Destiny - a novel - 10. Chapter 10: New Years Eve

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Chapter 10: New Years Eve

The morning is bleak.

What started out as a drizzle an hour ago, when Mrs. Shaw finally went back to her motel room to sleep, is now a torrential downpour.

The fat drops pelt the window, and even from his bedside, Jack and I can hear them distinctly.

I've ensconced myself in the lounge chair with one of my boyfriend's gamer mags open and unread, while Jack has his eyes closed, listening to something on his phone. I can make out strings playing, but that's all.

"Hey, Linc!" Jack says way too forcefully. "Where'd Jackson go?"

I motion for him to pull out his earbuds. Loud classical music spills out for a moment until Jack finds the pause button.

"I don’t know, Jack. They said something about walking around for a while."

"Ok. Lincoln..?" He draws out the last sound so I stop pretending to have any interest in his mag, and instead turn my full attention to him. "You wanna share an earphone?"

A bit of heat comes to my face as I rise, step out of my Nike's and slide into bed next to him. Jack makes room on the pillow by rolling on his side to face me, and I do the same – making my arm his headrest.

Eye to eye, he slips in an earbud, and my lips brush against his contented grin.

A moment later, my boyfriend presses 'play,' and adjusts the volume down until I show him signs of being comfortable.

As I gaze into those soft brown eyes – the ones I fell for instantly back in an ordinary kitchen in L.A. – a voice slowly rises. She sings something calming, something angelic, and all I know is I can see the effect in my Jack's eyes.

"What is this?" I ask.

"Dunno. Some Mozart thing – Vespers, I think it's called."

When mentioning this calm music that's almost measured out in heartbeats, my boy's eyes take on a mystical cast. I blink realizing he has a secret of some kind associated with what he's hearing right now, and maybe with something more too. Yes, I'd call it a birthday-wish smile, one where asking about it would draw out a nervous grin and a reply of 'Can't tell ya, then the wish won't come true.'

I keep quiet, and I just let the melody seep into our brains and souls. Yes. I can see my boy's soul, and it's just as beautiful as any old piece of Mozart ever was.

I close my eyes, and my angel kisses me.

Jack says softly, taking my hand, "I've been listening to this one a lot when sitting in the chemo chair, looking up to the ceiling, and when I'm thinking about you, Lincoln."

"Baby, you're gonna be fine."

"I'm holding, Linc. Holding on for you."

"Yes, kid. Do it for our future, the one we can see when we both close our eyes."

I watch his lids slide down, and then I kiss him. God, how I love this boy…

"Hello, hello!" a familiar voice rings out from the doorway. Dr. Kimball strides in all smiles and confidently-moving lab coat. He comes straight to the foot of the bed as me and Jack lift our heads to watch him. "Hi, boys! Listening to some music?"

Leave it to an adult to state the obvious in the form of a question.

I nod, taking out my earbud and sitting up. Jack does the same, setting his paused phone on the bedside table.

As I stand to stretch, I suddenly notice an extra twinkle in the doc's demeanor – a spark, if you will.

Jack must be thinking the same thing. "You're in a good mood," he says.

"That's because I'm not alone…" His voice trails off while he turns towards the door. "Okay..!" he calls out.

Giddy laughter precedes her, but then a beautiful woman with long dark hair and an exuberant manner comes around the corner. "Marta!" Jack exclaims. And the woman can't contain her joy anymore; it comes out in a series of young-girl shrieks and laughs.

"My little chiquito," she sings as she flies to Jack's bedside, where in another moment, he's swept up and locked in her embrace. While she's rocking with him, a warm smile for me is punctuated by a ballsy wink.

Helplessly, I consider the oncologist I'd always thought of as reserved, and think, 'So, this is your wife – you old devil.'

"Marta, it's great to see you," Jack croaks in a slight staccato, as the woman's grip must be putting happy pressure on my boy's lungs.

"And this, Marta, is Jack's partner – Lincoln Oliver." The doc jostles my shoulder.

