Bosco

by Geri Glenn

  Bosco’s footsteps pound up the stairs and he’s beside me in an instant. “Millie!” he calls out. Our eyes meet over my convulsing toddler. “I’m calling an ambulance,” he says, his phone already coming up to his ear.

  I don’t listen to what is said. All I can do is focus on my girl, shushing her and reassuring her that I’m here and that it’s going to be okay. Fear has its icy fingers wrapped around my throat as I put my face in hers and try to force her eyes to mine. “Baby, please!” I cry. “Please look at Momma.”

  Just as Bosco reaches my side, the convulsions stop. Millie drags in a ragged breath and her eyes meet mine before her wail of fear fills the room. Her arms wrapping around my neck brings me more relief than I’ve ever known. “It’s okay, baby,” I soothe. “Momma’s here.”

  I rock her from side to side, her cries drenching my T-shirt. My terrified eyes lock on Bosco as he pushes Millie’s hair back from her forehead, fear unmistakably etched on his face.

  When the sound of sirens pierces the quiet night, Bosco bolts from the room and down the stairs. The next few minutes are like a bad dream. I stand off to the side, Bosco’s arms wrapped tightly around me as we watch the paramedics assess Millie. She looks so small on the full-length gurney they strap her to, but they refuse to allow me to climb onto it with her.

  Before I know it, we’re in an ambulance, the sirens blaring once again as we make our way through the city to the children’s hospital. Millie’s terrified eyes never leave me as the kind medic fiddles with wires and machines, his soothing voice doing its best to keep her calm.

  Once we reach the hospital, we’re rushed through the corridors and into a small private room. One of the medics stays with us as the other speaks to the nurse at the desk. “Is she going to be okay?” I ask him, keeping my voice calm and quiet so as not to alarm Millie.

  He pinches his lips together and looks up from the paperwork he’s filling out. “You’ll have to speak more with her doctor, ma’am. All I can tell you is that your daughter had what appeared to be a seizure, but she’s out of it now and awake, so that’s a good sign.”

  A commotion from down the hall erupts and we both turn our heads in the direction. “I don’t give a shit about hospital policy. Where’s my girl?”

  Bosco sounds ready to bring this hospital to the ground in his search for Millie. Excusing myself, I hurry down the hall and step between the angry nurse and Bosco. “It’s okay,” I exclaim, dodging in front of her to redirect her angry stare onto me. “He’s with me.”

  Reluctantly, she turns her angry gaze my way. “This is a hospital for children,” she snaps. “And this area is for family only. He can’t just barge in here like this.”

  “He is family,” I tell her, trying to keep the tears from choking me. “And I’m sorry if he caused a commotion. He’s just worried about our little girl. He just wants to be with her.”

  The nurse’s expression softens as she looks down the hall toward the paramedics. Finally, she sighs a heavy breath. “Fine. Go, be with your girl.” She points her finger up at Bosco. “But if you cause any more trouble here, I’m calling the police.”

  Bosco doesn’t even bother with an apology. Grabbing my hand, he rushes down the hall toward the room I’d just come out of. When he sees Millie laying in the bed, machines attached to her limbs and her eyes filled with fear, he doesn’t even pause. He goes right to her and carefully picks her up, being mindful of the equipment, and sits down on the bed with her in his lap.

  “Sir,” the medic quips, but Bosco’s glare stops him from saying anything else.

  I watch Bosco with my daughter, his fierceness in protecting her a band aid on my fear. When the doctor comes in, he shares a few hushed words with the medic, and then turns a kind smile on my daughter.

  “Hi, Millie,” she says softly. She grabs a stool from the corner of the room and rolls it over beside the bed, taking a seat so she’s eye level with the frightened little girl laying curled up in Bosco’s arms. “I hear you haven’t been feeling very well.”

  Millie shakes her head from side to side, her thumb back in her mouth.

  “Well, I’m going to talk to your mommy and daddy and see if we can get you feeling better, okay?”

  Millie looks up at Bosco, who tips up one side of his mouth at her, nodding. Millie nods too.

