Destiny - a novel - 11. Chapter 11: Making Statements

PART TWO: A Winter's Tale

Chapter 11: Making Statements

I round the blind corner of his room, and Jack's voice rings out to me: "Hi, sexy beast!"

Jackson and Dawn are right behind me, laughing and goofing off. And then my heart jumps in my chest; Jack's right arm is lying extended on top of his white hospital blanket, and an IV line is running up from the inside where his elbow is.

I slowly approach his bedside with only two thoughts in my head: 'How did this happen?' and 'Oh God – no!' That, and I also wish the happy chattering from the kids behind me would shut up.

Mrs. Shaw makes a move in the lounge chair and catches my attention briefly. She's exhausted, which shows in the way her eyes are half-shut with fatigue; dark circles grew under them overnight. She weakly says, as Dawn and Jackson finally quiet down, "Jack had a rough night."

"But, I'm all right now! Such a fuss, I swear."

I get to my boyfriend's side, to the position where his fingers are, and feel like I have to kneel. I raise Jack's hand and kiss the back of it. It is chilled.

"Lincoln…" he pleads, but I won't stop. I kiss his palm, I kiss his wrist, where a tear of mine falls. And in my mind, I find a thought about blue skies. They're not summer skies either, but the series of them I've watched develop right outside Jack's window. There's been a complete shift in the weather, and the storms and rain have stepped aside for clear air and dry sunshine. But the lack of cloud cover means the temp has plummeted as all the heat of day drifts up and away to the cruel stars. L.A. was never this cold and wet feeling; it's the kind of chill that creeps into and inhabits a person's bones.

Jack's free hand caresses my face. "No, Lincoln – don’t make a fuss. I'm strong as an ox." He glances with a big grin to Dawn and my brother standing at the foot of his bed. "See? See what a wonderful partner I have? Kneeling like Romeo before his sweetheart."

Mrs. S. gets to her feet and stretches.

Jack nods at me; he wants me to get up too. So, I do, but I don’t release his hand.

"Mrs. Shaw," I say with a tinge of guilt leaking out. "You need to go sleep. It's our turn to look after your boy."

"Oh, Lincoln, that's sweet of you to say, and I will go back to the motel right after our consult with Dr. Kimball." She adjusts her watch face with a pair of pinched fingers, reading the time by telescoping out her arm. "He has a prognosis report for us."

There is a buzzing sound from somewhere near her chair. She reaches back and pulls out her phone from a sweater pocket. Mrs. Shaw stares dumbly at the screen. "It's a text from Christie. All she wrote is 'sorry.'" She inhales deeply and begins typing a leisurely reply. As she does, Jack's mom muses, "I worry that she's being led astray by her brother. What she…does not…realize, is…" Mrs. S. lifts sad eyes to us. "Is that regrets can be avoided."

"Speaking of regrets," Dawn states slowly. "It's been one week to the day since Jack's doctor said what he did about treatments for kids. Do you think he has any regrets?"

Jackson answers first. "He's sure getting beat up by the blogosphere nutcases, and 'mainstream' media too. Jeesh."

"Well," chimes in Jack. "I for one hope he doesn't have any regrets. Why be sorry for doing the right thing?"

That statement makes Mrs. Shaw inhale sharply for half a second. She does not say anything – in fact, tries to distract our attention by fiddling with her phone – but the fleeting artifact of evidence on her face informs us how she really feels: conflicted.

˚˚˚˚˚

"Hello, hello!" Dr. Kimball strides around the corner with purpose and a folder in his grip; behind him is a beaming Marta. She immediately goes to Jack's side and reaches out to hug him, but she's mindful of his IV. "How's my little chiquito today?"

A quick check split between his mom and me lets us know his answer will be 'tactful,' and not necessarily the truth. "I'm good, Marta. How 'bout you?"

She lays a tender stroke across his forehead; her expression grows round and dreamy. "I'm fine, Jack Shaw. Better now, but sad too, because I'll have to say a proper goodbye to you later this afternoon."

"Oh, you're flying back home?"

"Yes, Jack. My patients need me, but you know I don’t want to leave, right?"