Marta comes around the end of the bed and pushes the hand I've stuck out for a handshake tight against my body. Her hug takes me by surprise, a nice surprise, and within another moment or two, I start hugging her back.

"It's wonderful to meet you, Lincoln Oliver." She pushes back to hold my eyes with her dark brown ones. "It's hard for me to believe my little chiquito Jack is old enough for love, but from what Edgar tells me, he's completely found it with you."

"Thank you, Mrs. Kimball."

Jack's oncologist leans in, like he has a low-volume secret to share. "That's 'Doctor' Kimball."

I laugh: "Two doc Kimballs in one room! Oh no…"

"Call me Marta. I feel that we're already family; family of Jack's is family to Edgar and me. Ok?"

"Okay, Marta."

"Good! Now, Jack, I'm here to get my own biopsy – let's see if you and I make a good match!" She lets loose with an impressive battery of rat-a-tat laughter and goes to stand with her arm around Dr. Kimball's waist.

"Speaking of which," I ask. "When will a match be positively identified?"

Dr. Kimball becomes all business. He addresses my reply directly to Jack. "It will take a few weeks. If we get one – when we get one – a surgical team is standing by to operate on the donor and then immediately transfer it to you."

"Are you going to talk about it at the press conference this afternoon?" his wife inquires

"Since the best chances of a match are within Jack's immediate family, Mrs. Shaw and I have discussed holding back talking about the bone marrow treatment. At that time, if we don’t find a match we'll announce a search to the general public."

"Why?" I ask skeptically.

"Because then we'd finally have the media working for us – I bet a million people would line up to get tested for Jack."

"What about you, Marta?" Jack tries to deflect attention away from himself. "Will you be at the press conference today too?"

As she opens her mouth to speak, Dr. Kimball raises his hand. "I think I can rustle up a Stanford lab coat so she can stand on stage with me."

"Oh, Jack!" Marta latches onto her hubbie's arm and does calisthenics in place. "You're gonna see us on TV!"

"We see him on TV all the time, so it will be nice to see you there as well."

Her tone goes all soft, as do the soulful glimpses she splits between Jack and me. "Oh, chiquito, how you mean the world to us." Her focus locks onto mine, and her tone brightens. "Did Jack tell you how he played secret cupid for Edgar and me?"

I feel myself grinning; Jack had mentioned it, but I wasn't going to toss my BF under the Marta bus. I go and sit on the bed near his shoulder, and his hand instantly slips into mine. "Umm, I think he brought it up – "

Marta cuts me short, as I knew she would. "Our Jack brought me and Edgar together. He was a dear little boy, so brave and so strong. He never complained…"

As she goes on, I grip my Jack's hand tighter to let him know that, yes, he is brave and he never complains. No, not my Jack – not my chiquito.

"…He was quite an inspiration to us." Her arm raises up and locks in the crook of his. "We took care of him together and he wound up taking care of us too."

Red creeps up my boyfriend's neck, and I find myself thinking how sexy hot he'd be in nothing but a cloth diaper and a quiver-full of arrows. Maybe for Valentine's Day…

"It's true," Dr. Kimball chimes in with ringing confirmation. "Focusing on taking care of Jack when he was seven let both Marta and me see that sometimes it's all about the quality of time spent together and not necessarily that it be 'fun.'" By the end of this comment, it's clear the doctor has upset himself.

"What is it, Edgar?"

He doesn't answer, but his sad expression seems to tell Marta all she needs to know.

"That question, again?"

He nods, and checks over his shoulder for any company at the door before explaining directly to Jack and me. "I've been tossing around a question, as you know, one that quite frankly is easier to discuss when your mother is not in the room."

"I know, doc. Is it really bothering you?"

"Yes, Jack, it is. Is it always right not to consult young people about what they want in terms of getting or not getting treatment? Is it fair to never challenge the status quo of always fighting cancer without regard to what the child may think or feel?"

The oncologist is getting emotional. Marta readjusts her hold on his arm for added support. "Edgar, don’t… Don’t frighten – "

"Oh Jack," he says with fresh vigor. "Now that you're committed to battling this thing, and doing it for the right reasons, I think your decision is admirable. But before, when you ran away, did you do it, Jack, because you felt you had no other option? Because you weren't sure I would listen?"

