Chapter 4 Woody
FOUR
Woody
The heater chugs against the evening chill, sending warm air across my knuckles as I grip the steering wheel. I tap my thumb against the leather, watching the entrance to the parking lot while keeping tabs on Sanders through the rearview mirror.
"Dad! Look at this one!" Sanders leans forward, shoving my phone between the front seats. The screen's glow illuminates his face. "Someone in California donated five hundred dollars!"
A jittery current zips through me, the same restless buzz that’s been with me all day as this has unfolded.. I'm proud and super impressed that he's created this, but also the dread about whether this is too big to manage creeps up, contradicting the joy. "That's... that's amazing, Bud."
"Luke's mom is gonna freak out." He scrolls through comments, legs bouncing against the seat. "She will be able to afford missing work now so that Luke can get the transplant."
I nod, forcing enthusiasm I don't entirely feel. How did this happen? Two days ago, Luke was just a kid Sanders met at the hospital, two goofy nine-year-olds. Now, he's the center of this whirlwind that's spinning faster than any of us can keep up with.
I watch people come and go from the Target as we sit in the parking lot.
Lane's SUV pulls in three spaces down, precise as always. Even from here, I can read the tension in how she exits her car. Her shoulders are squared, movements efficient. No wasted motion.
"Mom's here," I say, unnecessarily, because he's already spotted her.
Sanders is already unbuckling, reluctantly handing the phone over. I can see how this can be addictive. He loves watching the likes and comments rack up in real time.
"Finally! She hasn't seen the donation counter yet!"
Thank God. Before I can stop him, he's out the door, backpack bouncing against his spine as he sprints across the asphalt.
"Mom! You have to see how many people love Luke!"
Lane catches him in a hug, her face softening the way it only does for him. She says something I can't hear, but her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes when they lock onto mine over Sanders' head.
I know that look. It's the same one she gave me when I missed his kindergarten graduation because of an emergency spinal fusion. When I showed up forty minutes late to his seventh birthday with the wrong cake.
My chest tightens. I should've seen this coming. Should've thought about the implications before I agreed to help him seize the momentum this morning. But I'd been caught up in his enthusiasm, his pure desire to help. The best parts of Lane live in him, and I was caught in the excitement of it all.
Sanders chatters, waving his hands wildly, while Lane nods, directs him to her car. When she shuts the door, she stands still for a moment, back to me, gathering herself.
I step out of my car, the cold air hitting my face. Better to face this head-on.
Lane turns, and even in the bright sun of the day, I can see the storm brewing.
She marches toward me, her smile after greeting our son long gone.
The analogy I always come back to when Lane’s mad at me is infection. Once it takes hold, it spreads fast, and all I can do is focus on containment. No quick fixes, no easy cure. Just damage control and hoping the right treatment buys enough time to calm it down.
"Our son's face is all over the flipping internet. It's gotten even bigger since we talked." Her voice stays level, controlled, but edged with steel. "What is your plan now?"
My spine stiffens reflexively. The surgeon's defense mechanism to stand my ground under pressure kicks in.
"I don't have a plan. I didn't condone this. I just reacted. It happened fast." Even to my ears, it sounds weak.
Her brows lift, disbelief radiating from her like heat. "That's your defense? It just happened?"
She ticks off dangers on her fingers, each one landing like a precision cut. "Predators tracking him. Scammers using his face. People figuring out where he lives, where he goes to school." Her voice drops lower. "People knowing his schedule, Woody. His routines."
My gut twists. She's right. Of course she's right. But I can't forget the way Sanders lit up when that first donation came in, or how Luke's tired eyes widened when Sanders and Luke talked on FaceTime once we set everything up.
"Lane, people are helping. It's not all bad."
I glance toward her car, where Sanders presses his face against the window, watching us with the hypervigilance of a child of divorce who's learned to read adult tension like weather patterns.
"Mom, it's for Luke." His voice carries through the cracked window. "We're saving Christmas by saving Luke."
The innocence in his tone knocks the air from my lungs. I recognize the stubborn set of his jaw. It's mine, but the earnest belief behind it is all Lane. The part of her I first fell for, before residency and missed dinners and the slow death of promises, eroded it away.
Lane falters. I watch her mother-instinct war with her practical fears, her eyes flicking to Sanders' hopeful face. I stay silent.
This is our tried and true dynamic playing out. It's always her caution versus my belief that sometimes you have to take the leap, trust that everything will work out.
The silence stretches between us like surgical thread, ready to either close a wound or unravel completely.
She exhales sharply, a sound I still recognize from countless late-night arguments. Then she looks at me with the same wary suspicion she used to reserve for late-night pages from the hospital.
"I know he didn't set up a GoFundMe. Please tell me you did that and not some stranger on the internet."
It's a trap. I say no, she freaks out on me. I say yes, and I'm facilitating it.
I drag a hand down my jaw, the stubble rough against my palm. The hospital's fluorescent lights never fully leave my skin.
"People were asking where to donate. I helped him set up a GoFundMe, yes. What would you have done? Would you have looked into his eyes and told him no, that we can't help this boy, that we can create a way for all of these people who want to help to donate? Christ, Lane."
Lane's face transforms, her mouth parting slightly before hardening into a thin line. "Always the cool parent."
My hands rise defensively. "Why are you doing this, Lane?
It's done. It's good. Let's help our son.
It will fade in a few days, when people move on to the next trend.
By then, hopefully Luke's family will have what they need to get him his transplant, and our son can feel good knowing he did something amazing to help a stranger. "
"I just don't understand why you didn't call me first so we could do this together."