"I know." Jack chuckles. "None of us – especially Edgar – wants you to leave."

My boy's rakish eyebrows lift, and his serpentine grin makes Marta laugh outright.

"No, I guess he doesn't."

"Marta, mi miel, why don’t you take Dawn and Jackson downstairs for breakfast while we have our consult?"

"All right," she says to him, then turns to Jack. "I'll see you in a bit, chiquito." Again her strokes linger on his cheek like she's already delivering her 'goodbye.'

The three of them leave with Dr. Kimball closely following them to the edge of the room. In another moment we hear Jack's hospital door closing and the doctor reappears from behind the blind corner. An all-new set of grave looks etches his face, while he fumbles with whatever is in his folder.

Mrs. Shaw is first to speak. "How are you holding up?"

The oncologist shoots a confused look across her bow. "You mean – "

"I mean, about the statement you delivered last week." A new reserve had arisen from Jack's mom in the very process of saying this.

"The level of…" the doc starts, before getting caught on his own realization of sentiment "…of hate mail is tremendous." He inhales and resolves to be honest. "And the worst comes from organized 'religion' posting vids defaming my character. But, it's all right. I thought about the consequences before I took my stand." He suddenly chuckles a little, a glimmer shining from his blue eyes. "For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale."

Jack and I eye each other with knitted brows; he's obviously quoting something, but what we don't know.

The doctor inhales a breath to bolster his nerve, and starts again in a level-toned professionalism. "Anyway, on to the test results. Jack, they’re not encouraging. Your leukocytes have plateaued at a rather high level – which is good in that it means the cancer has stopped advancing, and the treatments have slowed the growth of new malignant white blood cells. But overall, there's no indication yet that the therapies are making you better, and the longer you are exposed to them, the weaker your general constitution becomes. It's a balancing act, and right now we're even, but your body can only hold out for so long. I'm sorry, but we can only go forward with hope."

Mrs. Shaw sighs. "You're saying the prognosis is not good?"

"I'm saying we're holding steady, but long term, the situation is not very promising."

I ask, "But what about the marrow transplant?"

"Ah, yes. We have the preliminary test results back, and unfortunately, my wife and I, and your brother and you, Lincoln, have bone marrow types too far afield to work for Jack. I'm sorry. But there's still hope for Dawn's sample, and they're concentrating on the three biopsies from Jack's family for final typing of a match. There's some hope on that front, but it too is a matter of timing and luck, so please don’t count on that approach working out."

"Well, it doesn't matter," Jack announces, and his bright tone snaps me and Mrs. S. out of our dark thoughts. "I'll try anything, do anything, go through any trial to pull through."

The doctor's genuine look of admiration is back in place. "No one's giving up on you, Jack Shaw. You will make it; your spirit will pull you through, I know it will."

To my wandering inspection between them, I marvel that the doctor's words seem to have greater effect on Mrs. Shaw than Jack. It's what she needed to hear, I guess.

˚˚˚˚˚

"Hit me!" I tell my bro. He turns over a card, and before I can even see it, the smirk spread on his lips like cake frosting tells me I'm in trouble. He lays it down on top of my Queen of Hearts, and Three of Clubs; it's a Nine of Spades.

"Twenty-two! Tough luck, Mr. Loser Once-Again." He sweeps the played cards up to cut them back into the deck.

"Jackson, don’t gloat. It ain't cute."

"Whatever, dude," he scoffs. "In a game called Twenty-One, twenty-two is a definite bust. I don’t make the rules."

It's noon, and the smell of Jack's lunch floats over to us on the couch. Jackson and I have taken over the three-seater by tucking one leg under us and turning our asses around to sit facing one another. The central seat cushion is our games table. Dawn sits – or rather, half-sits/half-stands – with her butt astride the sofa armrest nearest me. She ignores us, as she has her iPad to keep her company.

While Jackson shuffles with an arrogant tossing of the cards, my attention drifts towards the bed. The food tray is straddling my boyfriend's midsection, and his mother's hand keeps it there; Jack's efforts to push it away are failing. "You have to eat something," his mom pleads in a tone dappled with reason. She reaches for the small cup of applesauce and peels back the foil lid.

