The Secret Journal of Brett Colton

by Kay Lynn Mangum

  “Kathy, honey—if you want to—talk—”

  I shook my head slowly before I looked up at Mom.

  Mom nodded at me sadly. “Your father told me not to push, so I won’t. But you know if you need someone—”

  “I know where I can find you, so I’ll let you know.”

  Mom nodded once more at me before quietly closing the door behind her.

  I frowned at the envelope in my hands. It was heavy, obviously filled with more than just a single sheet of paper. I couldn’t stop looking at the name “Kitty” suspiciously. Who would have called me that? After staring at it forever, I finally ripped it open. How else was I supposed to solve this mystery?

  I pulled out several sheets of blank, unlined paper folded tightly together and found a key taped in the center. I gingerly removed the tape and examined the key’s small silverness before I slipped out the single sheet of faded white lined paper and began to read.

  Dear Kitty,

  Ever since the day you figured out how to smile, you’ve saved your biggest smile for me. Knowing that, it’s impossible to believe you’ll never remember me. You see, I’m real sick, and I know I’m not going to be here much longer, so I won’t see my beautiful baby sister grow up.

  Two years ago, right before you were born, I found out I have leukemia. The fact made me want to give up and die. And then you came along, and the first time I held you and looked into those blue eyes of yours, I knew I had a reason to live.

  We had a great start. I’ve spent more time with you these past amazing two years than anyone else. I know I wouldn’t have had them if it wasn’t for you. I’ve fought hard, but I know my time is short. It’s been incredibly hard to say good-bye to everyone, but when it comes to you, I want you to know I’m not going to leave you. Not a chance! You helped me through the roughest two years of my life, so I’ve done something that I hope will help you as much as you’ve helped me. It’s in the bottom of my gray strongbox. Your name’s on it.

  I love you,

  Brett

  I couldn’t move. My heart had either stopped or was pounding too fast to count any of the beats. I read the letter through a couple more times in a daze. This couldn’t be real.

  I knew that most of Brett’s things had been removed or gotten rid of a long time ago, which I’d always thought was strange, knowing how crazy my family was about him. I’d seen the box the letter referred to many times in our basement on the floor of the storage closet that also held our Christmas decorations. I’d never known the box was Brett’s, though. I wasn’t sure if Alex or Sam knew, either. To my knowledge, it’d never been opened.

  I stared at the key in my palm. And all along you were waiting for me. Amazing.

  Although it was late and I knew I should wait to open the box in the morning, I tiptoed downstairs to the storage closet. The box was small and a shiny gray. Even after all this time. After taking a deep breath, I carefully slipped the key into the lock and slowly opened the lid.

  At first glance, I couldn’t help feeling disappointed, because there were only a few things inside. A white football jersey with a big maroon number nine was neatly folded with a mass of get-well cards and letters and a couple of old videotapes on top. And underneath all of that—my heart pounded when I saw a package covered with faded wrapping paper with lots of once-colorful balloons. The package was addressed to “Kitty—for her sixteenth birthday. With love, Brett.”

  My hands trembled as I carefully locked the gray box. I quietly sneaked back to my room and then sat on my bed to stare at the package Brett had left for me. Questions oozed in circles in my brain. Why the secrecy? Why now, on my sixteenth birthday? Why not sooner? Why hadn’t anyone told me anything? Why, why . . . ? Of course, none of my questions could be answered unless I opened the package. So I did.

  I ripped off the paper almost frantically and carefully lifted the lid of the white box inside. A thick, dark maroon hardback book lay nestled in white tissue paper. I stared at it for I don’t know how long before carefully, tentatively, opening the front cover.

  The inside of the cover held more of the unfamiliar handwriting. All of the words were in small bold, capital letters, just like the words in the letter from Brett. I stared in disbelief at the two words, “Dear Kitty,” before moving my eyes to read the inscription:

  Although it seems strange to be saying this right now—Happy Sweet Sixteen. Someone turning sixteen needs a special surprise. I hope this was for you.

