Chapter 5 Lane
FIVE
Lane
I push open the kitchen door, and the scent of the pine Christmas tree and leftover coffee hangs in the air.
Sanders barrels past me, but Woody lingers, and the thought of him sitting at my breakfast table, my one safe place, rattles me more than I want to admit.
He hasn't set foot in this house since our divorce.
The phone is radioactive in my hand. It's more like a live grenade than a piece of plastic and glass and microchips. Since the Good Morning America call fifteen minutes ago, I’ve let three more calls roll to voicemail.
Five messages wait, untouched.
The gray afternoon light spills through the wall of windows, highlighting every forgotten crumb on the counter, every fingerprint on the stainless steel fridge.
I wonder if he'll think I don't keep a tidy home.
Woody steps in behind me, his presence filling the space in that infuriating way it always has. The air between us still vibrates with whatever just happened in that parking lot—panic, frustration, and our go-to bickering that is there no matter what we are dealing with.
I place my phone on the island countertop like it might explode if I move too quickly. I don't have the energy to check the voicemails. A deep breath fills my lungs, but doesn't quite reach the tight knot behind my sternum.
"Mom! Dad! Am I going to get to talk about Luke's GoFundMe on TV? Actually?" Sanders barrels past us both, backpack still swinging from one shoulder, already ten steps ahead of our adult hesitation. "Bruh, wait till I tell my friends!"
He radiates joy, overflowing with pride. I should feel it too, but what rises in me is a hard, sinking weight.
The words leave my mouth with mechanical precision. "They want to fly all three of us to New York. Good Morning America. Everything is covered—flights, hotel, car service."
I realize I'm talking like I'm reading a grocery list, not describing a national television appearance.
"The phone call at Target?"
"Yes. They want to film it live with Sanders and Luke. Robin Roberts. Do you think Luke is healthy enough to fly?"
“If he’s stable, yes. But dialysis is non-negotiable. They’d have to arrange for him to get treatment in New York at a hospital or clinic. It’s doable, but it’s not like packing an overnight bag.”
"Can you help his mom with that? I have a feeling she wouldn't be able to coordinate all of this."
I sound calmer than I feel. Inside, I'm a storm of questions about all of this.
Woody nods his head but doesn't speak. I can see his gears turning. This is where he shines.
He stands with his back against the counter, arms folded across his chest. I used to call it the surgeon's stance: shoulders square, chin slightly raised, the posture of someone accustomed to having the final word in any room. His hazel eyes narrow slightly, processing.
"They want us to fly there on Wednesday?" he asks.
I nod once, bracing myself. Here it comes.
Woody exhales, a slow, practiced sigh I've heard a thousand times before. "I'm scheduled for two surgeries on Wednesday, even though it's my clinic day, which is also full of appointments. And then I have six on Thursday. I'll have to see if I can move them."
The words land like a punch I should have seen coming. Work. It's always work. Seven years divorced, and nothing's changed. And he's the one lecturing me about making this happen for Sanders.
Oh, that's right. I can make it happen for Sanders while he keeps running his life.
My chest constricts, the familiar burn of disappointment rising like bile. I bite the inside of my cheek, forcing back the sharp retort forming on my tongue.
"DAD! MOM! Come look! Luke just texted me!" Sanders calls from the living room, his voice bright and unburdened, cutting through the tension like sunshine through storm clouds.
I gave him an iPad for his birthday, but it has to stay here. I'm not ready to have him buried in a device all day, every day. And this is precisely why.
We make our way to the living room, my steps heavy against the hardwood. Through the doorway, I catch sight of Sanders sprawled on the gray area rug. The faint melody of "Jingle Bell Rock" drifts from his tablet.
"Did you hear? We're going to New York!" His face glows with excitement as he scrolls. "I have to figure out what I'm going to wear! I might need some new Jordans so I look fire on TV."
I manage a weak smile, but my throat is thick, like I'm trying to swallow around a stone. "One thing at a time, sweetheart."
Woody stands behind me, silent but watchful. I can almost hear his anxiety about traveling. It's always his schedules, patient lists, and operating room slots that take precedence over everything else. The mental calculations of a surgeon's life, the very algebra that dissolved our marriage.
I force myself not to look at him.