Jack tries diversion. "Mom, you look tired. You said you were going to the motel room to sleep after we talked with Dr. Kimball. So, you should stick to your word and go take a break."

Mrs. Shaw ignores his line of entreaty completely to start her own. "You need to eat something, sweetie." She picks up the spoon, holds both it and the container to his eyelevel. "Eat, if not for me…" and she pulls out the big guns "…then for Lincoln."

Almost involuntarily, my boy holds my eyes for a millisecond, but it's enough for him to see me nod.

"Phew! – Not fair… But, ok." He nabs the plastic scoop out of her gently victorious grasp. "Gang up on me, why don’t ya." Next he takes the container. "A person can't – " The rest was cut off as he shoved in the first load of applesauce.

Damn, I love that kid, and now his mother is content.

"Hey, bro?"

I swivel my awareness back to Jackson, forgetting to dim my happy glow. "What?"

"You wanna play, or not?"

"Give me those cards. It's my turn to deal."

Without warning, Dawn inhales a low gasping sound. Jackson and I puzzle at one another for a moment, and then the back of my knuckles go up to touch her between the shoulders. She reacts with a truly horrified look on her face. She also clutches the iPad screen to her chest in a lame attempt to try and hide something.

While Jack and his mom continue to bicker mildly over which course to negotiate next, I tell Dawn softly, "Act casual and come sit between us."

I smack the side of Jackson's foot off the sofa and it goes crashing to the floor. Dawn meanwhile gets up slowly and stretches. Nothing to see here, her body posture announces by not showing a thing worth seeing. In another moment, the girl sits center-cushion and quickly slumps down to draw up her knees by catching her be-socked heels on the front rim of the seat; I note with humor that they are candy-orange 'granny socks' with frilly tops – Jackson's Xmas gift, if memory serves me right.

She rests the tablet screen on her legs so that me and Jackson can slip down to watch it too.

Dawn mumbles, "More anti-Doctor-Kimball zealots," and starts the video. It's of a middle-aged man sitting at a desk and reading from a teleprompter – you know, you can see he's got typewriter eyes: following a line to the end and then zipping back to the start the next. He says, "…That's why we members of our church want him removed by the State Boards of Health in Ohio and California as unfit to treat the little Leukemia Kid anymore…"

"Talk of leadership," I say under my breath. "It's shades of Terri Schiavo all over again."

Dawn nods agreement. "Totally."

By my brother's slight inhaling, it's pretty obvious he doesn’t get the reference.

I tell him plainly, "A few years ago, Republicans in Congress – pushed by 'religious' political pressure – thought they knew better than a certain woman's family and doctors about her healthcare, and agreed on the taxpayers' dime that they should have a right to get between any American and their family and doctors based on undefined slogans of 'moral high ground,' and 'God's law.' Terri Schiavo was the woman dragged into this political/media clusterfuck, and the whole country suffered because of it."

"Damn," he says open-mouthed.

"Yeah," Dawn agrees. "It was a mess, and disgracefully un-American, is what it was."

Jackson suddenly gets it. "So, those same people are now going after Dr. Kimball."

A little ping sounds and an icon on her tablet begins flashing.

"What's that?" I ask.

"Google News Alert," Dawn informs me, tapping the throbbing image. "I have it set for Jack."

Just intoning his name makes the three of us glance over to him. He and his mom are still chatting, and Jack's eating.

An MSNBC page comes up on her screen. "Oh, fuck," she moans.

Jackson's concerned. "What is it?"

"It's that fucking Sheriff Dudley Do-Right with the Pharrell hat he stole."

We watch the video but try to keep the volume low.

McClusky and a posse of elected bigwigs crowd the front steps of the Hamilton County courthouse. Before them is planted a semi-circle of television cameras and reporters with mics in hand ready to launch into pre-programmed questions. Behind this ring of media encampment, a churchly-looking throng mills about with pickets bobbing up and down in their hands. One says: 'Protect the Leukemia Kid from PREDATORS!' Another reads: 'Help Jack Shaw – Arrest Lincoln Oliver.'

