtain, and even though she had on a mask, Ian recognized that her game face was still on. “We’ve asked Alex to be still for a bit,” she said. “We’ll come back in a little while to remove the ice packs, then we’ll see if we can get him to take a little nap. He has to be exhausted. So let’s all stay real low-key, okay?” She looked at both of them.

  They quickly agreed and pulled back the curtain. Alex was lying there with ice packs around his groin and under his armpits. Ian felt his chest constrict at the sight of Alex’s face, pasty and pale. The few strands of hair he had left were now sweaty and glued to his head like fresh scratches. It looked like his freckles had disappeared. His eyes were sunken, darker, and more hollow. His cheeks were puffy, and both sides of his nose were tear-soaked. He had clearly been crying—and crying very hard.

  “Oh, Alex,” Brooke said. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that, baby.”

  Alex’s eyebrows huddled together, and his bottom lip covered the top one. He looked disappointed, like he didn’t want them to know he had been crying.

  “Hey, partner,” Ian said.

  Alex tried to talk and cleared his throat, wincing in pain. He swallowed delicately and paused. “Does this mean I don’t get to go home pretty soon?” A new tear was forming at the corner of his left eye.

  “I don’t think so, buddy,” Brooke said.

  Alex’s eyes shifted to his father, and Ian knew that he hoped for a different answer from him. The sharp teeth of helplessness bit once again into the edge of Ian’s heart as the tear slowly cascaded down Alex’s cheek. It made him want to cry.

  “Just try to rest, partner,” Ian said, trying to force cheer and confidence into his voice. Alex seemed easily ten times—no, a hundred times—more sickly than when he’d seen him an hour ago. He looked like a little old man, and what tugged even more at Ian’s heartstrings was the fact that Alex appeared to be ashamed of himself. Like he’d failed. And there was something else, something he couldn’t quite identify.

  And then, looking at Brooke, he knew what it was.

  It probably was plain as day on his own face too.

  His brave little man, less than a week away from his sixth birthday, could neither fight it nor hide it any longer.

  Alex was scared.

  FORTY-FOUR

  Iknow you’re out there,” Macey said, gazing out of her small office window over the parking lot and into the construction site. “And I know you hear me.”

  She turned the small crank to crack open the window and was slapped by a gust of crisp and blustery December air. She looked down at the muddy, slush-banked puddles that littered the parking lot like hundreds of tiny lakes and guessed it was no more than ten degrees outside.

  Where are you?

  She lifted her elbows to the windowsill and cradled her head in her palms as she began to diligently survey the fenced-in area that was reserved specifically for the construction crew. She noticed the mounds of plowed snow, dirtied from exhaust, along with the three different plywood walkways that had been assembled over the icy muck that led from the parking area to the different entrances of the new wing.

  A half dozen men stood outside a foreman’s trailer, sipping coffee and listening to a heavyset man who wore coveralls that were way too clean. He pointed in all different directions, and their heads followed his finger as frozen puffs of air came out of his mouth with every word.

  “So you think you’re the boss out there?” she said to the heavy man, having a sneaking suspicion that at least one of his employees had a more impressive résumé.

  “Who are you talking to?” Kaitlyn asked, standing in Macey’s doorway.

  “Myself,” she said, her eyes quickly running down a row of cars and trucks that had all been glazed by a powdery film from winter roads. She turned around and clapped her hands together, trying to snap herself out of her preoccupied mind-set. “Whatcha got?”

  �
��Good news,” Kaitlyn said. “Dr. Mueller said no growth after twenty-four hours for Alexander.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” Macey said, taking a copy of the e-mail from the nurse. “I never thought that this was a bacterial infection.”

  “What are you thinking, then?”

  Macey took her hair out of its ponytail and let it fall across her shoulders. She sat at her desk and tapped her fingers nervously on the arm of her chair and then suddenly stopped. “I’m thinking he doesn’t look good, Kaitlyn.”

  Never, ever, had they shared such words. A peculiar silence separated them, and then the nurse said it: “No, he doesn’t.”

  Macey’s heart sank. Kaitlyn had a lot more experience on the pediatric oncology wing than Macey. If she agreed, then . . . It really is bad.

  “What’s your plan?” Kaitlyn asked, coming to sit down.

  “No growth after twenty-four hours with the first culture is good news,” Macey said, backing up, thinking it all through for the hundredth time.

  The nurse nodded.

  “And I have to respect the test results. But I have to treat the patient, not the test results.”

  “What are you saying?” Kaitlyn asked. “Even though the culture looks good . . .”

  “I’m saying something’s wrong, Kaitlyn. Something isn’t right here.”

  “You’ll get it,” the nurse said supportively. “That is what we do. We fix things that aren’t right. And I’ve never seen a doc better at it than you. If it can be fixed, you will do it. Just stay focused.”

  “But,” Macey said, feeling like she couldn’t breathe, “what if it can’t be fixed? What if it’s out of our hands, Kait? What if there is nothing we can do about it?”

  “That happens in our business too, Macey,” she said somberly. “All we can do is our best. You know that as well as—”

  “Our best?” Macey interrupted. Kaitlyn’s words seemed to slap her in the face. She sat back in the chair, trying to get her breath. Then the carpenter’s words shot through her and exited her back. “What if your best wasn’t good enough?”