Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
Woody
“Mom, did you bring my lucky sweatshirt? The one with the reindeer?” Sanders’s voice cuts through my thoughts as we step inside.
Lane shifts, reaching into her bag. “Right here, honey. Are you cold?”
“It’s for Luke. I told him he could borrow it. He gets cold during dialysis sometimes. Plus, it’ll look drippy in our reel today.”
Lane hands it over with a small smile. “That’s really thoughtful, Bud.”
I watch the two of them, the easy rhythm of mother and son, and the familiar tug lately twists in my chest.
“Whoa, this place is huge!” Sanders’s head tips back, eyes wide as he takes in the soaring atrium. Glass ceilings, polished floors, the clear, crisp air of the hospital.
I place a hand on Sanders’s shoulder to steady him as he stares up at the atrium. “This is one of the best hospitals in the country, right in our backyard.”
He blinks. “Huh? This is in our backyard?”
“Figure of speech, Son. I meant it is close enough that we can drive here pretty easily. People come from all over the country to come here.”
“Oh.” He shrugs, distracted again by the glass ceiling above.
Lane walks a few paces ahead, her posture straight, her steps deliberate. Not fast, not slow, just clearly not as a unit. The space between us is wider than it was just a few days ago. We managed to find an ease we hadn’t known in years, but that's gone now.
A woman with silver-streaked hair and a massive Santa pin on her green sweater approaches with a clipboard clutched to her chest.
“You must be the Beamer family,” she chirps, flashing a professional smile that crinkles her eyes. “And you must be the famous Sanders Beamer.”
My chest tightens. The Beamer family. Lane doesn’t flinch, though, or correct her. She lets it hang there, like it’s easier to nod along than explain.
“That’s us,” she says smoothly.
My jaw locks. I swallow the taste of it down.
"I'm Janice, the volunteer coordinator." She gestures down the hallway. "Let me walk you through today's schedule as we walk to meet with Gill Cleaver from PR to discuss the filming parameters."
Sanders perks up. "Are we going to be on TV again?"
"You're quite the celebrity already! Yes, we will be filming for a national awareness campaign for organ donation.
" Janice winks at him and then looks at both Lane and me.
"After meeting with Mr. Cleaver, you'll join the Turner family in the dialysis clinic.
Mr. Cleaver will have more specific information about when and where they want to interview you. "
Lane nods along, efficient and detached. I force a polite smile.
"Sounds good." My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears.
"Perfect! Let's get you settled in our waiting area."
We follow her to a small alcove with blue chairs and a coffee table stacked with outdated magazines. Lane immediately takes a seat at the edge, pulling out her phone. Her thumb swipes up relentlessly, creating an invisible but undeniable barrier between us.
Sanders drops into the chair beside me, leaning close. "Do you think Luke's scared? I wonder if getting a transplant hurts," he whispers, concern written across his face.
I shake my head. "He will need you as his friend to be there with him while he heals, but he will get through it and be better than new."
Lane glances up briefly, her expression unreadable. Then, her gaze drops back to her phone.
The Beamer family. The words echo in my head, a beautiful lie that feels like pressing on a bruise.
"Good morning. Gill Cleaver." A middle-aged Black man in a navy blazer extends his hand with a smile. His grip is firm. His manner is brisk but warm. "You must be Dr. Beamer."
"Woody Beamer," I say, returning the shake. "Nice to put a face with a name. This is Sanders, our son, and Lane."
Gill nods to each of them. "So nice to meet you guys. Thanks for making the drive. We are going to have a fun day."
Fun. Hmm. Not sure fun is the word, but…
"Fantastic. Is there a plan? I know Luke has dialysis, and Carly has some business stuff to do. You just tell us where you need us."
"We decided to just make it about the kids, if that's okay?
I'm sure the adults will be happy for a break from the cameras.
We plan to mostly get some candid film of them, and we may ask them a question or two in the moment, but we want it to show the natural process and day-to-day routine when the kids get ready for a transplant. "
"That works for me." I look up at Lane, who is digging for something in her purse for Sanders.
Once he has whatever it was he asked his mom for, he bounds toward Gill and me, practically bouncing on his toes. "Can we see Luke now?"
