“You didn’t lose, Mick,” Lars stated. “Listening now, hearing it, you made the right unselfish decision. These boys love you. They really love you. Your relationship with them is exceptional, so exceptional that any biological father would be envious. You didn’t give up one son. You gained three.”
“I know.” Mick nodded. “And now I’m losing one.” Mick finally opened the paper and looked down. He gave a soft emotional chuckle. “I better get inside. Mind if I show this to Dylan?”
“No. That’s why I brought it.” Lars reached out and laid his hand on Mick’s arm. “You’re in my prayers, Mick.”
Mick was unable to speak his thanks, giving only a grateful nod of his head. Then after a soft, painful “See ya tomorrow”, Mick slipped back into the house.
Mick cleared a spot on what he called Dylan’s “mess table” that sat in the upstairs hallway, a little round stand that she always put papers and cups on with intentions to take them downstairs, but they never made it. On that table he put two cups of coffee. Something told him they might be sleeping, so he tried quietly to make his entrance into Dustin’s room. He would have done so had he not almost fallen over Chris who was lying on the floor.
“Sorry.” Chris looked up.
“Chris,” Mick said, crouching down, “you still aren’t better yet. How about sleeping in a bed one more night?”
“No.” Chris shook his head. “I don’t want to leave my brother.”
Understanding that, Mick kissed him and stood up. He looked at Dustin who had fallen asleep. He made sure he touched him as he walked to Dylan. “Hey,” he whispered in her ear. “Can I steal you for a minute?”
After nodding, Dylan quietly followed Mick into the hall. She pulled the door closed. “What’s up?”
“I just needed a minute with you. I got us coffee....” He pointed. “Can we sit out here in the hall? If you don’t want to….”
“No. That’s fine.” She reached up and laid her hand on his face. “Dustin’s asleep. Mick? Are you okay?”
Mick grabbed her hand and kissed it, then led her away from the door a few feet. He handed her the coffee and at the same time they both sank to the floor. “No.”
Dylan looked at him.
“No, I’m not okay. And I want to apologize to you for that.”
“I don’t understand. Why are you apologizing?”
“For not being as strong as I should be.”
“You’re my strength, Mick,” she blurted out. “I don’t know what I would do without you right now. You’re keeping me together.”
A single chuckle came from Mick. “I say the same thing about you.”
“I kind of think....” Dylan played with the cup in her hand, “that right now, we’re overwhelmed with shock and sadness. But I think we both have more strength than we realize. I look at you, I’m screaming inside, and you’re so calm.”
“You think?” Mick smiled. “I’m not calm. You...Dylan, I admire you so much for how brave you’re being right now.”
Scooting closer to him, Dylan leaned her head against Mick’s arm. “I wish God gave us, as parents, one chance. Just one chance, on a tiny slip of paper. A chance to switch places with your child. For anything. And when that moment is needed, we as parents could turn that slip of paper in and trade places.”
“One slip?” Mick asked. “One chance.”
“Yes, why?”
“Dylan, sweetheart. If God did that, you of all people wouldn’t have a chance to turn in right now. Not you. You would have turned that chance in years ago. When Dustin used to get picked on in school, you wanted to trade places. How about when Chris got that case of chicken pox and was in the hospital? A few days ago when Chris had the flu? The time Dustin got the lead in the school play and he opened his mouth to sing and nothing came out?”
Dylan smiled slightly. “Poor Dustin.”
“You would have done it many times. That’s why God doesn’t give us those chances, he knows how we can’t, with the love of parents, ever choose which moment is deserving enough. They all are deserving.” Mick exhaled heavily. “I want to talk to you about something.”
Dylan sat up and looked at him. “What’s wrong?”
“Dustin asked to see Tigger. He needs to see him, and I think Tigger should spend some time with his brother before...well, I just think he should.”
“I do, too, Mick, but I can’t take a chance on....” Dylan was silent when Mick handed her a sheet of paper. “What’s this?”
“Let Tigger in the room. Lars did some testing. Like father like son, Tigger is immune.”
Dylan hadn’t cried in hours, but at that second her entire face spasmed emotionally and a single tear ran down her face. She set down her coffee, and with the results still in her hand, Dylan embraced Mick. The moment in the hall ended up being just what she needed, a break from the heartache, and a little shining light of good.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
October 5th
Dustin didn’t awaken often. When a brief bout of consciousness allowed him to open his eyes, he’d shift them around the room to linger on Dylan, Chris, and Tigger. Even though they were tired and glazed, Dylan could look into his eyes and see Dustin’s life force, his soul. She painfully saw that he understood everything that was going on. He may have been ill, his body ravaged and swollen, but Dustin tried to smile because he enjoyed the happy stories they told. Over the course of the next twelve hours, he was aware of them for brief periods of time, then he’d fade into sleep brought on by the illness and the increasingly larger doses of pain medication.
However, even when he was unconscious, Dylan, Tigger, Chris, and Mick, whoever was in the room, kept talking. Dustin loved to talk, he loved to be a part of every conversation, adult or not, and they gave him that.
