by J. Saman
My family is originally from Philadelphia, and I was treated at the children’s hospital there. I was diagnosed with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia or ALL when I was five. I was given chemo and went into remission after two rounds. At fifteen, it came back, and that time the chemo wasn’t as effective. Eventually, Ryan ended up donating bone marrow, and I had a stem cell transplant that finally kicked the leukemia’s ass into remission. I’ve been there ever since.
At this point, I’m considered fully cured.
But every six months, I still come in for blood work for the simple reason that I’ve had a couple of scares. Once when I was in college and once when I was in law school. Apparently, stress does funky things to my body.
But I’m not one to back down from something simply because there is risk involved. Many of the kids I knew who had leukemia and survived see the world differently than I do. They’re all about stopping to smell the roses, living life to its fullest, carpe diem and all that shit.
I’m not saying there is anything wrong with that mentality. That’s just not inherently who I am. I survived fucking leukemia twice. I like to think that if I can do that, I can pretty much do anything I set my mind to.
Which brings me back to Dr. Winters and his not-so-friendly bedside manner. He’s ignoring me, scouring over what I assume to be the blood work that I had done three days ago.
“You have a fever,” he deadpans. I have no idea if he’s surprised or bothered, or fucking ecstatic.
“Yeah, the nurse told me. 100.8 or something. I feel fine. Maybe a little run down, but I haven’t had much sleep lately. I just wrapped up a big case.” I get another small head nod for that, but his eyes are fixed on his computer, so I don’t exactly know if he heard what I said or not.
“When did you have this blood work done?”
“Monday.”
I don’t like this. Something about the way he’s studying that computer screen as if it’s lying to him makes me uneasy. My heart begins to beat a little faster and my hands turn clammy, though I avoid wiping them on the gown I’m wearing.
Never let them see you sweat.
“Well,” he says, finally pulling his face away from his screen and rolling back on the stool so that his entire body is facing me. He pushes the bridge of his glasses up his nose. “Your CBC is concerning.”
I stare at him. I hate it when doctors speak to you in vague generalities.
“And that means?” I lean forward, widening my eyes, hoping he’ll elaborate on this one. The man is brilliant and top in his field, but he holds his cards a bit too close to his chest for my liking.
“It means that you have a significantly elevated leukocyte count.” Seriously? What the fuck now? “You’re also anemic and borderline thrombocytopenic.”
“Okay,” I draw out the word, completely baffled.
“You have a fever, Kyle, and this blood work could mean nothing more than an infection. Or not. You look pretty healthy, other than being a little on the pale side.”
He crosses his arms over his broad chest, and I can’t do anything other than stare at him. I know what’s coming. I know what he’s saying. And none of it is good.
“That said, I’d like to admit you to the hospital to run some tests including blood cultures and a bone marrow biopsy.” Yup. He thinks it’s back. Fuck! My stomach rolls as that familiar twinge of fear creeps its way up my spine. “Have you had any unusual bleeding? Weight loss? Night sweats?”
I think on this. I’ve lost some weight. But that’s not exactly uncommon when I’m working on a big case like the one I just finished this morning. Long hours mixed with an inconsistent diet lends itself to that.
“No,” I answer instead of admitting to that. I don’t know why, but for some reason my pride is holding on to that one. Maybe because I don’t want him to give me the look. The one that says I’m a moron for not taking better care of myself.
“I’ll just make a few phone calls and see about getting you a bed.”
“No,” I say firmly, sitting up straight and trying for some fucking dignity, despite the fact that I’m sitting on this hard plastic table, paper crinkling under my ass, and only wearing this stupid paper gown. “I can’t. I have a pretrial hearing tomorrow.”
He sighs out long and hard. We’ve played this particular game before, and he’s not used to people refusing when it comes to their health as easily and frequently as I do.
“Kyle–”
“Can’t we do this outpatient?”
