by Sarra Cannon
“I don’t understand,” she says, following me back toward my garage apartment.
“It’s fine,” I say. “I think tonight was just a little overwhelming. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Wait,” she says, her voice almost more of a cry. “I had one other present for you.”
She stands with me under the light of the garage, waiting.
I have the guitar case in one hand, and I shove my other hand deep into my pockets. I know I’m acting weird, and I want to stop and just smile and be my normal fun self, but I can’t even find that part of myself right now. The whole world just feels heavy.
She pulls a card from her pocket and runs her fingers over the top, taking a deep breath.
“Okay, so remember when that guy Owen came in the bar to talk to you?” she asks.
My eyebrows draw together. “Yeah?”
“Well, I didn’t tell you then, but I pulled that card he gave you out of the trash,” she says. “I know you said you didn’t want to audition, but I couldn’t let you throw away an opportunity like that.”
“Jo—”
“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to, but I called the station and they said they’re still really interested in having you come down,” she says. “Owen heard about you co-writing that song with Long Road Ahead, and he says that they think you’re really special, Colton. They opened a slot for you to audition, if you want to.”
“What? When?” My body tenses. I didn’t ask her to do that.
“Two weeks,” she says. “From tomorrow. Eight in the morning. You’d go in for the last hour or so of Owen’s morning show and just be yourself on air. Give it a try and see how it feels. I thought it might be fun. What do you think?”
I clear my throat. “Jo, you shouldn’t have done that,” I say. “I threw that card away for a reason. I don’t need you to go setting things up for me like that without even asking me.”
Her eyes grow wide and she looks like I slapped her across the face, she’s so disappointed.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I thought you would be excited.”
“What on earth made you think I would be excited?” I say, an edge of anger to my tone that I can’t get control of.
“You’re such a natural up on stage,” she says. “You have the kind of personality that draws people to you so easily. You always make people happy. You’d be perfect for this kind of thing, Colton, I know it.”
“I like my job at the bar,” I say. “You know I couldn’t do a daily morning show and still keep working with you. So is that what this is about? You don’t want me working at the bar anymore?”
“Don’t be like that,” she says, crossing her arms. “You know that’s not what I meant. This is a good opportunity for you is all. If you don’t want to do it, then don’t. But I think you’d be great at it.”
I hear my father in her words. A good opportunity. Stop being an irresponsible bartender and get a real job. The bar is fine for her because she’s part owner, but me? I’m just the loser who works for her, right?
“Just think about it,” she says. “If you really don’t care about doing it, no big deal.”
“Right,” I say, taking the card from her hand. “If I don’t go, then what am I really doing with my life, am I right? You can’t sling drinks forever and expect to be a real man. Is that not good enough for you?”
She steps back. “Colton, I never said that.”
“Not in so many words,” I say. But I understand the gesture.
“All I want is for you to be happy,” she says. “If you can’t see that, then you’re blind.”
“Well, maybe I’m blind then,” I say. “Look, I’m going to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Don’t leave like this,” she says. “Angry. I didn’t mean to upset you, Colton, I swear.”
“It’s fine,” I say, even though it’s not fine at all. Maybe she wants me to be something I’m not. Something I’m not capable of being. “I’ll see you tomorrow at work.”
She shakes her head, tears glistening in her eyes.
I hate myself for arguing with her, but I can’t find it in myself to comfort her, either. Can’t she see that I’m no good for her? That I’ll never really be the kind of guy she needs in her life? Someone stable and good and responsible?
“Goodnight,” I say, turning to open the door.
I pause, part of me hoping that she’ll wrap her arms around me and tell me that everything is going to be okay. Part of me wanting her to stop me from going inside.
But she simply says, “Goodnight.”
I go inside, slamming the door at the top of the garage stairs. I set the guitar case down on the couch and go to the fridge to grab another beer.
I was a fool to think life was perfect and good. Nothing that good ever lasts. Not in my life. Jo would be better off without me, anyway. I’m no good. A loser who never had a real job or a real relationship in his life.
I sit down on the couch, knowing I’m not going to be able to sleep. Not with my mind racing the way it is.
Which is when my phone rings. The caller ID says it’s Willow.
I take another drink of my beer, my stomach rolling. I probably shouldn’t answer, but this somehow feels like a sign. A way out of all the stress that’s just been piled on my shoulders.
“Hello?”
“Happy birthday, birthday boy,” she shouts. There are voices in the background singing happy birthday, and I recognize the band members. “What are you up to?”
“I’m actually sitting at home alone drinking a beer,” I say.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she says, laughing. “What happened to the Colton I used to love?”
“I guess I got boring,” I say, laughing, but feeling no joy in the sound.
“Bullshit,” she says. “We’ve got a party roaring out here at the beach house just for you. Why don’t you come on out here and hang out for a bit? Just like old times?”
“I don’t know,” I say, thinking of Jo and how I left things with her.
