30. Isaac
Chapter 30
Isaac
S he’s not falling victim to any of my antics. I even left pickles in the faculty lounge with a note that said “ free to a good home . ” I watched her stick her fingers into the jar and eat those fucking pickles for three weeks. All while she completely ignored my existence.
Liam’s massive head appears in the side-view mirror, startling me from my thoughts. I know traveling back and forth from England to rural Illinois hasn’t been the easiest on him, but he never seems to falter. I wish I had more of his tenacity. I grab my key, killing the engine and pushing open the car door.
“Hey woah, watch it!” Liam jumps out of the way of the swinging chunk of metal as I step out onto the pavement. “Who pissed in your Cheerios?”
Tucking my wallet into the back pocket of my slacks, I slam the door closed and turn to face him. Leo just rolled over in his grave; I felt it. Sorry, Mr. Carello.
“Hey to you too,” I grunt, starting through the parking lot toward the doors of the children’s hospital. The large concrete planters at the entrance are barren, a precursor for the frigid temperatures forecasted for the remainder of the week.
“Hey, for real, cut the attitude before we get up there,” Liam adds, meeting my pace as we enter through the sliding glass doors. I unclench my fists and shake them out, stopping to take a deep breath.
“You’re right. I’m sorry,” I exhale. “Work has been rough this week.”
“Work, or Dr. Carello?” Liam prods at my already-bruised ego. With everything else going on, I shouldn’t even be worried about the fact that she never smiles back at me in the hallway. Or that she opts to take every one of our faculty senate meetings via Zoom instead of being forced to sit in the faculty lounge with me and the rest of our Boomer colleagues. I ignore Liam’s comment and press the worn button outside the east elevators.
“Is Dad here already?” I ask, watching the numbers descend on the digital panel. There is a strict two-person rule in the ICU where Sam currently spends most of his time.
“Nah, he said he had some errands to run and wants us to keep Sammy company this afternoon.” The elevator dings and the doors begin to open. Liam “the oldest child” Britlyn jumps in front of me to try to snatch the first entry onto the elevator, only to nearly bulldoze an old lady and her pink hair bonnet. She gasps, her hands flying to her chest in surprise. “Sorry!” he yells, rounding her with an athletic side-step onto the metal box destined for the seventh floor.
Sam is propped up against the plastic arm of the hospital bed, both hands grasped tightly on the custom Xbox controller I bought him last Christmas. Eleven months ago, he was healthy. Eleven months ago, we were in the clear.
Until last month.
“Hey turds.” Sam looks up from the screen just long enough to monitor us as we walk through the door. Gunshots continue through the speakers from his Call of Duty game. “I was just shitting on some twelve-year-olds.”
“Sam!” Liam stifles a laugh, plopping down into the bedside recliner. “Since when do you have a potty mouth like Isaac?”
Sam laughs, prompting a coughing fit that he resolves quickly with a sip of water from the pink pitcher on his bedside table.
“How ya feeling, Sammy?” I ask, examining changes to his face. The baby fat of yesterday has been replaced with deep, dark circles under his eyes. Chemotherapy-driven tissue wasting has resulted in prominent cheekbones, making his face look far too long and thin. His thick, curly hair has been reduced to wisps.
I sit down on the hospital bed as Sam fiddles with the buttons on his controller in silence, returning himself to the home screen of his console. My eyes bounce from him, to Liam and back again, attempting to read the situation without repeating my question.
“I told Dad to send you both up here,” he responds after a few more beats of silence. The knot in my stomach threatens to force its way up and out of me, but I swallow it down. An audible gulp pops both of my ears, and Sam looks slightly irritated that I would have the nerve to interrupt his incoming monologue.
Sam clears his throat, ready to speak, when he’s interrupted by a knock at the door. “Can I come in?” Dr. Hamilton walks into the room without waiting for a response. “How’re we doing, Sammy-boy?” His voice is flat, yet somehow cheerful. Sam scoffs, throwing his controller down onto the pile of blankets at his side. A young man dressed in turquoise scrubs stands adjacent to the door, jotting notes down on a pad of paper.
“I’ve only thrown up once today, so I guess…good.” His lip curls with a teenage angst and anger that I can’t even imagine. I was a menace at eighteen with nothing to worry about other than AP calculus. Here he is—the world a tiny view outside his hospital window, yet the entire weight of it on his shoulders.