  Love forever,

  Brett

  My hands trembled again as I turned the blank page opposite the cover and slowly read the title page: “This is the journal of Brett Bartholomew Colton.”

  ~

  October 21

  Dr. Grenville gave me this journal after the shock of finding out what’s wrong with me had worn off a little. He thinks keeping a journal’s a good way to chart progress and will be therapeutic for me. At the time, I thought he was crazy. I didn’t want to believe it, or have to live with it, much less write about it. But then, something happened to change my mind.

  About five days ago, Mom went into the hospital because she was finally going to have the baby. I knew before anyone else in the family did—minus Dad—because I was there, too. I’d been in the hospital going through my first real chemotherapy treatment course—something I wouldn’t wish on anybody. I was in the middle of one of my “discussions” with my shrink, who’s been trying to help me deal with the fact that my body’s messed up and that trying to off myself won’t solve anything.

  When I heard the baby was a girl, I was glad. Things would be even in the family now—two boys and two girls. Dad wheeled her up to my room so I could hold her. I don’t know what shocked me more—the fact that Dad pulled strings and brought my new sister up to show me, or the fact that it was Dad who did it. Or maybe what shocked me most was his excitement. Very un-Dad-like. If I wasn’t already flat on my back, the combo would’ve knocked me over easy. Usually nothing can make Dad crack a smile or squeeze out a tear.

  The second Dad put her in my arms, I felt—something. There aren’t any words to describe it, but it was powerful. I could feel that I knew her, and even crazier, that she knew me. When I looked into her little face and she gripped my finger, I knew—I knew that here was something that would make it all bearable.

  Mom and Dad named her Kathryn Anne.

  October 22

  Now that my first grueling course of treatment is over and I’m home again and Kathryn Anne is finally home, too, from now on, I’ve decided that even though keeping a sickness/ progress journal is probably a great idea, I need to do something different with my book. Something that I hope will be worth reading. So from now on, this journal is for my baby sister.

  Dear Kathryn Anne:

  When Dr. Grenville first told me what was wrong with me, I was stunned. I wouldn’t believe it—I couldn’t let myself believe it. Stuff like this doesn’t happen when you’re only fifteen years old, for crying out loud! I’m only a sophomore, but I’m the number one quarterback on our high school’s Varsity football team. And Alex—that’s your other big brother—he’s on the team, too. He’s a split end, which means I throw the football to him a lot and pray he can take it to the goal posts. We’ve been throwing a football together practically all of our lives. When we were in Little League football, I met a kid named Kelly Baxter. We weren’t in the same elementary school, but we met up again in junior high, and now we’re in high school, still throwing the old pigskin around together and with Alex every chance we get. Kelly’s a center, which means he’s the guy whose position is right in front of mine on the field. He’s the one who holds onto the football while I say, “Hut one, hut two.”

  A lot of times after football practice last summer and early this fall, I felt pretty tired, but everybody gets tired after doing something like playing football. Sometimes my joints would hurt, especially in my knees, so I’d wrap them tight. Our team was kicking you know what, and nothing else matter
ed. After every game, though, I’d get a nosebleed, and after a while, every practice session ended with one, too. Coach was worried and told me to see a doctor, so Mom took me to see our family doctor, Dr. Stanford. Dr. Stanford acted really serious when I told him what had been going on with me, so he took some blood samples and said he’d call back with the results.

  In the meantime, I had to get ready for the next big game. Our team hadn’t lost any of the preseason games, or our first game since school started. In fact, we had better than just a good chance of winning state championship this year. The only thing that could make the team even better would be if Kelly were on the Varsity team, too, instead of Junior Varsity.

  Two days later was the night of our next game. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that night. Everyone was hyped. Before halftime I got a nosebleed, so our backup quarterback had to go in. I got the bleeding under control, so after about ten minutes, Coach let me back in the game. My knees hurt, but my adrenaline was pumping, so it was easy to ignore the pain. Nothing mattered to me but winning.

  Then, the weird stuff started happening.