  The doctor turns to me. “Hi, Sarah, my name is Dr. Sandra Chisolm, and I’m the doctor on call here tonight.” I exchange pleasantries with her, and then stand silent, waiting for her to get on with it. “I already know that Millie had what appears to be a seizure tonight. The paramedics tell me that it lasted at least three minutes. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.” A flash of Millie’s convulsing body plays again in my mind and I shudder, wrapping my arms around myself. “I heard a noise on her monitor, and when I went into her room she was like that.”

  Dr. Chisolm writes something down on Millie’s chart. “Her fever is also quite high. She was given a fever reducer in the ambulance and started on fluids. How long has she had the fever?”

  “On and off for a couple of weeks,” I admit. “I actually called this morning to make an appointment with her doctor. But, when she went to bed, her temperature was normal.”

  She nods and writes in the chart again. “Does she appear to be in any pain?”

  “Not that I can see.”

  The questioning continues for a few more minutes, the doctor writing an entire novel on Millie’s paperwork. Finally, she stands and does a quick check up on Millie, talking to her and the rest of us as she goes.

  As she places her stethoscope in its place around her neck, she motions for me to follow her out of the room. “I’m going to order some bloodwork,” she says, low enough that Millie can’t hear. “She seems fine now, but I’m concerned with the length of time this has been occurring, and the seizure is another way her body is telling me there may be some unseen issue we have yet to find.”

  Hot tears prick at my eyes like needles. “Is she going to be okay?”

  Dr. Chisolm gives me a kind smile and pats my hand. “We’re not sending you home until we get this figured out. A technician will be in shortly to take her blood.”

  Bosco

  The technician hadn’t been in the room three minutes before Sarah made me leave. “Just go outside. Take a deep breath,” she hissed. “You scaring the shit out of her isn’t going to get her to take the blood any faster.”

  I scowled at the woman one more time for good measure and left. I know she was just doing her job, but how many fucking times does a professional need to poke a child before they get it right? Millie was afraid and in tears, and I’d reached the end of my rope.

  I did what Sarah said, though. I went outside and wandered through the gardens, my hands dug deep in my pockets. Worry for that sweet little girl inside consumed me. What if something was really wrong? What if this was something we couldn’t handle?

  After calling Reid to let him know I wouldn’t be back until sometime tomorrow, I make my way inside. I’d been gone long enough that the blood had been drawn and the lights in the room had been turned down low. Millie’s asleep in her bed, while Sarah stands by the window, her shoulder to the wall as she gazes down on the park below.

  Mindful of the sleeping girl, I walk quietly through the room and tap Sarah on the shoulder. When she turns, the tears I see on her face tear me apart on the inside. I feel powerless and raw. I hate Millie’s illness and I hate Sarah’s fear, and I hate that I can’t do a damn thing to change any of it.

  When her teary eyes meet mine, I do the only thing I can. I reach for her and pull her to me, enveloping her in my arms, wishing I could shield her from the pain I know she’s feeling. We stand that way for a long time. She burrows into me, her cheek pressed against my chest, and I just hold her, gently swaying us from side to side as we both watch Millie sleep.

  “Babe,” I whisper, my lips pressed into her hair. “You need rest.” Sarah doesn’t move. She just keeps her arms a
round my waist and watches her little girl. “Tell you what. You curl up in that chair over there and I’ll wake you up if anything happens.”

  Her sigh is despondent, and when she looks up at me, her eyes are rimmed with dark circles. “What about you?”

  I snort. “You kidding? Real men don’t need sleep.”

  Sarah’s lip turns up the tiniest bit, and she slowly shakes her head. Finally, she pulls away, unwinding herself from my grasp. “Fine. But you better wake me if the doctor comes in or Millie wakes up.”

  As the room falls silent and Sarah’s breathing deepens, I look around, taking in all the various medical equipment. This may not be the same room Spencer was in when he was going through chemo and eventually died in, but it is the same hospital. I haven’t been here since the day I lost him. I’d hoped I would never have to come back here again.