"Luke says his mom is crying happy tears," Sanders continues, oblivious to the tension humming between us adults. "He's never been to New York either! Do you think we'll see snow? Can we go ice skating at Rockefeller Center? Will there be a big Christmas tree like in the movies?"
Each question lands like a tiny dart. How do I tell him his dad might not be there? How do I balance being realistic with keeping his dream intact?
"Maybe we could see the toy store from Home Alone 2!" Sanders rolls onto his back, his tablet still clutched to his chest like a precious artifact.
My heart twists under the weight of conflicting feelings: love for my son, resentment toward Woody, guilt for even thinking about disappointing Sanders. The familiar cycle churns inside me: hope, disappointment, anger, resignation.
"I need to make some calls," Woody murmurs, his voice low enough that Sanders won't hear.
I nod without meeting his eyes. "Of course you do."
The words come out sharper than I intended, brittle as ice. Behind me, Woody stiffens. I feel rather than see his reaction. I know all the tells: the slight straightening of his spine, the subtle shift of weight from one foot to another.
It's not like my disappointment matters anyway.
I move to the kitchen table, flip open my laptop, needing something to focus on other than the anxiety about all of this pulsing through me. The screen glows, but my eyes blur past it.
From the living room, Sanders’s voice bubbles with pure joy, painting pictures of Times Square and snow and Christmas lights. The sound both fills and empties me.
Then his sneakers squeak on the hardwood. He barrels in, face alight, his iPad clutched in both hands. “Mom! Look! Look at this. Look how much money we've raised for Luke!”
He shoves the screen toward me. My breath catches.
$67,382.
The number blazes in bright font, so unreal that my brain tries to reject it. Sixty-seven thousand dollars. From strangers. For a boy they’ve never even met.
“That’s how much you've raised?” My whisper bellows out before I can stop it.
As I watch, the number ticks upward in real time. A five-dollar donation. Twenty more from someone named Patricia. Fifty from the Bruce family. Then an anonymous five-hundred-dollar gift makes the total jump again.
My throat tightens. I scroll through the comments section, each message hitting me somewhere beneath my ribs.
"This is the true spirit of the season."
"We're praying for you, Luke!"
"My son had a kidney transplant last year. Sending strength."
"Sanders, you're an inspiration!"
The laptop screen blurs as unexpected tears well up. I blink them back, embarrassed by the surge of emotion.
Woody's footsteps stop. From the corner of my eye, I sense him leaning over my shoulder, close enough that I catch the faint scent of his aftershave. My body reacts to it, a lump rises in my throat. His scent has always had that effect on me.
I don't look up, don't acknowledge how the smell of his aftershave triggers memories better left buried.
"It's incredible," I admit, keeping my voice steady.
"Yeah." His tone carries that surgical calm, but I hear that subtle hint of emotion he's choking back. "That's our boy who put this in motion."
The winter sunset paints faint pink streaks across the kitchen window.
The golden light catches in the steam rising from the forgotten mug of coffee at my elbow.
Outside, our small town is getting ready for Christmas, while our broken family tries to come together for a viral trend our nine-year-old put in motion.
That now-familiar tug between awe and unease shoots through me. The miracle of all this kindness threads with the terror of wondering if we can navigate all of this. Together.
What are we responsible for now? What happens when all these people, these strangers with their five dollars and their prayers and their hopes, expect us to fix everything for Luke?
My practical instinct kicks in, grounding me like it always does when emotions threaten to overwhelm.
"You're going to have to explain to me how GoFundMe works," I say, already shifting into problem-solving mode. "I'm sure Carly can use this now. Of course, she'll need to cover the work she'll miss if we go to New York."
The darkness has crept up on us while we've been staring at the screen. The only light in the kitchen now comes from my laptop's glow, casting our faces in an eerie blue. The wall clock ticks with exaggerated loudness in the quiet, marking seconds that sound like heartbeats.
"I'm not entirely clear on it, either. This was a first for me. I set it up for Sanders."
"So how does the money actually get to them?" I ask, scrolling through the donation page.
Woody shifts his weight, leaning against the counter in that casual way that somehow always looks deliberate, controlled.
"I know that I, as the organizer, get the funds. It's linked to my bank account. Nothing has been deposited yet, but I will look into it."