"Yes, doc. That's exactly it. I love my mom and family, but – I had been through enough, and I thought the easiest way for Mom would be for me to simply disappear. Maybe then she could always live with some sort of hope that I had made it."

When I glance back, Marta and Dr, Kimball both have tears in their eyes. Marta is the one to toughen up first. She withdraws her arm, and says slowly, "But Edgar, an oncologist who stands up publicly to say that treating cancer is not always the right thing to do, better have another career option in mind."

Dr. Kimball's handkerchief comes out of his pocket. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, if you had a sick child, would you take him to the doctor who came out in favor of letting the little one say yea or nay to his own treatment?"

"But, times should change a bit… I'm talking about a dialogue with the patient, not an automatic decision either way."

Marta's frustration peaks for a moment, but then cools just as swiftly. It is replaced by love and admiration shining on her face – that, and frustration. "Jack," she says walking to his side. "Do you remember when you were my little chiquito, and in pain, and sometimes you'd just fall asleep in your mother's arms?"

"Um, not really."

Her hand reaches out and strokes his forehead below his cap. "Well, I'm sure she does." She looks to her husband. "Edgar, dear – Jack, his mom, Lincoln, we're all trying to do the best we can."

Dr. Kimball grows resolute. He folds his arms, telling his wife flatly, "I know. And so am I."

˚˚˚˚˚

The afternoon light is leaden.

A halo of smell from Jack's uneaten lunch lingers in the air, and there's no relief to the senses by looking out the widow. It's storming again.

The whole gang is here.

"It's past three o'clock, Jack," Mrs. S. mumbles, peeking up from her taxing needlework; she's sitting on the sofa with Dawn and my brother.

From my position in the lounge chair, I watch as Jack picks up the remote, and a moment later, Dr. Kimball's press conference is on the TV screen. It's in-progress, so the reporters are already foisting cumbersome questions on him. He points to one middle-aged man with a comb-over and pot belly. "What about your opinion on 'non-family' visitors bothering your patient; are you aware that there's an ongoing criminal investigation back in Ohio against the man Jack's involved with?"

Suddenly I notice that Dr. Marta Kimball is standing on the dais with him. Her lab coat telegraphs a movement from her body outwards. It's a shift in weight from one foot to the other, and it's lucid signal that she's pissed her little chiquito's BF is being talked about like this.

Dr. Kimball on the other hand looks tired – tired of being the only adult in the room. He seems to sigh internally while gazing out over the media personalities, their cameras, and their romper room antics.

He takes a deep, self-controlling breath before he begins. "The young man in question is there at Jack's request – no, strike that – at Jack's insistence, for neither of them wish, nor have any reason, to be separated at this critical time for Jack Shaw. There is nothing at all unusual for a patient's significant other to be by his or her bedside. Attempts to make it seem nefarious in this particular situation are things the media, in my humble opinion, should be refuting, not gossiping about."

"Yes, but – " shouts a young woman from the crowd of 'news' jockeys/'news' makers. "Do you have a personal opinion about an eighteen-year-old man being lovers with a fifteen-year-old?"

Dr. Kimball sends a fleeting look over his shoulder to Marta. She offers him a tight-lipped, but encouraging head nod.

Orienting himself back to the reporters, and re-facing the cameras with newfound strength, Dr. Kimball says, "There's less than three years between them. If Jack were twenty, and his partner twenty-three, then the age difference would rightly be considered insignificant, because, quite frankly, it is. Anyway, there are more pressing ethical questions on my mind, and I am here to talk about treatments, and how…and now…"

He falters, casting his eyes to the floor out in front of him. It appears like his 'crisis of faith' is at a crossroads. Dr. Marta puts a hand on his arm and leans in to whisper a few private words directly into his ear. Marta smiles again in that reassuring way of hers, as if granting unwavering support for her man no matter what decision his conscience is driving him to make.

