by Bradon Nave
“Dude! What do you call a dog with no legs?” Nathan’s voice filled the otherwise silent bedroom from Bishop’s phone speaker. “Doesn’t matter, man. He won’t come anyway. Ha! Hey man, don’t forget our gym date tonight and then you’re buying me supper…you promised. Pick me up at the rent’s casa at six and don’t be late. Later gator.”
Pressing play once more, Bishop’s thoughts sloshed about in his skull. “Dude! What do you call a dog with no legs?”
Trunks on, Bishop made his way down the stairs. The air-conditioned house relentlessly chilled him as he descended. Shirtless, he was thankful to open the door to the warm humidity of the outdoors.
Looking out over the lightly lit pool, he found his mother floating gracefully—looking toward the clear sky.
“It’s nice out tonight, Mom.”
“Yes.”
Wading toward the poolside, she motioned him to join her. As he moved closer, his gazed danced about the patio bar for the bottle or glass.
“I want some wine, Mom. I’ll be right back.”
“Sweet boy, why can’t we swim and talk. Why can’t we relax without wine tonight? It’s already so late.”
A feeling resembling guilt nipped at his psyche. “Okay.”
“Come in, the water’s wonderful.”
Sliding into the cool water, Bishop joined his mother by the side. “I’m ready.”
“Ready? You’re ready for what?”
Crickets and the sounds of the hot tub motor serenaded the evening.
“I’m ready to go.”
“You…you don’t want to wait?”
“Nah, Mom. My heart hurts…like, it literally hurts here. I wanna leave here.”
“Okay, Bish. I’ll call your father tomorrow and tell him there has been a change in plans.”
The smile on his mother’s face put a smile on his. If leaving behind his room, his physical things and returning to South Africa for good would ease the ache in his heart, Bishop was ready to board the plane.
“We’ll start getting everything together and leave after we meet the man sweet Nathan donated to.”
Imagining the colossal change in scenery somewhat lifted his ailing mind. “Okay. Sounds good.”
Chapter Eight
Dark and tranquil, the hall of the west wing of the hospital appeared to go on forever—eaten up in the shadows, it was impossible to make out the end. The howling winds outside the establishment had brought with them a bountiful rain.
Room by room, Alex happily made her rounds—providing therapy on the trauma floor of the hospital.
Nearly six in the evening, Alex entered the room of a forty-year-old traumatic brain injury patient. Completely incapacitated, this patient wouldn’t be one for providing conversation.
Assembling the items needed, Alex’s attention was captured by a fiendish-looking red-headed girl on the small television in the corner of the room. Never one to watch programming during patient care, Alex turned from the screen and back to her patient.
“Tonight’s Two Birds, One Stone feature is brought to you by yours truly, Melony Readers. Tonight, I’ll be discussing the alarming trends of suicide rates in the United States among young adults…”
Disinterested in hearing of such depressing things, Alex went on about her business. The grinding and popping coming from her patient’s maneuvering mouth was nearly intolerable and had each hair on Alex’s arm standing erect. Taking the time to clean his face and brush his hair, Alex found herself wondering what the man was like prior to the four-wheeling accident that left him invalid, bedridden, and incapable of communication.
A few minutes later, her therapy nearly complete, her attention was once more captured by the small flat-screen. The subject matter had somewhat shifted, as had the subject. Hearing the mention of organ donation, Alex looked to see the most gorgeous guy she’d ever looked upon—plastered on the screen just above a red banner reading, ‘Bishop Holloway.’
Completely engaged, she listened to the young, tanned, athletic man, tell his brother’s story. Fidgeting with his hands in his lap while seated in front of an extravagant fireplace, the man appeared nervous and possibly even irritated.
Alex felt for him—his story’s cruelty painted vividly across his face. The thought of losing Tyson was unbearable—how this man was functional was a mystery. She inevitably found herself angry with this Nathan character for taking his own life and leaving his beautiful older brother in such turmoil.