“We got the results of your most recent PET scan and I’d like to discuss them with you.” Dr. Hamilton leans his body weight against the wall closest to the TV. Sam’s video game character rocks back and forth with his gun in the air, waiting for him to come back. Does he play with friends online? Do they know he’s sick?
Will he play today and then never again?
Will they miss him when he’s gone?
“I can come back when your brothers aren’t here, or we can all discuss.” Dr. Hamilton phrases the statement as a question, his eyes fixed on Sam. Liam and I both immediately attempt to stand, but Sam speaks up.
“They can hear this.” He pushes himself to a more upright position in bed while a downturn of his smile overtakes the expression on his face. “They need to know too.”
“Chemo is working,” Dr. Hamilton says plainly, clicking his pen. Liam and I make eye contact once more, both clapping our hands together in excitement. “There was significantly less uptake in the bone marrow.”
“But—” Sam’s energy remains unchanged.
“The headaches,” Dr. Hamilton clears his throat, hesitating just a half-second before continuing. “It’s not uncommon for a secondary cancer to manifest in people with your type of leukemia.”
Liam’s expression falters, and I clench my fists silently on my lap. I should’ve known the headaches were something more sinister. I should’ve done a neurological exam. I should’ve fucking known.
“What are my options?” Sam asks calmly, shifting once more on the thin hospital mattress. The silence that has overtaken the room is absolutely deafening.
“The borders look clean, so we can attempt surgery. But, Sam, you know as well as I do that there are risks. I can bring in Dr. Martin to discuss with you if you’re on board for resection.” Ben Martin. An incredible neurosurgeon. They’re good.
“Yeah, book it.” Sam picks up his controller, starting a fresh battle royale. Dr. Hamilton takes that as his cue to leave, patting me on the shoulder as he walks by. The silent scribe follows him out the door as Sam powers down the gaming console.
“Were you not just starting a brand new game?” Liam asks, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I hate that guy.” Sam lets out a full-bodied laugh, letting his head fall back against the pillow behind him. “Had to get rid of him somehow.”
Liam and I join Sam in his laughter, though my chest fights against the outlet of emotion. This isn’t funny at all. Laughter dissipates, and silence falls over us once more.
“I’m dying,” Sam says matter-of-factly.
“No, Sammy,” Liam starts, but he’s interrupted.
“Listen to me, assholes.” Sam looks between us and lets out a fraught breath. “I tried to tell Dad, but he refused to listen.”
I stand, pacing the tiled floor at the foot of the bed. “Dr. Martin, they’re fantastic. I’m sure they can resect the whole thing and then we can just focus on?—”
“Isaac.” It’s Liam’s voice that halts my neurotic problem-solving word vomit. “Let Sammy talk,” he says.
“I’ll do the surgery, but I need you both to know that it’s coming. And there are a lot of things I have to say before then.”
A stream of anger and sadness and desperation cascades from every single pore on my body, and I can’t quite control the amount of literal perspiration that accompanies the emotion. My baby brother airs his thoughts and regrets like a man who’s lived an entire lifetime of love and loss.
“My physical body might be gone, but I just want you to promise that I’ll always live in your hearts.” I don’t know how many of Sam’s words I’ve lost to the black abyss that is my brain, but I heard those. I stop pacing and round the bed where Liam already stands, his hands firmly grasping Sam’s.
“Of course, Sammy. We can promise you that. Right, Isaac?” I place a hand on Sam’s shoulder, the curve of his clavicle protruding into my palm. He’s dying, and he knows it.
My opposite hand clasps my chest with emphasis. “Always in our hearts, Sammy-boy.”
A few silent, tear-filled moments pass until a knock on the door has us all hastily wiping our cheeks with the backs of our hands.
“Hey Aaron.” Sam smiles, raising his right hand in a wave while the young man places a plastic meal tray on the countertop in the corner of the room. “Thank you.”
“Chicken parm today, Sam. I even snuck you an extra ice cream cup.” Aaron winks before exiting the room to continue feeding the residents of the seventh floor.
When I reach for the tray, Sam waves me off. “I’ll eat in a bit,” he says, dropping his legs over the edge of the bed. Grasping the mattress with both hands, he leans forward, pushing both of his socked feet against the floor.
“Do your legs hurt?” Liam asks, but he gets waved off as well.
“I need you both to promise me one other thing.” Sam’s serious tone returns while he does calf raises against the floor. “I need you both to make sure you live. No regrets, okay?”
No regrets.