"I tried." I hold her gaze, refusing to look away. "Granted, I didn't right away. I didn't even understand how big this was at first. But I did try once I saw the insanity."
Her jaw tightens, a muscle flickering beneath her skin. "Well, I guess I don't have a choice at this point. But I'm serious, no more decisions regarding our son with this without talking to me. I don't care if it's Live 5 News or sending a text to Luke. I want to know everything."
"Whatever you say, Lane," I reply evenly.
We're talking over each other now, words colliding and overlapping. The familiar rhythm of an argument we've had a hundred times in different forms. Me charging ahead, certain I'm right. Her pulling back, protecting what matters.
"You never think about consequences—"
"I think about nothing but consequences—"
"—just like when you missed his kindergarten—"
"Really? You're bringing that up now."
"—always deciding what's best without—"
The back door of Lane's car opens. Sanders stands there, his chin trembling. The glint of tears catches in the afternoon sun.
"I just wanted to help Luke not be stuck to a machine anymore." His voice cracks, muffled.
The words slice through me. My throat closes around a sudden knot of shame. This isn't about Lane and me. It's not about our baggage or our broken patterns.
It's about our son trying to do something good in a world that's taught him, at nine, that his parents can't even stand together long enough to support him.
Lane goes still. Her breath catches. For a long moment, nobody speaks. The weight of Sanders' words hangs in the space between us, heavy with accusation and innocence.
I swallow hard, guilt twisting deep in my being. I've been here before. I seem to have a habit of making choices I thought were right, only realizing too late what they cost.
Lane turns toward Sanders, her shoulders softening. "Baby, I know you did," she says, voice gentler now. "And we're proud of you. I was just telling your dad that something like this has to be thought out. The world is a scary place, and I want to be careful, that's all."
Sanders walks up to us, and that familiar smell of grape shampoo hits me. His eyes are still glassy with unshed tears.
"Come here, buddy," I say gently, pulling him into me for a side hug.
Lane turns her focus and ire away from me, facing Sanders. "I'm proud of you, Bud," she says quietly. "Let's just make sure going forward we don't do anything more without talking first, okay? When things go viral, it can get out of control fast."
Sanders nods, confused but earnest. "Okay. But Mom, people are being nice. That's what #SaveChristmas is about. I don't want you guys to fight about this. It's supposed to bring people together, not push us apart."
The December sun glares off windshields, sharp enough to make me squint. A gust of exhaust and cart wheels rattling fills the air as people stream in and out of Target, arms loaded with bags and tinsel-colored plastic.
The three of us could use some of that Christmas joy right about now.
She brushes hair off his forehead. "You're right, Sanders. And your dad and I will work together with you." She looks at me when she says this, as if I'm the one turning this into World War III. I give her a single nod and rub my hand up Sanders's arm.
Lane exhales, the fight bleeding out of her shoulders. The edge softens as Sanders looks up at us with that fierce little-kid conviction that always manages to cut through the noise.
That old muscle memory, the two of us as partners, not opponents, takes off. For a heartbeat, I remember what it was to face the world with Lane at my side, both of us a team, fierce guardians of this small human we created.
I sense it like a breath of something long buried.
Sanders looks between us, hopeful, sensing the change. His fingers twist in his lap. "So, can we still help Luke?"
Lane looks away, breaking the spell. "Yes, of course we can. But let's look at all of this together and come up with a plan."
Again, she looks at me and raises a single eyebrow. For the life of me, I don't know how she summons it to do that.
I nod, understanding the retreat. Some walls take more than one moment to come down.
"How about I follow y'all to your house and the three of us sit down to talk about it?"
"That works. I'm not sure I have any food, but I can order a pizza if you're hungry."
"I'm good. But thank you."
Lane's phone rings. She pulls it out of her back pocket and scrunches her face.
"Who's calling from New York?"
I shrug, no clue about who calls her from where. I'm sure she wasn't really asking me, anyway. Lane hesitates, then picks it up, pressing it to her ear.
"Hello?" Her voice carries the same cautious tone she uses with telemarketers.
I can't hear the caller, but I watch Lane's face transform. Her eyebrows lift, then draw together. Her lips part slightly.
"Yes, this is his mother," she says, her voice dropping an octave. Her eyes dart to mine, wide and disbelieving. "Sanders Beamer's mother, yes."
A chill skates down my spine that has nothing to do with the December air.
Lane adjusts her stance, her knuckles whitening as she squeezes tighter to her phone. "Good Morning America?" she repeats, the words hanging between us like smoke.
The voice on the other end grows louder, enthusiastic enough that I can make out fragments even standing outside—"heartwarming story"... "tremendous response"... "perfect for our holiday segment."
Lane's hand moves to her temple, massaging small circles as if warding off a migraine. Her gaze locks with mine, a silent SOS I haven't received in years.
The air leaves my lungs in an instant. National television. Millions of viewers. Sanders' face broadcast across America.
"We'll... we'll have to call you back. I've got to discuss this with Sanders' father," Lane stammers, then ends the call.
The silence that follows is physical, pressing against my eardrums. The world continues its ordinary rhythm while ours tilts on its axis.
Lane stares at her phone like it might bite. "Good Morning America," she whispers again, disbelief coating each syllable.
My pulse hammers against my throat. Pride and terror twist together in my chest. The video's reached New York. Network television. There's no putting this genie back in its bottle.
"We definitely need to talk. Let's go back to my house." Lane's whisper barely carries through the air.
I open my mouth, but no wisdom comes. For once, I don't have a confident diagnosis or treatment plan. The only certainty is that whatever our son started has taken on a life of its own.