As the story ended, Alex walked to the hallway, wishing she were home to rewind the newscast and see his face again—so flawless, yet so pained—so pained, yet so strong. To lose a brother to self-infliction right before Christmas…and only then did his words truly penetrate. Only then did his words momentarily capture her breath and accelerate her heartrate. Only then did she find herself frantically digging in her pockets for her smartphone, only to remember she’d left it in the breakroom of the respiratory therapy department.
Racing to the nearest computer on wheels, her fingertips danced nervously atop the mouse—waiting for the Google screen to load. The second it did, Nathan Holloway Suicide was typed in the search bar. After scanning a few articles irrelevant to the situation at hand, her gaze rested upon heartbreak—upon what she was looking for. It was too easy—much too easy. Months of wondering just from where Tyson’s reprieve had been granted, and the entire time it had come from twenty-five minutes away. This was no coincidence. This had to be Tyson’s donor, Nathan Holloway. Reading the lines of a local online news source left Alex all but overwhelmed.
On December 7th, at approximately 1:50 a.m. police and emergency service workers were called to the scene of an attempted suicide. First year, traditional freshman, Nathan Holloway was transported from…
Slapping her hand across her mouth, Alex rose from her chair, capturing the attention of a passing nurse, Morgan.
“Alex…hey are you okay?”
Wide-eyed and on the verge of shock, she merely stared at the questioning colleague with her hand fixed across her face.
“Alex…talk to me. Are you okay?”
“No. No I’m not.”
Leaving the floor through the stairwell, Alex made her way to the department in a disheveled fashion. Thankfully, the nightshift therapists would be arriving soon to relive her.
***
Twilight painted the apartment walls—mingling well with the silence as Alex sat with wine glass in hand in the overstuffed recliner. Successfully locating Bishop Holloway’s social media accounts, Alex’s remaining hand now thumbed through pictures and posts that weren’t restricted by privacy settings.
Bound to him by both tragedy and rejuvenation, Alex couldn’t set her phone down. The smiles boasted on her screen by Bishop and Nathan had her mind in some chaotic cluster of emotions completely alien to her.
Rustling keys and the opening of the apartment door quickly pulled her from this state of confusion. A chipper Tyson flung his bag to the couch, closed the door, and flashed mischievous grin at his sister.
“Um…good day at class I take it?”
“Oooohhhh, yeah. I think I might have a date.”
Sitting cross legged in front of her, he appeared nearly cocky in his presentation.
“You might have a date? Is there some sort of confusion?” Setting her wine glass on the side table, Alex leaned forward, devoting her entire attention to Tyson’s forthcoming proclamation.
“Remember that girl from the summer orientation?”
“That cute brunette?”
“Yeah, Becca. Well, she’s in my chemistry class and asked if I’d maybe wanna go grab a bite tomorrow after lab. Like, she wants to go to the Italian restaurant two blocks from campus.”
“Oh really?”
“Yep.”
“So…what would lead you to believe this was something other than a date?”
Smile intact, Tyson’s gaze fell on his lap as he looked downward. “I dunno. I’ve never been on a real date. I’m not comple
tely sure if she’s really interested or if she just feels sorry for me or something.”
“What? Why the hell would she feel sorry for you?”
“I dunno, Alex. I just don’t want to embarrass myself.”
“Ty…you’re being silly. Don’t be silly.”
“Maybe. But she’s really cute. I’m sure…yeah, I’m sure it’s just a let’s be friends type of thing.”
“Are you kidding me right now, Tyson? You’re adorable. I’m sure she’s interested.”
“Maybe.”
“You’re too much, Ty. You’ll see tomorrow when you go eat with her. I hope you’re paying because I doubt she can afford your appetite.”
“Speaking of which…”
“Ha. What sounds good?”
“I don’t care. Pizza?”
The thought of greasy pepperoni pizza was short lived as Tyson’s phone alarmed with a text message. Alex witnessed her brother’s face light up as he read whatever was on the screen.