  I’d been feeling a little tired since the beginning of the second quarter, but now I felt weak. Alex kept coming up to me between plays saying, “Are you okay, bud?” because I couldn’t make the football reach him. Even my elbows hurt. And then, the fateful pass occurred. My knees hurt so bad I couldn’t move my legs without feeling pain. After the snap, I jumped back a few steps—I saw Alex open and threw the ball as hard as I could, and after I let go of the ball, my knees couldn’t take anymore, and I collapsed in a heap on the field. I tried to stand up, but my legs crumbled again. My knees ached and burned so bad I was afraid I was going to start bawling. And then, whistles were blowing and Coach and Alex were there with some of the guys on the team. Now, I’m not that big and neither is Alex, but Alex carried me most of the way to the bench where Mom and Dad now were, looking as freaked out as I felt, and faster than you can say “game over,” I was at the hospital.

  Dr. Stanford grabbed Dr. Grenville, an oncologist, who took a sample of my bone marrow. Definitely one of the worst experiences I’ve ever had to go through, but the blood sample taken earlier was clear. I’ll never forget his words or the pained, sad look on his face.

  “Son, I’m so sorry. You have leukemia.”

  ~

  October 23

  Dear Kitty,

  I’ve christened you with the new name of “Kitty” for two reasons: First, Kathryn Anne is beautiful but pretty long; and second, while I was holding you today, I couldn’t help thinking about cuddly things and “Kitty” seemed perfect, so that’s the only name that comes to my head when I think of you now!

  Even though it’s not January yet, I’ve been making New Year’s resolutions, because right now, both of us are at a starting point. I’ve known why I was sick for more than six weeks. At first, I tried to deny what was happening and pretend I was okay, but my first day of chemo and the immediate puking thereafter brought an end to that. So I tried getting angry and taking it out on everyone and everything around me, but making everyone else feel bad didn’t make me feel better, and breaking stuff didn’t, either (especially when it was my own stuff!), because no matter what I did or said, the sickness was still there. So then I tried feeling sorry for myself, but all that resulted in was my trying to do something stupid to myself, which resulted in lots of fun-filled visits with my shrink.

  New years mean new hope, and seeing brand-new you has given me new hope. When everything first happened, my only goal was to be strong enough to play in more football games. But now, I have another reason—the best reason—to do everything I have to do to get better—and that would be you, Kitty! To start with, I want to be around to see you reach your first birthday. And I want to get into remission by Christmas. In the meantime, I want to show major improvement by next week for my next trip to Dr. Grenville, and see you learn to hold your head up by yourself . . .

  October 25

  Dear Kitty,

  I wish the weather would clear up. I’m sick of being cooped up in the house all day. I had to start chemo within hours of being diagnosed, but I’m getting a break from treatments to see how my course of chemo’s going to do, so it’s nice not to be constantly puking anymore. Now that I’m done with the course, I don’t have to stay in the hospital more than a few days at a time, so it’s great to be back in my own bed and able to see you again. At least I haven’t lost any of my hair yet. Dr. Grenville says I’m too stubborn to lose it. Plus, he’s promised me that if the drug combo he’s got me on shows signs of working, he’s going to keep me in the hospital as little as possible.

  The worst thing about chemo is that I’m getting out of shape fast. I can’t hold food down, so nothing’s sticking to me. I have to get better so I can get back into shape. Even though I haven’t been able to play, the team’s winning anyway. I can’t decide if I like that fact or not. I only know that I have to get strong enough to play again next year. For the whole season this time. And I want you to be there to see me play. Even though I know you’ll be too little to remember anything, just to be playing and to have you there—that would be amazing!

  I can’t believe I’m admitting this, but I miss school. I even miss going to the classes I hate! If I didn’t feel so nauseated all the time, I think Dr. Grenville and Mom and Dad would let me go. I really need to get out of the house. I love Mom, but she’s making me crazy. I feel like she’s taking over my life, she’s so overprotective sometimes. Whenever I want to blow up at her for treating me as if I’m either two or ninety-two, I think of that night after my last football game, after the trip to the hospital, and I remember looking into the rearview mirror from where I was sitting in the backseat and seeing tears streaming down her face. Dad just stared ahead and drove, but Mom was crying. That shook me up, because Mom is pretty strong . . .