My heart sinks; how dare any church lady, or pew man, think ill of me! Fuck, it makes me wonder what they know about Jesus in the first place – apparently nothing at all.

Just as Sheriff Do-Wrong lifts his hands to silence the crowd, I realize all of a sudden that Christie and Hamish are standing directly behind his right shoulder.

My heart starts to pound; I guess the feeling of being unfairly bullied in public will do that. My only real consolation, as slight as it may be, is that Jack's sister looks more than a little queasy.

The sheriff's statement starts –

"Wha'cha watchin'?" Jack calls out.

I'm sure the three of us sitting on the sofa look guilty as sin.

"Um, you know…" Dawn hems and haws. "Nothin'."

Mrs. S. is still holding the spoon over a little plastic dish of lime-green Jell-O; I guess she was trying to get him to eat it.

"You three, bring that iPad to my table tray, and we'll all watch it together.

Dawn hits the pause button.

As we stand, Jack adds triumphantly to his mother, "Can you clear the food away, please?"

Mrs. Shaw sets the wobbly gelatin down with an incensed sigh. However, she picks up the tray and moves it over to the counter.

Dawn props her tablet on Jack's table, warning him, "We haven't watched this yet – there's no telling what kind of mischief is afoot."

Jack smiles, tossing in a snarky verbal pass at his BFF. "Ok, Sheer-Luck Holmes, I get it. Now press play."

We cozy around his bedside, and Dawn reluctantly does as she was told. McClusky reads from a speech, punctuating his words with meaningful pauses and dead-square glimpses into the TV cameras.

"A serious allegation of the statutory rape of a minor has been brought to the prosecutor's office and cannot be ignored, especially in light of the extraordinary circumstances of the victim and his public support. A grand jury was called this morning, and the victim's sister was summoned to testify to what she witnessed with her own two eyes. At this point the investigation continues, and if an indictment – or indictments – on a sex-offender crime or crimes are handed down against the suspected perpetrator, I will personally petition the court in California to begin the extradition process so that the suspect may be hauled back to Ohio to face justice."

Christie looks decidedly weak in the knees, but Hamish physically props her up.

"Turn it off, please," Jack says without evident emotion.

Dawn does, and we all let our eyes come to rest upon him; it's all so much for Jack to take.

Mrs. Shaw breaks the impasse with a tone that is anything but dispassionate. "I'm sick and tired of 'reacting' all the time. I may be worried for all of my children, but action is called for. Dawn, get your tablet."

The girl's hands do just that, but Dawn's eyes stay on Mrs. S. "Um, ok. But why?"

"Because – it's time to make a statement. If I come out with my full support for Dr. Kimball and Lincoln, do you think people – reporters – will notice it when we post it on Jack's recovery website?"

"Oh, yes," Dawn says wide-eyed. "Within the hour it will be on CNN, NBC, all over Twitter. It will be on all of them, and everywhere, instantly."

"Then, let’s do it." To my surprise, Jack's mother comes over to me and grabs my hand. There is a lock-grip support in this encouragement that is disorientating; I've never seen it from a parent before.

"Dawn, please take this down for us:

"Both Jack and I have full faith and trust in Doctor Kimball, and in all of the doctors and staff of The Stanford Medical Center. We have also accepted, God forbid, that if Jack does not make it, everyone involved in his healthcare decisions and treatments will have done the very best for him that was humanly possible.

"And if he doesn't make it, no one will be more affected and devastated than his partner, Lincoln Oliver. He and Jack have committed to one another, and their love will transcend trials and tests. Lincoln is a stand-up guy, a wonderful young man, and Jack and I will stand behind him no matter what, until this misunderstanding is cleared up and his good name restored.

"Jack and I call upon the media to be reasonable at this time concerning these personal tribulations, while Jack is now forced to fight for both his life and the freedom and reputation of the young man he loves with all of his heart."

Mrs. Shaw sighs, and looks to Jack for approval. Her son smiles at her with deep, deep admiration, and nods resolutely.

"Dawn," she says. "Sign it: 'Jack Shaw and his mother.'"