“It’ll be fun, I promise,” Willow says. “Besides, we got a call from our manager that there’s another band who just lost their opening act. I’m talking a huge country band, Colton. They want us to come play with them for their last few concerts. It’s a big opportunity for us.”
“So you’re leaving town?” I ask.
“Tomorrow night,” she says. “Come party with us, for old time’s sake. You can’t let us leave without giving us one good night. Besides, it’s your birthday. Let loose and live a little.”
I bite my lip and look around my lonely apartment. I know I shouldn’t go, not with Jo already mad at me and things so weird between us. But damn, I could really use a good time right now. The kind of good time where everything else fades into the background for a little while.
I pull Owen’s card out of my pocket and turn it over in my hands, the audition date written on the back in Jo’s handwriting.
Maybe I’m really not good enough for her. Maybe she wants me to be more, just like my dad does. And maybe he’s right, I’m going to be nothing but a disappointment to her anyway.
If I’m going to sabotage this relationship, I may as well have fun doing it.
“What the hell,” I say. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”
Willow screams and tells the band. Everyone in the background is cheering as I hang up the phone and go to grab my keys. I dump the rest of my beer down the sink and stand there for just a minute, knowing I’m making the wrong decision. Knowing I might be throwing it all away.
But wondering if that’s just the kind of guy I am. The kind of guy I was always meant to be.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Daddy takes my hand when the doctor finally comes in. We both know this is the appointment we’ve been waiting for. Finally, we’re going to have some answers, and I just pray it’s the kind of answers we need. I pray the neurologist is going to give us an easy treatment plan that will get my dad back
on the road to being healthy again and feeling like his old self.
“Good morning, Mr. Warner. Miss Warner,” Dr. Walsh says. He sits down at his desk and places a folder in front of him. He sighs, and the weary sound reaches into me, breaking my heart before he even says a word. “I’m afraid I have some tough news for you both today.”
My hold on Daddy’s hand tightens, and I hold back tears, waiting. I can hardly breathe.
“Mr. Warner, after looking over all your tests and consulting with a few colleagues in my field, I have come to a diagnosis,” he says.
“Okay,” Daddy says. “What’s the verdict?”
He says it with a nervous laugh, but I can feel his hand sweating against mine.
“You have a disease called Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis,” he says. “Also known as ALS.”
Daddy’s hand goes limp in mine, and when I turn to look at him, his lips are parted and trembling. “ALS?” he asks.
“What is that?” I ask. I know I’ve heard of ALS before, but I don’t know much about it. “What are the treatments?”
My heart is racing with fear.
“It’s a progressive neurodegenerative disease that affects the brain and spinal cord,” Dr. Walsh says. “There are some effective therapies and a new drug that has recently come on the market that can slow the progression of the disease.”
“What about a cure?” I ask. “What can we do?”
“There is no cure,” my father says solemnly.
“What?” I don’t want to hear his words. I don’t want to believe him. No cure? What does this even mean?
“Your father is right. While there have been many scientific advances in recent years, there is still no cure for ALS,” Dr. Walsh says.
“How long do I have?” Daddy asks.
Tears spring into my eyes. Wait a minute. He can’t be asking how long he has to live, right? Because that’s not something I can handle right now. I look from my father to the doctor, hardly able to see clearly through my tears.
“Most patients live between three and five years after their initial symptoms appear,” Dr. Walsh says. “But many patients go on to live full lives for five or even as many as ten years or more. Every patient’s progression is unique and difficult to predict. What we can do is start therapy right away, get you started on a drug called Rilutek that’s been proven to slow the progression of the disease in some patients.”
“Three to five years?” I ask. I shake my head. “I don’t understand. There has to be something more we can do. Studies, more tests, some kind of treatment that’s out there for this.”
“We are going to do everything we can to try to slow down the progression of the disease,” the doctor says. “I already have a team of doctors in the area working on putting together a comprehensive treatment plan.”
“That’s not good enough,” I say. “Daddy?”
He takes my hand, his face calmer than I expect. “Where do we start?” he asks. His voice is so peaceful and resolved. Almost as if he was expecting this. As if he knew. “I’m ready to start treatment as soon as possible. Let’s do what we can.”
Dr. Walsh nods and refers to the folder on his desk. “I’ve already put in a prescription for Rilutek for you, so we’ll get you started on that today. See how your body tolerates it and make sure there are no adverse side effects,” he says. “I’ve also set up some appointments with the hospital’s physical therapy department. They’ll expect to see you on Friday.”
As they discuss the plan for therapy and medication, I sit back in my chair, trying to force air into my lungs. I stare at my father, wanting to be strong for him, but not knowing how to deal with this.
ALS? I don’t know what I was expecting to hear from the doctor, but I never imagined it would turn out to be something without a cure. Sure, something he might need chemotherapy for or some other rigorous drug therapy that would take time, but this? I feel powerless. Helpless.
No cure? How can that be? How can a doctor just sit there and tell us there’s basically nothing we can do?