“No. We can’t. Your blood work is concerning. You have a fever. Something is going on, and if I send you home, things could get worse. I’m not risking you going into septic shock. I want stat labs, and we’ll probably put you on IV antibiotics. Make the call and have someone fill in.”
Shit.
2
Kyle
* * *
When I was six, I used to love spending time in the hospital. That may seem like an odd thing to say, but it’s true. I played video games, had my own television, a DVD player, and could pick out whatever movies I wanted to watch. We had an art room, a music space, and terrorizing the nurses and doctors became our sport.
The other kids were my family.
People who understood what I was going through in a way my regular family never could.
Kids with cancer spend a lot of time living in the hospital. We’re susceptible to infections, require frequent doses of chemo, and necessitate a lot of procedures. The hospital becomes our home away from home. And in a children’s hospital, they go above and beyond to try and make it fun for us, despite our looming, life-threatening illnesses.
But now, at twenty-seven, the idea of spending five minutes, let alone an overnight, in the hospital is abhorrent.
For one, they smell bad.
Like chemical cleaners and people. And fucking disease.
You can never get a straight answer about anything, and time moves at a snail’s pace. Not to mention I always feel freaking nasty being in these beds that a million other people have slept in and done God knows what else in.
But that’s exactly where I find myself, lying in one of those beds, with nothing but a thin white blanket and a johnnie to cover me. Dr. Winters directly admitted me, so at least I was able to bypass the emergency department, and they have Wi-Fi, so I can get some work done even if I can’t be in court.
The reality is that I’m in a crap mood.
The reality is that I’m angry and frustrated, and so very tired of dealing with doctors and needles and medical runaround. I’m tired of having this threat always lingering over me. My arm is hooked up to an IV, pumping fluids, as well as antibiotics, into me. Three different doctors have poked and prodded me so far, and have all asked me the same set of questions.
Oh, and they took more blood than I thought was humanly possible to give without dying.
Maybe my cancer-surviving friends who spend their lives floating along aimlessly have it all figured out. Maybe I’m the sucker in this scenario for working myself to the point where my body shuts down on me. It’s not exactly like I love getting murderers, rapists, and goddamn mob bosses off for their crimes.
I just happen to love the law.
And the paycheck. That’s not so bad either.
“You’re next on the list,” the thirty-something nurse in her bright pink scrubs says from the threshold of my door. At least I’m in a private room. “Shouldn’t be too much longer now.”
I smile at her, enjoying the way her cheeks blush every time I do. She’s pretty, but a little old for me. Not to mention married. “Thanks, Tammy.”
She lets out a breathy sigh, lingering for a moment longer than necessary before she spins around and bounces away. My eyes scroll back to my laptop, just as my phone vibrates with a call.
Work. Crap.
“This is Kyle,” I answer, my eyes scanning to the open door to make sure no one is within hearing range.
“Hi, Kyle, it’s Nancy,” my assistant says in her chipp
er tone. “Thought you’d like to know that the pretrial hearing went well and that Judge Renbrooke says we can expect a ruling by early next week.”
“Great,” I sigh, a bit relieved. “That’s good to hear.”
“It is. Also, your brother has called the office twice today asking for you to return his calls.”
He’s called my cell phone twice since I’ve been here too. And he’s also called a bunch of times in the last few weeks, but I’ve missed him every time I tried to call back. Life’s been busy for both of us, I guess. But today, I was reluctant to answer because I don’t exactly relish the thought of telling him where I am and why I’m here.
“Okay, thanks. I’ll give him a call.”
“Great. Hope you feel better and I’ll have my phone with me this weekend if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Nancy. Have a nice weekend.”
I hang up before she can say anything further. Staring at my phone, I deliberate my next move. Do I call Ryan back? Four calls in one day is not like him. Do I tell him where I am or lie like I did to my office? They think I’m home with the stomach flu. No one questioned me because I’ve never missed a day of work.
