THE DRIVE TO THE HOSPITAL seemed interminable. My stomach felt queasy. I guessed from a combination of not knowing what I would find when I got to my destination and whatever the hell had happened back at the comic shop. Nothing like that had ever happened to me before when I met a guy. It felt almost like jumper cables touching a car battery, real, tangible, alive. For minutes after I shook David’s hand, my arm ached, and I felt a sense of…loss. But that couldn’t be right, could it?
It had been years since I had been on that side of town. Relying solely on my GPS, I finally made it to the hospital parking lot. Grabbing the comic shop bag from the passenger seat, I unfolded myself from the truck and jogged to the main entrance.
“Lucas Duncan?” I said to the nurse seated at the receptionist’s desk.
“Two nineteen. Elevator to the second floor, and to the left.”
I thanked her and made my way up the elevator. Scanning the room numbers, evens on the right, odds on the left, I finally found Lucas’s.
Ryan was in the room, seated in a chair pulled close to the bed, head in hands, shoulders slumped forward. “Ry?”
Ryan turned to me, eyes red rimmed and face looking haggard. He stood and said, “Hey, Adam. I’m glad you’re here.”
Without thought, I took Ryan in my arms, and the other man seemed to crumble. With his head against my neck, he sobbed while I silently held him. Whatever the problem was, it was serious. I drew on the strength I had used when we were kids, the same strength I used on missions. My brother needed me to be strong, and I would not let him down.
Once Ryan was calm, I asked, “Where’s Lucas? Where’s Sarah?”
Sitting back in the bedside chair, Ryan said, “She’s in Cabo San Lucas with Marty. The orderlies took Lucas for more tests.”
I bristled at the name of the man that Ryan’s wife had left him for. “Tests? What happened? All you said on the phone was that Lucas had been in an accident and was here.”
“Lucas had been coughing for about week, but I didn’t think anything about it. Just a typical cold. Nothing major. He just couldn’t shake it. Then he started complaining about headaches, so I’d give him an ibuprofen and they’d go away.
“Yesterday morning, he was getting ready for school. I was in the kitchen pouring coffee for work. I heard him yell for me, then a thump, like he had fallen. I ran to the bathroom and…found him on the floor passed out. Blood everywhere.”
I took this all in. I had been out of town on a construction job when Ryan called. He hadn’t told me any of this, only that Lucas was in the hospital and could use a visit. Minimizing the problem for my sake wasn’t surprising. That was a trait inherited from our mother. Never wanting to cause worry or concern while at the same time taking on everyone else’s.
I went around to the front of Ryan, and sat on the empty bed.
Grasping my brother’s shoulder lightly, I whispered, “Ry, what else?”
Pausing a moment to collect his thoughts, Ryan looked down at the floor and said, “He hit his head on the countertop when he fell. The doctors think he had a seizure and are running tests to find out why.” Pain choked Ryan’s words, and I was desperate to do anything, say anything, to take that pain away. That old protective instinct I had toward Ryan when we were kids kicked in. But I was at a loss as to what I could do. This wasn’t some playground bully picking on my little brother. This was something unnamed. Without knowing what we were fighting, I didn’t know how to fight.
Gently, I placed my index finger under my brother’s chin. “Ry, look at me.”
Ryan slowly lifted his head.
“Let the doctors run their tests. They’ll know how we can help the best.” Then, as an afterthought, I added, “I’m not going anywhere. Lean on me.”
And he did, leaning his forehead against my shoulder, and sobs wracking his chest. I held him because, at the moment, that was the only thing I could do. I couldn’t imagine the terror, the feeling of helplessness my brother was feeling. If my own was off the charts, my brother’s had to be tenfold.
Once he calmed himself, Ryan slipped free from my hold. He sheepishly ran his hands over his eyes and said, “Thanks.”
“You’re my brother. He’s my nephew. No thanks are necessary.”