"Yessir," Gill replies easily. "He’s getting ready for dialysis. Do you want to hang out with him while he gets set up?"
"Yes!" Sanders practically shouts, earning a quick grin from Gill.
Gill looks at us. "We can all walk down, and then Sanders can stay there for the next few hours. You guys can relax, grab a coffee, go for a walk around the campus. I can text you once we are wrapping up."
"That sounds like a plan." I realize as soon as I say it that I don't have the liberty to speak for Lane. Heat crawls up my neck, and I wish I could suck the words back and let Lane do the talking. But I can't. And she doesn't say a word.
"Alrighty. The team is ready, so let’s head that way."
I stand, brushing my hand over Sanders's shoulder, trying not to look at Lane as we follow him down the corridor.
A massive fish tank bubbles against one wall, tropical fish darting between plastic plants. The medical reality lurks at the edges with monitors beeping in the distance, the rustle of scrubs outside the door.
"Did you see the TV in the clinic? It's huge!" Leigh bounces on her toes, her blonde ponytail swinging as she greets Sanders at the door. "They said we might be on the news."
Gill taps his clipboard as we all enter the clinic.
There are four other children in the waiting area, staring at phones or the television.
"Today's schedule is straightforward. We'll capture some footage of Luke's dialysis treatment, nothing invasive, just background context.
Then casual interaction between the children, showing their friendship. "
He smiles at Luke, whose thin shoulders straighten with importance.
Gill's warm eyes move between Carly, Lane, and me. "The story of communities coming together during the holidays is exactly what people need right now. And we hope it will highlight the importance of organ donation."
A nurse in teal scrubs appears in the doorway. "Ms. Turner? We need you to sign some additional consent forms. Will you please come with me?"
"Of course." Carly squeezes Luke's shoulder. "Be brave, okay? I'll come back in when I'm done."
Another staff member gestures to the kids. "Ready to head into the treatment room? We've got games set up for you guys."
The children follow eagerly. The door swings shut behind them with a soft click. Sudden quiet descends, broken only by the bubbling of the fish tank. Lane stands near the window, arms crossed, staring at nothing.
I clear my throat. "Want to grab a coffee?"
She doesn't look at me immediately. The pause stretches so long I wonder if she heard me at all. Finally, she meets my eyes. “I guess we're stuck here, just the two of us, until dialysis is done. Might as well make the best of it.”
"Sure."
We step into the hall, our footsteps echoing against polished floors. Every inch between us is calculated. Not too close, not too far. We couldn't look more out of sync if we'd just met on the street.
I stop at a desk to ask where the cafeteria is. She directs me to the fifth floor. The elevator at the end of the corridor dings open right away, surprisingly. I hold the door, careful not to brush against her as she steps inside.
The doors slide shut, trapping us in silver-mirrored silence.
We jolt upward. Mirrors on three walls reflect us back at ourselves. I'm staring at the ceiling, Lane is fixated on her phone. Her perfume reaches me in this enclosed space, something floral and achingly familiar.
I shift my weight, shoving my hands in my pockets.
"Thanks for coming today." My voice sounds too loud in the small space. "I know this probably wasn't how you planned to spend your Tuesday before Christmas. I know it means the world to Sanders."
Lane tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a nervous habit I remember from years ago. "I could say the same to you."
Her tone is sweet, but I can read between the lines. I let it slide.
I nod, watching the numbers climb. Second floor. Third. What would happen if I hit the emergency stop? If I made her talk to me about that kiss in New York, about Jerry, about what the hell we're doing pretending everything's normal?
The doors slide open on the fifth floor, revealing the hospital café. The smell of burnt coffee and cinnamon rolls washes over us. Lane steps out first, and I follow, careful to keep my distance.
"Look, Lane—" I start.
"Let me know what you want." She cuts me off, gesturing to the coffee menu. "I'll order while you grab a table."
And just like that, the moment's gone. "A black coffee will be fine. Thanks."
I watch her walk to the counter, shoulders straight and guard up. This is what we do now. We navigate around the real conversations, talk about coffee instead of kisses, schedules instead of feelings.