“So, um…yeah, I guess you were possibly right, Sis.”
“Huh?”
Reading the message aloud, Tyson boasted a proud smile. “So, just to clarify, tomorrow evening is a date-date, right?”
“Holy shit, Ty! Is that from Becca?”
“Yep.”
“You’re such a dork. She asked you to go eat with her and gave you her phone number and you were confused as to whether or not she was interested?”
Tyson’s smile slightly faded. “I’m not good at this stuff, Alex. I haven’t had much practice.”
“Hey…I’m just giving you shit, Ty.”
“I know.”
“So, text her back…nah, go to your room and call her while I order our supper.”
“Really? You think I should call? We just saw each other like an hour ago.”
“Trust me…call.”
***
Belching load enough to fill the entire apartment, Tyson fell backward to the couch, patting his bulging stomach.
“Nice effort, Ty. I take it you got enough to eat?”
“Yep.”
“Good. Do you have homework?”
“Nah. After this settles I’m going to the gym.”
Temporarily desisting the clean-up efforts, Alex turned to Tyson, a plethora of his grease ridden napkins in her hand. “To the gym? At this hour?”
“Yeah. I gotta keep my priorities in check and stay on my routine.”
“It’s really late, Tyson. Can’t you go in the morning or something?”
“It’s only nine, Alex. I need to go tonight.”
Pizza box and napkins in the trash, Alex exhaled forcefully. “This is a really busy neighborhood, Tyson…it’s already dark…I’ll go with you. Yeah, I’ll go with you. I didn’t get to do yoga yesterday anyways.”
“Alex, you’ve had three glasses of wine since I’ve been home. Go to bed, I don’t need you to go with me.”
The irritation in his voice was just enough to sting. Starring at him, she cautiously approached. “I know you don’t, Tyson. But I do. It’s not…it’s not that I don’t think you can take care of yourself. I know you’re a grown man. It’s me, not you.”
“Huh?”
Biting her lip while looking toward the floor, she nodded. “Okay. You’re right. I’ll stay here and read my new book. If you don’t mind, will you text me when you’re walking back—”
“Who’s being silly now?” His smile, warm and playful, relaxed her shoulders some. “I’m gonna get changed. Grab your book. You can spot me if I need, but stay the hell off the equipment, you freakin’ lush.”
Pretending to read her novel from the corner, Alex continuously peeked over the pages toward Tyson. Within ten minutes of arriving, he’d caught the attention of two guys who appeared in their mid-twenties. The three of them comingling and completing sets, it appeared as though Alex would no longer need to worry about her brother’s safety at the gym at night. Between grunts and “one more, bro,” the trio had orchestrated a tentative gym schedule of Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday evenings. Both the men spotting her younger brother were large and appeared more than capable of fending off potential attackers effectively. One of them continuously looked in her direction.
Walking home, Tyson’s face and hair were drenched in sweat. He’d removed his shirt, exposing his well-defined physique and purple scar aligned with the underside of his pecs across his chest. “So, that Michael dude thinks you’re pretty hot…well, they both think you’re pretty hot, but Byron has a girlfriend.”
“Oh…how charming, Ty. Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Radiating from the walls of the surrounding complexes, the heat continued to pelt them regardless the sun’s absence. Tyson appeared incapable of obtaining relief as not even the hint of a breeze was on the air. Subdued and nearly lifeless, the night seemed stationary. Looking to her younger brother, she eased into a soft conversation.
“Tyson…do you ever think about where they came from?”
Dumbfounded, Tyson scratched his belly. “Um…no. I just met them. Bryon moved here for grad school—”
“No, silly…do you ever think about where your lungs came from?”
As if he stepped in a Tyson-sized glue trap, her brother’s steps suddenly stopped—his sneakers anchored to the sidewalk. Curiously evaluating her face, Tyson’s displayed a combination of confusion, hesitation and perhaps a hint of irritation. “Alex…”
“We don’t have to talk about this now, Ty. I know you’re tired.”