I don’t want to believe it, but what choice do I have?
I take my father’s hand again, and his eyes meet mine. He smiles and squeezes as he listens to the doctor’s advice, but in that moment there are only the two of us in the whole world. My father is the person who has meant the most to me in my life. He’s the one who has always been there for me, taken care of me, loved me unconditionally.
The news begins to truly sink in as I sit there, watching him take this diagnosis the way he’s taken everything in life. With courage and determination, never giving up.
My father is the greatest man I’ve ever known. The bravest and most selfless. He is my rock and my anchor.
And he’s dying.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
After the appointment, we don’t talk much about the diagnosis. I think we both just need a little more time to think about what this means for us. How it’s going to change things.
“I’m tired, Jojo,” Daddy says, kissing the top of my head. “I didn’t get much rest last night thinking about this appointment, so I think I’m going to go lay down for a little while.”
“Okay, Daddy,” I say, wrapping him in a big bear hug. “Get some rest. Want me to wake you up for lunch?”
“Sure,” he says with a fading smile.
I know he’s trying to be strong and positive, but like me, he needs time alone to process the news. I want to give him the space he needs, but after an hour alone at the kitchen table googling everything I can find on ALS, I’m about to lose my mind.
I grab my coat and walk over to the garage, hoping Colton’s awake. I know we didn’t end things on the best of terms last night, but I really need him right now.
I’m still not even sure what all that was about last night. One minute everything was going great, and the next he was acting strange. As if I’d offended him somehow. Or upset him. I’m hoping we can put it all behind us now and talk through what’s going on with my dad.
But when I knock on his door, there’s no answer. I take out my cell and call him, but it goes straight to voicemail. When I turn around, I realize his truck is gone. I don’t know how I missed that on the way over, except that I’m not thinking clearly right now.
He must have gone out for breakfast or something. I quickly text him, asking him to call me as soon as he can. He knew we were going in for this appointment this morning, so I’m surprised he isn’t picking up. Where is he?
I hope he isn’t still angry with me about the guitar. Or the radio appointment. I wasn’t trying to push him into anything, but he was acting like I’d made a mistake or judged him in some way. Saying that I didn’t want him to keep working at the bar? That was ridiculous. I cherish all our time together, but I do think he’d be great on the radio. All I want is for him to be happy. I never meant for it to upset him.
I sigh and head back to the house. Half an hour later I try calling him again, but again I just get his voicemail. I can’t imagine where he must be. Even if he is upset about last night, he still should be picking up the phone since he knows about the appointment. We’d talked about it a dozen times, and he knows I was hoping we’d get a diagnosis today.
I sit down at the table and cradle my face in my hands. All these weeks, I’ve been dying for a diagnosis so that we could finally fix whatever it was that was going on. I guess in the back of my mind, I knew it might be something that didn’t have a cure. Arthritis or some kind of muscular disease. But I always had faith there would be an effective treatment. Something that would help him manage the symptoms and get back to a new normal.
Only in my worst nightmares did I think he would be diagnosed with a disease that might take his life.
Online, there are stories of survivors who have lived more than five or ten years with ALS, but most of the stories I find in my search are not as positive. Over the course of the morning, I learn that ALS is a cruel disease, slowly taking away most patients’ ability to talk
, walk, even eat or breathe on their own. The disease does not affect the mind, though, which in some ways is a silver lining.
On the other hand, it means that the person diagnosed knows exactly what’s happening to them. My father will have to watch his own body slowly fail him, and there will be almost nothing he can do about it.
Reading through the material online, my heart breaks over and over again for my father.
He has been nothing but a good man. The best man. He has spent his whole life doing so much for others, giving back to his community, raising a small child on his own without ever complaining. He deserves to live a long, full life. He deserves to someday meet his grandchildren and run and play with them in the backyard or at the lake.
But ALS doesn’t care what a person deserves. It destroys, regardless of how good a man you are. It’s the most unfair thing I can think of, and I would give my life not to see him go through this.
When my father comes out of his room, his hair all wild from his nap, I shut down my laptop and smile up at him, wiping tears from my cheeks.
“Hey, Daddy,” I say.
“Hi, Jojo,” he says. “What’s for lunch?”
His words slur slightly, and I realize it’s been getting worse. And that this is just the beginning.
“I thought I would make sandwiches with that homemade bread I baked yesterday,” I say. “Sound good?”
“Sounds delicious,” he says. “I’m starving.”
I stand and start preparing the meal, not noticing that he’s taken my place at the table and opened my laptop until it’s too late.
“Oh, Daddy, don’t,” I say. I don’t want him to see, which I realize is silly because of course he will want to understand. I just wish I could protect him from this. I wish I could heal him and take this all away.
“It’s okay,” he says, taking my hand when I place it on his shoulder. “I guess I better find out what I’m up against here.”
We spend the afternoon reading through websites, looking for stories online about anyone successfully fighting the disease. We search for specialists within a hundred miles that we might be able to see.