Shifting my position in the bed, I lie back against the scratchy pillow before swiping my finger across the screen, finding his number and pressing the button.
It rings three times before his voicemail picks up. I hang up before I can leave a message and try his office. On the first ring, the phone picks up and the sexy, raspy voice I’ve grown to love, greets me.
“Ryan Grant’s office, Claire speaking.”
I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face as I picture the beautiful redhead sitting at a desk, answering calls and typing away. In my fantasy, she’s wearing librarian glasses and her hair is piled on top of her head, secured with a pencil, and she’s showing an incredible amount of cleavage. And then I feel like a total chauvinistic pig for picturing her like that. I shake away my salacious thoughts.
“You sound very professional,” I tease. Silence. “It’s Kyle,” I add, wondering if I really need to tell her that.
“I know who you are, loser, but you don’t normally call to chat on the main line,” she says. “How’s it going?”
“Not bad. You?”
“Pretty terrific now that I’m talking to you.” Claire says that with no hesitation or even a hint of sarcasm. She absolutely means it. I love that about her. “You trying to reach the boss man or is this a friendly midday call because you miss me?”
“I do miss you, cupcake.” Damn, I meant to say that in a friendly light way, but my voice came out sounding sad and desperate. I clear my throat. “Is the big guy around? The stupid bastard called me four times today. Everything okay?”
“Ha!” she laughs out. “That sappy noodle. Yes, everything is peachy keen. Big doings, Kyle, my friend. Big doings,” she says with a smile in her voice. “I’ll let him be the one to drop the bomb, though. He’s in his office in a meeting, but he’d shit an elephant if I didn’t tell him you were on the phone, so hold tight.”
“Right. Thanks, babe.” Why does just hearing her voice make me smile when I’m in absolutely no mood to do so?
“You got it, stud.”
The line goes silent for about two minutes and then, “Kyle. About time, asshole,” Ryan’s deep voice booms through the phone.
I roll my eyes, knowing he can’t see me. “What’s with all the calls, man?”
“Your office said you were home sick, you okay?”
Damn it! Fucking Nancy. I didn’t want to tell him about this, and I still don’t have to, but Ryan is perceptive as hell and if he even so much as detects a hint of a lie in my voice, he’ll find me and find out why I’m here. Even though I can lie to pretty much anyone when needed, I can’t lie to him.
“Sick is a bit of an overstatement.”
Yeah, I’m stalling.
“What’s up, Kyle?”
I sigh, running a hand through my hair before tilting my chin up to the ceiling, staring at the square tiles. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Awesome. Then tell me.”
“Fine, but you cannot mention anything to Claire.”
“You’re kidding me with that, right? First of all, I wouldn’t. Second of all . . . well, never mind, I don’t think I want to know. Just out with it.”
“My CBC is messed up and I have a fever. They’re running some tests.” My voice shakes ever so slightly on the word tests. I can stand in front of a jury and convince them of anything I want. I can go toe-to-toe with some of the most dangerous criminals and not even blink or break a sweat.
But telling my brother that I may have leukemia again terrifies the shit out of me.
Ryan blows out a long breath into the phone, the sound crackling through the receiver. “Fuck.”
“It’s not as bad as you think. It’s just a biopsy.”
“Do you want me to come?”
“No.” I shake my head, but grin slightly at the offer. My brother hates flying. Hates it. He was in a plane crash several years back and ever since, he won’t fly unless it’s absolutely necessary. In fact, he drove across the country from Philadelphia to Seattle when he moved out there in order to avoid it. That’s how he and his wife, Kate, got together. “Thanks, though.”
“When will you know the results?”
I shrug, running a hand through my hair, staring up at the water stained drop ceiling. “Don’t know. Soon, I assume. They haven’t even done the biopsy yet.”
“Damn it, Kyle. I hate this. I hate you being there and me being here and feeling so fucking helpless. I’m going to have Katie get me something, and I’ll be on the next flight.”