“I think about them every day…like, every hour. I literally think about them probably every ten minutes. I’m always thinking about them.”
“Oh…okay.”
“Why do you ask?”
“I just…well…I mean, we’ve never really talked about it so I was just curious. I wasn’t trying to offend you.”
“I’m not offended. I just think it was kind of a stupid question.”
“Tyson…”
His gaze was distant—his posture defensive—he was angered, regardless of what he said. “My bad.”
Walking past Alex, he dabbed the back of his neck with the shirt in his hand. Trailing behind, she searched her mind for the appropriate words. “Ty…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that—”
“No worries. Seriously. We’re good.”
When she caught up to him, Alex found herself looking on a soft smile.
“Tyson…Baby-Ty, please don’t be mad at me. I can’t handle that.”
Slowly stopping, he faced her. “I’m not. I promise I’m not mad at you, Alex. It’s just…” Blinking rapidly, the darks of his eyes darted as if he were searching for an analogy or scenario. “What if, Alex, a complete stranger was killed because he jumped in front of a bullet for you? Would you not think about them? I think about them every day. I owe them every breath I take. So…I guess that question just ruffled me.”
Regardless the relentless sweat and scent of the gym, Alex hugged her brother—squeezed him. “I’m sorry, Baby-Ty. It was a stupid question. I won’t bring it up again—”
“Nah…it’s not that, Alex.” As they separated, Alex waited for his explanation. “I need to talk about it. I want to talk about it…it’s time.”
“Time?”
“Yeah. It’s time. It’s been long enough. I guess…I guess the first few months I was just kinda waiting for something to go wrong. My head wasn’t really ready to take in everything. But with Dr. Jones telling me to go to college and live my life and I seriously feel freaking amazing…I think it’s time.”
“But…time for what, exactly?”
“It’s time to think about how to say thank you…it’s just…I don’t know how? I don’t understand how. I know I need to. I know I want to more than anything. I just don’t know how. How do you say thank you for something like that?”
“Oh. You want to meet the donor’s family?”
“Yeah. I really do. That Pam lady said I can write a letter when I’m r
eady. After they screen it they’ll give it to the donor family. It would be up to them if they wanted to actually meet me after that.”
“So…is that something you’re going to do?”
“Yeah. I’m sure the family is hundreds of miles away and all…but maybe they need closure. I just am worried that they’re not coping or something and then I’ll make it worse—”
“Tyson…” The words nearly leapt from her mouth. The urge to produce her smart phone and Bishop Holloway’s profile were quickly quelled.
“Yes, Alex.”
“Nothing. I think it’s a great idea. Let me know if you want help with the letter.”
“I will. As soon as I can give it two-hundred percent of my attention I’ll go for it.”
Side by side, they continued to their apartment.
Chapter Nine
The sweat seeping in at the corners of his eyes nearly sealed them. Laced with the previous evening’s indulgences, Bishop’s morning run had his forehead pouring toxins directly under his eyelids. Pungent and sour, he appeared through the front door of his empty home—heading straight for the kitchen to rehydrate after a steady five-mile jaunt through the gated community.
Irritated with a sense of inflammation, his insides ached for something other than vodka. Three eight-ounces of water down, and he was up the stairs, stripping as he made his way to the shower. The water warming, he examined himself in the mirror. His body still chiseled, yet his face and eyes carried a certain wasted look—the look one might awaken with after a four-day binge in Tijuana. Tired and lacking turgor, his skin appeared to need a boost of life.
“Slow down, Bishop.” Whispering to his reflection elicited an awkward feeling. Flashing a boyish smile, he convinced himself his current ailments could be mended with detox and a good book by the pool.
Showered, shaved, and carrot juice in hand—he made his way to the poolside with Rage by Johnathan Kellerman. Twenty pages in and he found himself sweating again—a good thing, but annoying just the same.
Last gulp of carrot juice down, he contemplated swimming or at least wading in the shallow end. Much to his surprise, his mother’s voice announced her arrival from behind him.