My brows knit together as I process this. "So it goes to you first?"
He nods. "And then I'll transfer it responsibly. We'll involve Carly before anything's moved. I'm sure we can have the bank wire it."
"Do you know how to contact her? I'd rather not communicate through our shared nine-year-olds and direct messaging apps."
"Yes, I have her number. I talked to her earlier today once I set up the GoFundMe."
I swallow the retort forming in my throat. He already contacted Carly once without me. The familiar feeling of not working together and being sidelined tightens my chest. It drives me crazy how he makes decisions about our son unilaterally.
From the living room, Sanders's animated voice carries as he talks to someone on his tablet. I'm sure he's updating his friends about New York. His excitement is a tangible force in our home, bright and warm against the late afternoon December chill.
"Do you have time to call Carly now?" I ask, pulling my phone closer. "It sounds like the folks at GMA called her, too, based on Sanders's excitement. But the three of us should talk."
"Good idea. Yeah, let's do it." Woody's voice holds no argument. He pulls up a number and turns his phone to me.
I punch the number on his screen into my contacts and then click to call. It rings four times before clicking over to voicemail.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Carly. This is Lane Beamer, Sanders's mom." I force a smile, knowing it will carry through my voice even though she can't see me. "I'm here with Woody—Dr. Beamer—and we wanted to touch base about the donations coming in for Luke. The fund has already reached over sixty-seven thousand dollars."
Woody leans closer to the speaker. "And Good Morning America wants to feature the story this Wednesday."
"The show will cover all travel expenses," I continue, my tone professional but warm, the same voice I use with anxious insurance clients. "We'll make sure this is manageable for you and Luke. Woody said he can line up dialysis while we are there."
We discuss details, fumble over the awkwardness of these three unlikely adults, and virtual strangers, plan a trip together. Carly is so gracious and kind it almost hurts. I can tell we will be fast friends.
She lets us know she has to get back to work and wrap her brain around all of it.
My fingers tighten around the phone as I finish, "We're so grateful for what Sanders has started. Please call us back after you've had time to digest everything. Woody will figure out the GoFundMe stuff in the meantime."
I hang up and stare at the dark screen a second too long. My insides knot. It's too much too fast, and I hate that Woody is already the steady one, calm while I'm unraveling.
Glancing toward the living room, I see Sanders sprawled on the couch, humming "Deck the Halls" as he types furiously on his tablet. His face glows with pure joy, like the world is brand new and filled with endless possibilities.
The last bit of sunlight retreats through the kitchen window, leaving only a smudge of orange on the horizon. Shadows stretch across the countertops cluttered with coffee mugs and yesterday's mail.
I inhale the heavy scent of pine from the Christmas tree in the next room.
I'm about to suggest ordering dinner when Sanders bursts into the kitchen, cheeks flushed, eyes wild with excitement.
"Mom, Dad—we have to go. Luke's counting on us. Everyone's counting on us!" His words tumble out in a breathless rush.
The raw hope in his voice makes my chest ache. Nine years old and still believing grown-ups can fix anything if they just try hard enough.
"Sweetheart, there's still a lot to figure out," I start, but his enthusiasm bulldozes right over my caution.
"The comments keep coming! People are saying we're saving Christmas for real!" He bounces on his toes, practically vibrating with purpose. "This lady from Michigan said her daughter had a kidney transplant last year, and now she plays soccer again!"
I glance at Woody, who's leaning against the refrigerator, arms crossed. His expression hovers somewhere between determination and guilt. It's a look I've seen a thousand times from him. The pre-cancellation face. My body tenses, preparing for the inevitable.
"I'll see if I can move my surgeries," he says, voice steady. "But if not, you and Sanders should still go."
There it is. The words land exactly as expected. I force a nod, my smile plastered in place for Sanders's sake. I still know the script by heart.
"We're going to see the big Christmas tree, right?" Sanders's eyes dart between us, oblivious to everything else. Good. I prefer it that way. I can absorb all of the angst and let him bask in the magic of it all.
"Absolutely," I manage, my voice higher than normal. "We'll make a list of everything you want to see."
Sanders rattles on about toy stores and skating rinks, his voice bubbling with hope. I keep smiling, but inside I already feel the disappointment of Woody’s empty seat on that plane.