  Taking a seat at the end of Millie’s bed, I sit sentry over my two favorite girls for the next few hours. The sun is just starting to rise when the doctor walks back in with a nurse at her side. When her eyes meet mine from behind her wire rimmed glasses, my entire gut rolls. Something in her expression tells me that she isn’t here to tell us that everything is normal.

  Quietly, not wanting to wake Millie, I go to Sarah and gently shake her shoulder. “The doctor’s here,” I tell her, when her weary, sleep-clouded eyes open.

  She sits up, her gaze darting all around the room as she scrubs a hand down her face. “Dr. Chisolm. Sorry, I was just taking a little catnap.”

  The doctor gives her a kind smile. “That’s good. You need your rest.” She glances over at Millie’s sleeping form. “I’ve brought Marissa here to sit with Millie while the three of us go and talk privately.”

  Fear washes over Sarah’s face at the same time it threatens to carry me away. She looks to me, her lower lip trembling, and I swallow down my own feelings, determined to be strong for her. Reaching out, I extend my hand for her to take and pull her up from her seat.

  Together, with Sarah clinging to my arm like her life is at stake, we follow Dr. Chisolm out of the room and down a hallway until we come to a small generic office. She stands quietly as we enter, closing the door behind us, then takes a seat behind the desk.

  Sarah and I both sit as the doctor places a file on the table top and opens it, revealing a stack of papers with charts and graphs and illegible writing. “I’m afraid I don’t have good news to share with you,” she says softly. “The blood work on Millie has revealed a significantly high number of white blood cells.”

  White blood cells. Those three words rip the floor out beneath me, my heart plummeting into an abys of pain and fear. I know what she’s going to say before she even says it.

  “Too many white blood cells can be caused by several different diagnoses, but the blood test also reveals a low number of red blood cells and even fewer platelets. This is what’s most concerning.”

  Sarah reaches out and takes my hand, her fear-filled eyes glued to the doctor. “What does that mean?”

  “It means we need to do more testing,” she says. “I’ll not put a diagnosis on Millie without being one hundred percent sure, but these blood counts almost always coincide with childhood leukemia.”

  A sob rips out of Sarah’s throat that just about tears me apart. I tighten my grip on her hand as her entire body starts to tremble. “What tests do you need to do?” I ask, taking over so Sarah can have her moment.

  “I’ve ordered a CT scan, which will take place in a couple of hours. After that, we’ll need to do a lumbar puncture, which is a hollow needle going into the lower back to draw spinal fluid.” I squeeze my eyes closed as she continues. Sarah has a viselike grip on my hand. “I know this is all very scary and that you likely have a million questions. This is the time to ask them, because we’re going to move fast from this point on to rule out cancer.”

  That word. Cancer. It’s like a punch in the gut.

  Sarah keeps hold of my hand as she takes a deep breath and sits forward in her seat. “This lumbar­­, whatever you called it, does it hurt?”

  “Lumbar puncture,” the doctor says, her face grave. “It’s not pleasant. But we give a local anesthetic, and it’s a relatively quick and easy procedure. She’ll be in and out in a matter of minutes.”

  “Can I be with her during these procedures?” Sarah’s voice is raw and filled with pain.

  “You can stay with her through it all. Millie is young and this whole thing is scary. She’s going to need her mother.”

  After a few more questions and answers, Sarah stands. “Let’s do this then.”

  Sarah

  Millie was much braver than me as the tests were performed. I know the fact that she couldn’t really understand what was going on played a factor in that, but on the inside, I was a mess, and it was my daughter that provided me with strength.

  Bosco never left our sides. He was like a sentry, calm and cool, and ready to take on the world if it threatened to come near us. His own fear was evident, and oftentimes, he seemed to know a lot about what the doctor was talking about, even though I had no clue until she explained it.

  “Are you okay?” I finally ask. He’s been pacing the floor for twenty minutes, his eyes straying to the clock constantly as we wait for the results of Millie’s tests.

  He stops and forces a smile entirely for my benefit. “Don’t you worry about me. You just take care of our girl and yourself. That’s all I care about.”