The oncologist stands proud. He says unflinchingly, "For all patients and families who have to face the horrendous challenges of a childhood cancer diagnosis, I believe it's time to open up a dialogue about treatment. Sometimes, in certain cases to be determined by the child's medical team and parents, it might not be ethically right to proceed with treatments that the young one may not benefit from."

The crowd holds its collective breath; it's a sound like a balloon makes as it's being filled.

Into the pregnant silence, a female reporter suddenly rises to her feet and asks quietly, "You're saying parents should let their little kids die?"

Dr. Kimball is adamant. "No, no, no. Let me be clear on this: I'm only speaking about advocacy for young people old enough to be thinking about their futures, or in other words, the ones old enough to have a firm concept of life and death, not little children who do not. I hope I am clear in this regard."

Silence again retakes the room, which for a press conference is newsworthy in itself.

"Now, I know," Dr. Kimball continues with open palms to the crowd. "It might seem a controversial stand to take for an oncologist like me, but sometimes the child's wishes, and the amount of pain the young one is put through, plays back seat to the parents' understandable desire to fight, and fight with all we've got. But sometimes, that may simply be a burden to the young person. I'm speaking about a dialogue, not an absolute one way or the other – "

Mrs. Shaw shuts off the TV; she just reaches over her head and angrily smacks the power button. She looks around the room, re-gathering her composure. She lingers on Dawn, and it seems her anger dissipates. "Can he be serious?"

Dawn stands. "Will you support him?"

"Will he support Jack..?"

"MOM! How can you even question that – of course he supports me. And I for one think what he's just done takes a lot of guts."

˚˚˚˚˚

What a day it's been.

Dawn, Jackson, and Mrs. Shaw have stepped downstairs to have dinner in the café. I went with them, but walked in the eatery with only one purpose in mind. Now as I'm re-approaching his door, the sound, weight and chill of the bottles rustling in the pocket of my letterman coat remind me what day it is.

Outside Jack's window, darkness has fallen, but I can still hear raindrops pinging the glass behind the closed blinds.

I've slipped back up to his room so Jack and I can be alone. I step out of my sneakers, and slide into bed with him again still wearing my jacket. I tell him through a kiss, "I'm so sad that we must part at eight."

"Yeah, my mom will be back by then to start the 'night shift.'"

"Tomorrow," I tell him, stroking his cheek. "We'll go for a nice long walk around the hospital. The place won't be crowded, and we can take our time."

Jack makes a puzzled scowl. "Phew! – Why 'not crowded?'"

"Goofy boy, tomorrow's New Years Day. Did you forget it's New Years Eve?"

"Oh. I did forget. Funny, huh?"

"Nah, kid. It's been one of those crazy days. You're totally forgiven. So, what do you say? A walk tomorrow?"

He lifts and plays with the digits of my left hand. "I'm getting slower and slower, Lincoln."

"Nonsense, Jack. You're walking just fine, and that's what matters."

His breath caresses my cheek in the form a sigh. "I worry about all this stress on my mother. I'm afraid Dr. Kimball's controversial stance will be the straw that breaks the camel's back."

"I think she'll be all right."

"Anyway, I really have to admire Dr. Kimball's bravery."

"That's true, Jack. Me too. But, well, there's something about bravery that brings out the worst in all those holier-than-thou stone throwers. I suspect Dr. Kimball is in for a rough time of it…especially…if – " I stop cold.

Jack finishes my thought for me. "Especially, if I die?"

"Yes, baby. But you won't let him down, just like I know you won't let me or your mother down either."

"No – I'll try my best not to do that."

I haul over the flap of my coat, and loud glass-on-glass clinking endangers giving my plan away. I leap to my feet, delighting in Jack's sweet, slightly bewildered expression. "I've got a little surprise for us."

I hop over to the other side of Jack's bed and fetch two plastic-covered cups from the counter. As I'm unwrapping them, and positioning Jack's mobile food tray over his bed, he asks, "What kinda surprise?"

Once the naked cups are within reaching distance, I go around to the other side and slide into bed once more. My wonderful boy's scent fills my nostrils while I pull him into a face-to-face hug. He hugs me back, and sends me to heaven.