I find an empty table near the window overlooking the hospital gardens. Below, a maintenance worker adjusts a string of Christmas lights adorning the fir trees.
The holidays. Another year is almost gone. Another Christmas where Sanders shuffles between houses, where I wake up in an empty condo surrounded by precisely wrapped presents and nobody to share them with, waiting for him to finish Christmas morning with his mom.
And Jerry the Jerk.
Lane approaches with two paper cups, steam rising between us like all the words we can't say.
"Black," she says, sliding it toward me.
I take a sip of coffee, wincing as it scalds the roof of my mouth. The bitterness matches my mood. Lane looks out the window, studying the man working on the lights.
"Place is impressive. Makes our ORs look outdated."
Lane hums a polite, noncommittal sound, her gaze still fixed out the window. The distance gnaws at me, irritation prickling beneath the guilt. I shouldn’t care so much that she’s cold. I shouldn’t miss the warmth she used to have.
And yet I crave some break in the ice. Surely we can find a crack somewhere. I clear my throat. “So…where’s Jerry the Jerk?”
The second it’s out, I want to stuff it back down. Damn it. I meant to just say Jerry. Jerry. Ahh. Fucking Jerry.
"I mean to say Jerry. Where's Jerry?"
Lane stills mid-sip, lowering her cup with surgical precision. “Mature, Woody. Real mature. Why would you say that?”
I rub the back of my neck, fumbling. “Sorry. It just slipped.”
Her eyes flash. “You don’t get to call him that. At least Jerry shows up.”
The words cut clean. My jaw locks, heat spiking behind my eyes.
“Right,” I mutter. “Because leaving for an emergency surgery means I don’t show up.”
Her reply is instant, quiet but precise as a scalpel. “You might show up, but you always leave. That’s the difference.”
The silence that follows is suffocating. Louder than any shouting match we ever had.
“I need some air.” She pushes back in her chair, stands, and disappears down the hall without a second glance.
I stare after her, insides hollowing out, the echo of her footsteps lodging under my skin.
I sit there frozen, watching the curve of her shoulder vanish around the corner. My chest squeezes. My hands itch to go after her, but my feet don’t move.
Space. She asked for space. Where is she even going? Outside? To walk the campus? To call him?
The thought of Jerry waiting on the other end of her phone has my hands curling into fists before I even register it.
I pace a few steps, then stop. My reflection glares back at me from the polished glass wall. I'm a pathetic man who is too stubborn to chase after her, too gutted to stay still.
After I finish my coffee alone, I head back down to the renal area and sit down across from another stranger waiting. I pull out my phone and scroll through the comments on Luke and Sanders's latest post.
After I don't know how long, just as my eyes start crossing, I walk down the dialysis room. Sanders sits cross-legged on the floor with Leigh, teaching her some complicated hand-clapping game while Luke talks to a nurse.
Lane is already here, talking to Carly. I'm suddenly nauseated, wondering if I should not have been in here, too. Another miss, and I was only feet away.
The nurse disconnects Luke's tubes with practiced efficiency. "All done for today, champ."
We gather our things and file back to the family lounge, a parade of exhausted bodies and forced smiles. Lane walks ahead with Carly, their heads bent together in conversation.
I trail behind with the kids, listening to Sanders describe a YouTube video about a guy who built an underground swimming pool using only a stick.
Luke sinks onto the couch, pale but smiling. The nurses brought juice boxes and graham crackers, and Leigh arranges them on the table like she's hosting a tea party.
Sanders suddenly spins toward me, eyes wide with inspiration. "Can I stay with Luke tonight? Please? It'll make him feel better!"
This time, I know better than to answer for her. I look up instead.
Carly laughs softly, smoothing Luke's thin hair with her palm. "It might help. He's been nervous ever since the prospect of surgery became real. While we don't have a date, he knows it's coming."
Lane hesitates only a moment before nodding. "It's fine with me if you're sure it isn't too much."
Sanders cheers, already planning their night. Carly gathers the kids, their voices fading toward the elevators.
And just like that, it’s only Lane and me left in the lounge. No Sanders between us. No excuse.
The silence presses in, thick as the hospital air.
Looks like we’ll be driving back together. Alone.