We sat in silence after that. I know he was lost in his own head. He did that a lot when we were kids, trying to figure out why the other kids bullied him for being smart and well read. I, on the other hand, was going stir crazy. I needed to do something, but I had no idea what.
I allowed my mind to wander, and, for some reason, it went to David. I replayed our interactions in my head and realized a few things. I had noticed the long-sleeved shirt, and found it odd that he would wear something like that in the August heat. But I also began to realize that he never looked me directly in the eye, almost like he was afraid that, by doing so, something bad would happen, like he would incur some unknown wrath.
He had become excited when talking about the book he suggested, which reminded me of Ryan as a kid, how excited he got when a new one of his favorite comics hit the shelves, or when a new superhero movie came out. But David also seemed nervous, like he didn’t interact often with people, which I found that odd. He worked in retail after all, even if it was only at a comic shop.
Why was I even thinking about him in the first place? I didn’t know the man. We’d only talked for a couple of minutes. I mean, sure he was cute, but there was something else, something almost vulnerable about him. Almost too vulnerable.
“Special delivery.” Two orderlies came into the room, pushing Lucas seated in a wheelchair.
An involuntary gasp escaped. His head was bandaged, probably where he had hit it on the bathroom sink the day before. He looked pale and weak, lips dry, and eyes half-lidded.
Ryan and I jumped up immediately. Each orderly took position on either side of Lucas and gently lifted him from the chair by his elbows and led him to the bed. The moment his head brushed the pillow, he let out a soft sigh and closed his eyes.
Ryan pulled one of the orderlies to the side, a young guy, probably mid-twenties with bushy hair and bushier eyebrows, while the other took the wheelchair from the room. “Do they know anything yet?” Ryan asked.
“I’m not sure. The doctor wanted us to let you know he’d be in shortly to talk to you,” the orderly said.
Ryan’s shoulders visibly sagged. I walked around behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder, willing myself to infuse him with as much strength as possible. My gut was telling me that whatever was going on, it wasn’t good, and he’d need as much strength as possible.
Once the orderlies left, Ryan sat next to Lucas on the bed while I took up residence in the chair. Ryan’s eyes were clouded, and I could tell he was doing everything in his power to hold himself together. Tenderly, he brushed strands of hair away from Lucas’s face. “He’s going to be alright, right?”
I wasn’t sure if the question was directed at me or if it was rhetorical, so I didn’t answer.
Ryan fell silent again, simply brushing his fingers across Lucas’s forehead.
Why is it taking so long? Shouldn’t they know something by now? Where the hell was the doctor?
As if the mere thought conjured the man, a doctor came in. Ryan jumped from the bed, and the doctor extended his hand. “Mr. Duncan, I’m Doctor Trundell.”
“What’s wrong with my son?”
I had to give Ryan props. Right to the point.
“Come with me,” the doctor said, and turned to leave the room. Ryan began to follow, stopped at the door and turned to me. The expression on his face told me I needed to be with him.
Casting one last glance back at my nephew, I followed Ryan and the doctor from the room.
Doctor Trundell led us down the hall to one of the small family waiting rooms that were set up throughout the hospital. The rooms attempted to create a homier atmosphere, but they failed miserably.
“Please, take a seat,” Trundell said after closing the door.
Ryan sat on the couch and I sat next to him. While Trundell took the chair across from my brother, I studied the man. Late fifties, hair almost white, eyes ice blue. He looked like a man who had an air of indifference about him. He may know what he was doing, but he was detached from his work. I supposed, having been in similar situations, that a certain amount of detachment was necessary or you would go crazy. This was my family, though. The only family I had left. Detachment wasn’t an option for me.
“We’ve run a series of tests, including full panel blood work-up,” Trundell began. Then he paused and inhaled deeply. “There’s no easy way to say this. Your son has leukemia.”
The air left Ryan’s body in a visible huff, and he sagged. I wrapped my arm around him and pulled him to me, the word running through my head, over and over.
Leukemia.