  He goes back to pacing and I watch, my hand rubbing Millie’s back as she sits in the bed, her eyes glued to the iPad the nurse had given her. “You’re making me nervous.”

  His feet stop moving and his head drops forward. Finally, he stalks over to the chair and drops down into it. “Did I ever tell you about my brother?”

  His question surprises me. How had I not known he had a brother? “It seems there’s a lot I don’t know about you,” I admit.

  Bosco chews on his lower lip. “His name was Spencer. We were identical twins.”

  “Were?” I don’t like where that word is taking this story.

  He rubs a hand across his mouth and leans back. “When we were thirteen, my brother was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkin lymphoma. It’s a type of cancer that affects the lymph nodes and eventually can spread to other parts of the body.”

  Standing from my place on the bed, I move toward him and perch on the arm of his chair, the need to touch him taking over. I place my hand on his shoulder as he speaks.

  “He fought that shit for two years, but in the end, it wasn’t enough. He died here in this hospital when we were fifteen.”

  “God, Bosco. I’m sorry.”

  He reaches up, his hand covering mine over his shoulder. “Being here just brings back a lot of those memories, but not all of them are bad. We had a lot of good times here, and this is where I learned what true courage looks like.” He looks toward Millie. “I just don’t want that little girl to have to develop a courage like that already. She needs to be a kid.”

  I follow his gaze and watch Millie as she giggles at the screen, totally oblivious to the fear wafting off of us in waves. “We’ll be courageous for her.”

  Removing his hand, he wraps his arms around my hips and rests his head against my chest. “Fucking right we will,” he whispers.

  It’s another couple hours before the doctor returns with Marissa. As one, we stand, and each drop a kiss on Millie’s head and walk out the door, my hand clasped tightly in his.

  When we get to the office and resume our earlier seats, I drag my chair as close as I can get it to Bosco’s. The doctor doesn’t bother opening her file this time. “It’s not good news, I’m afraid.”

  Blood rushes through my veins, whooshing through my ears and drowning out the sound of her voice. I watch as her lips form the word leukemia. It’s like an out of body experience. I’m watching the nurse tell me that my two-year-old daughter has cancer. I’m watching as Bosco places an arm around my shoulder and holds me close. I’m watching as he
asks questions and as the doctor responds. All of this I’m watching as if I’m but a spectator watching a program with the volume turned to white noise.

  “Sarah?”

  I come rushing back to the present, the sounds around me returning. The doctor and Bosco are both staring at me, concern etched on both of their faces.

  “I’m sorry...what?”

  “Do you have any other questions?”

  I look her in the eye and ask the only thing I can think of to ask right now, the only thing that matters to me at the moment. “Is my daughter going to die?

  Dr. Chisolm sits back in her chair, her face serious. “We’re going to do everything in our power to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  Bosco

  Leaving Sarah and Millie at the hospital is hard, but they aren’t doing any more tests today. It’s getting late and the ladies need their sleep. Besides, I’ve left Reid alone with Rachel for far too long, and I need to call Ryker and tell him about Millie.

  It’s after ten o’clock when I step outside. Finding a bench, I take a seat and pull out my phone. That’s when it hits me. Millie has cancer. That sweet, crazy haired, precious little girl in there has cancer, just like my brother did. I lost him, and now there’s a good chance I’m going to lose Millie too.

  A tidal wave of anger washes over me, thrumming though my brain and stealing the air from my lungs. Balling my hands into fists, I look around, desperate to destroy something. Anything. I’m surrounded by a small manicured flowerbed and carefully trimmed shrubs. I jump up off the bench and pace the area in front of it, stalking first one way and then the other.

  I want to rip that bench out of the ground. I want to lift it above my head and throw it through one of the hospital’s windows. I want to take every one of those shrubs and rip them out by the roots, ripping the branches into tiny little pieces.

  I don’t do any of those things. I know it’s the anger making me even consider doing something so stupid, but I do need to find a way to deal with this hopeless rage I’m feeling. Throwing my head back, I scream toward the sky. I scream to the heavens until my lungs are empty and my throat hurts. I scream until every ounce of rage has been spent and all that’s left is despair.