After lingering contact with his, my mouth is glossy; contented words slip through it: "Do you even know how much I love you, Jack?"

"I have a pretty good idea, Linc. You show it everyday by simply sticking around this drama circus that has now become both your life as well as mine. Also, I know, because I feel it in your arms when you hold me like this; I feel it in your kiss when you kiss me like that. I know you love me, and you better believe I love you back."

"Ditto, kid. I feel it all the time. You merely glance at me, and I know I am loved better than any other guy in the world."

"Ah, Linc, you're so sweet."

"Un-uh, not half as sweet as my boy, and for my boy, I have a treat for us to share."

"Which is...?" Jack squeezes the words through tight-lipped anticipation.

"This!" I roll over and extract one bottle from my pocket. It goes straight into Jack's hand. As I take out the second one, Jack reads the label of the first.

"Martinelli's Sparkling Apple Cider."

"You can't have champagne," I tell him. "And I can't be here at midnight, so let's have our own little celebration here and now."

Jack sets the bottle on the table and picks up the two cups. I twist off the cap of the one I have and pour half-portions into the plastic 'stemware' my boyfriend holds for me. I set the empty bottle down, and take one of the cups.

"Offer up a toast, Linc."

"Okay, babe." I raise my glass to him. "Here's to the year to come, and to the happier times I know it has in store for you and me. Cheers!"

"Cheers, sexy man."

We clink, we sip, we touch lips and Jack shivers.

I take his cup from his hand, and put both of ours on the tray. "Is it too cold?" I can't hide the concern from my voice as my hands instantly come out to rub Jack's fingers between my palms.

"This winter has been so cold, Lincoln." There are almost tears in his voice. "I've constantly got a chill – one from the inside, Linc – from the inside."

"Oh God, Jack – " I hug him close. "I'd take your chill for you if I could."

"I know, Lincoln. That's the thought that makes it bearable, believe me; that and these flashes I keep getting."

I push back to hold his gaze; now I'm chilled. "What do you mean by flashes?"

He chuckles a little. "It's nothing bad. Really it's not. It's just that sometimes when I'm sick, when certain music is playing, I close my eyes and see my thoughts. One of these comes back more than the others, and it's always a great comfort when it does."

"What is it you see, Jack?" I'm still frightened.

"You know how occasionally when you're dreaming, and when you know you are asleep, there are these little breaks in the dreams – little gaps between them, when you see another thing over and over. Know what I mean?"

"Yeah."

"Well, it's like that, only I'm not asleep. It's a simple flash really, but I can feel it in my bones as a warming sensation that slowly spreads everywhere. When I see it, it's a vision of a summer's day."

His eyes have grown mystical again; grown protective of some wonderful and unspeakable secret.

"A past one?" I ask.

"No, it's one yet to be."

"Oh, yeah? Can you tell me about it?"

He blinks once. "I don’t know – it's vague. There's a gentle warm breeze; birds are singing; water is rippling; and I feel ok. No. it's more than that; I feel happy."

"That sounds great, baby."

"It is, Lincoln. But sometimes the thought of being happy scares me."

I gently press my lips to his and scan his face. He doesn't look frightened. "Well, don’t be scared, kid. Summer's only six months away, so we'll see your vision come true soon enough."

Jack looks everywhere but at me. "Phew… The cure might kill me first, Linc. Just so you're prepared."

I slide my finger under the front of his chin and raise his eyes to me. "Hush, now. And just to let you know, no, I'm not prepared to lose you. I'm putting my foot down and being selfish for once."

"For once?!" Jack scoffs and lifts the smile that I hoped he would. "What a laugh."

I kiss him, whimpering right on top of his lips: "God, how I love you, Jack Shaw."

When I pull away again, I see him reaching for our glasses. I haul the tray closer and put his cup into his hand. He raises it up for a toast, saying, "Here's to a Happy New Years."

"Here's to your vision of warm weather."

We clink plastic rims, sip, and I come back for tearful bussing redolent of all the sweetest apples of summer.

_