“No, you’re not. I’m fine, dickface, and by the time your drugged-up ass landed in New York, I’ll have been discharged.”
Another heavy sigh. “Did you call Mom and Dad?”
I snort out a derisive laugh. “What do you think?”
“I think you need to get your ass better, because you’re going to be an uncle.”
My head snaps up and my eyes widen as a huge smile spreads my lips for the second time in five minutes. “You’re shitting me?”
“Nope. Katie’s about ten weeks along. I would have told you sooner, but it’s not the sort of thing you tell people via text. And clearly, we couldn’t tell anyone else until I told you because Claire has a big mouth and would have spilled that one. But Katie couldn’t wait any longer and told her this morning, so I’ve been phone-stalking your ass since.”
“Jesus, man. That’s fucking awesome. You’re going to be a father? Holy shit,” I laugh the words. “God help you if it’s a girl.”
Ryan laughs too. “I know. I told Katie that it has to be a boy; otherwise, I’ll be walking around with a shotgun strapped to my back, and will install bars on the windows and locks on every door.”
“Congratulations, brother. I’m so happy for both of you.” I really can’t stop my smile. “This made my whole day. I’ll have to call my sister-in-law tonight.”
“She’ll be pissed if you don’t, and trust me, I can already tell how emotional Katie is going to be during this pregnancy. I swear she cried during a fabric softener commercial last night, though she swore she just had something in her eye.”
I laugh so hard my side hurts. God, I miss them.
“I love that woman. Too bad she met you before she met me.”
“Fucker,” he growls, but I can hear the smile in his voice.
“You’re lucky blondes aren’t really my thing.” Just redheads. Shit, where did that come from?
“You sure I can’t come? Even just to spend the weekend with you? You’re going to need some help once you get home.”
My hand reflexively goes up to my chest, trying to rub away the sudden tightness. “I’ll be fine. I live in New York. Everything I need can be delivered to my apartment. Besides, your wife is pregnant. No way you’re leaving her.”
We’re both silent for a beat before I hear h
im breathe into the phone.
He doesn’t like this.
He cannot tolerate not having control of a situation, or not being able to help me out.
Ryan is the quintessential overprotective big brother. Maybe it’s the age difference or the fact that he donated his blood and stems cells when I was sick, but knowing him as well as I do, I’d bet my next paycheck that he’s pacing around in a circle, running his hand through his hair in frustration.
Finally, he blows out another torrent of air into the phone. “I’ll call you later, okay? I gotta jet. I left people sitting in my office for far longer than I should have.”
Christ, I totally forgot Claire interrupted his meeting. This is why I love my brother. The tall bastard left a meeting to speak to me. For a man who runs a billion-dollar company, he has no ego.
“Go back to work. I’m fine. I’ll talk to you later.”
We disconnect the call, and I let it drop into my lap, blowing out a deep breath as I scrub my hands up and down my face.
I’m going to be an uncle.
My niece or nephew won’t really know me. I mean, how often do I get out to Seattle? Once, maybe twice, a year, if I’m lucky. And I know that when they have a baby, they won’t be traveling out here. Especially with Ryan’s fear of flying.
I’m sitting alone in a hospital room waiting patiently for a test that will determine if I have cancer again. I spend all my time working to defend degenerate assholes. I live alone in an apartment that’s too big for one man, and any woman I date doesn’t last longer than a few weeks because none of them can stand my work hours and perpetually coming in second.
The only people who genuinely make me smile live three thousand miles away.
What the fuck am I doing with my life?
3
Claire
* * *
When I was six, I asked my mother if I could marry Prince Charming. I had just seen Cinderella for the first time, and naturally, I was hooked. My mother proceeded to sit me down and tell me that there was no such thing as Prince Charming. That he was simply a fictitious character created to disillusion young girls, and women alike, into believing that a man was going to come in, sweep us off our feet, and change our lives by fixing all our problems.