  November 15

  Dear Kitty,

  Today’s been a good day. I haven’t felt too sick at all. I even listened to the Beatles on my old record player. The Rubber Soul album, to be exact. One of my favorites. It’s the perfect album for any mood—good, bad, or ugly. I haven’t put it on since before I found out I’m sick. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed it until the first song started to play. And you—wow, the way you reacted to it made me feel terrible for not introducing you to the Beatles sooner! You loved it almost more than me, and that’s saying something!

  And guess what else, Kitty? I have a tutor now. His name’s Matt, and I like him. He’s about 21 or so, and he’s really smart. He was nervous at first to be tutoring a sick kid like me, but we’ve been having a good time ever since his second visit. His first visit, he wouldn’t stop smiling and trying to act like it was perfectly normal to be tutoring a sick kid, but he sat tense and stiff in his chair, with his eyes bugging out from all the smiling, and he had this nervous cough thing going on. It had to come to a stop, so the second time he came, I snuck a whoopee cushion under his chair cushion. Only because something had to be done to loosen him up. The look on his face after he sat down almost made my liver erupt, I was laughing so hard. So we get along fine now. Sam always makes him treats and brings them into my room herself, so of course she has to stay and talk for a while.

  I just realized I haven’t written anything about Sam yet, have I? Well, Sam’s the oldest. Every guy in school wants to go out with her, and believe me, she knows it! She thinks she’s pretty special. She can come off as quite a snob, so I’ve had to pull a few whoopee cushions on her to bring her back to earth and all of us peons. For all that, though, she really can be human.

  And Alex—your other big brother. He’s not like Sam, but he’s not like me, either. He’s more on the serious side, so I know I’ve accomplished something if I can get him to laugh really hard. He’s 16 going on 42. It’s really nauseating, but that’s just Alex.

  And then there’s Kelly. He’s not as crazy and funny as me (well, who is?!), but he’s not overly serious like Alex.
There’s something else about him, though—I can’t explain it. This sounds really weird, but I was practically drawn to him when we met up again in junior high. Maybe not so much him but something about him—something he has that I don’t. He’s another reason I’ve got to be well enough to play football next year. He’ll definitely make the Varsity team, and I want to be on it with both him and Alex. The three of us are going to have the greatest time together. When I first told Kelly about my sickness, he wasn’t that surprised. He said he figured something had to be wrong with me from watching me in practice and at school. He said he’s glad to know my “problem” isn’t a big mystery anymore, so I can start doing something about it. Just like everyone else, Kelly doesn’t want to admit that there isn’t a cure for leukemia yet, even though he looks at me different now. Like he’s afraid to let himself get too attached to me but also like he doesn’t want to let go. Everyone in our family has the same look. Except for you, Kitty. You spit up and puke on me as much as you do on everyone else . . .

  November 18

  Dear Kitty,

  The team’s been winning all of its games, but just barely. I wish I could be playing instead of lounging around the house. I wish there was something I could do to just stop what’s going on inside of me. I try to think it all away and concentrate on making all of the bad cells die. I think if I could just get a hold of these cells and crush them, I would get better for good.

  I’m having bad dreams at night—dreams that always end with Dr. Grenville saying to me, “I’m sorry, son. You have leukemia.” Last night I had a dream I was running down a long hallway. At the end of it was a door, and when my hand reached for the doorknob and turned it, Dr. Grenville was standing there, saying his wornout phrase to me again. I woke up in a cold sweat, and then I heard someone crying. The noises were so small and pitiful I knew they had to be coming from you. I snuck into Mom and Dad’s room and picked you up and held you carefully in one arm and dragged your bassinet into my room with the other. You fell back to sleep with my finger held tightly in your fist.