Although the event taking place was somber and solemn, Dylan didn’t want the mood to be somber; she strived to keep the atmosphere as normal as possible. She watched Chris and admired her middle son’s stamina and good sense. Although suffering through what he was witnessing with his older brother, Chris kept up a good front, upbeat, high spirited and energetic. The wrestling videos played constantly, and Chris, even when Dustin was asleep, rewound the parts that they always rewound, shouted out as always when matches were “awesome” and Chris would ask Dustin if he saw this or that.
Dustin was dying and the room was redolent of life, loud, noisy, and active. Dylan allowed that even at times when she wanted so badly to rest her eyes, wallow in sadness, or say a prayer in peace. She couldn’t. Dylan took in all that transpired in that room between her sons because she had come to the painful realization that moments of enthusiasm over wrestling, Chris’ chattering and spoken dreams were moments between her boys that soon would be no more.
* * *
The tissue, damp with Rose’s tears, shredded with the nervous rolling of her fingers. She could honestly say that she hadn’t cried since her husband had passed on years and years before. An avalanche of pain crushed the inner strength she’d always had.
She stared at her son, a monster of a man in size, yet she saw how small he felt. He was broken. The hours leading up to Dustin’s death became the sledgehammer that shattered him as if he were a pane of glass.
Mick hadn’t called upon her to be a mother in quite some time. Rose couldn’t recall how many evenings in the past she knew Mick had problems and she’d pick up the phone only to be told by him he was fine. So many times she wanted him to come to her and say, “Mom, what do I do?” Mick never did. Until that very moment. And all the years of motherly advice, at that second, seemed to vanish.
What to say? There was so much that could be said. Rose went through her mind as she listened to each word Mick spoke. What would be the best response? What would help?
Nothing.
There wasn’t a single word of comfort or advice that she could give that would even attempt to take the pain away.
After a sniffle, in a second of silence, Rose shivered, grabbed on
to Mick’s hand and squeezed. “I’m sorry. I am so very sorry.”
Mick bit his bottom lip. “I just wanted you to know. You may want to stop over and see him. He’s not...chances are he’s not gonna make it through the night.”
Hearing that, even though she knew it was coming, made Rose’s chest sink with sadness.
“Mom, I don’t know how Dylan’s doing it. I don’t. It hit her some time yesterday that Dustin, no matter we do, no matter how hard we pray, he’s leaving us. Why can’t I accept that? Why am I so damn angry over this? And hurt. Oh, God, I don’t even wanna touch that. I just wanna pick him up, take him somewhere, and say ‘Help him,’ but there’s nowhere to go. Nothing will help.”
“That’s what the problem is right now with you, Mick,” Rose said to her son. “You’ve always rushed in, saved the day, righted a wrong. You can’t fix this one. Dylan’s faced that easier, because despite how tough you think you are, she’s always been more reality-based than you. You see something, and you want it, no matter how far from your reach, you go after it. And...and usually, you get it. But Dylan, she goes after what she knows is within that reach, never too far from it. She knows this is out of her hands. It’s in God’s hands now. She won’t touch it. You, Michael, if you could take on God right now to win that boy back, you would. But you can’t. This battle for you is unwinnable. Not to say, if you could, you wouldn’t give God a pretty good fight.” She winked.
“My typical comeback would be, ‘nah, I’d kick His ass’, but....” Mick chuckled, “I really need Him right now, and I don’t want to say anything to piss Him off.”
“I hear that.” Rose gave a pat to his hand. “You’ll get through this, Mick. No matter how bad you hurt, you will get through this. Life goes on. It really does. And you are strong, Mick, no matter what you say right now. I kinda think that may be the reason you feel so weak; it isn’t because you are, it’s just that fate stole some of your strength and tucked it away in reserve so you can go full force when this is over.”
“What if I’m not able to do that?” Mick asked.
“You will be.” Rose embraced her son and almost died when she felt how tightly he held on. And through that hug, she realized that perhaps, even just a little, she did indeed give the comfort and words as a mother she had always wanted to give.
* * *
“To cop a ‘Patrick’ phrase,” Lars chuckled softly, “this sucks. This really...sucks.” Lars dropped down onto the fresh mound of dirt and took a seat. An artificial flower, perfect in its beauty, was in his hand. He peered up across the field to the lines and lines of fresh graves. To him it seemed like a miniature Arlington Cemetery. No headstones or crosses adorned the graves yet, just single wooden stick grave markers which held a white cloth with the name of each of the dead. The wind was brisk and the white cloths all flapped in a small orchestra of noise. They looked like white flags, but somehow they didn’t hold the typical stigma of surrender. To Lars they waved in glorification of life, because there had been no surrender from those who passed on from the flu. They battled, they fought hard, and in essence, in their own way, they really won. They had moved on to something much better, where those who were left behind were left to live a life of grief, painful reminders, decades of hurt and struggles.
“I brought you a cheesy gift. All the others will be envious.” Lars placed the wire stem into the earth. “There. You have a decoration. I apologize for not coming straight out here yesterday when you were buried. But I’m sure you understand. It’s been bad. Very bad. Tonight, tomorrow....” Lars exhaled, “is the finale. Dear God, the company you will have out here. We didn’t do as well as we wanted to, Patrick. The second wave undid the great stats we had. What happened?” He shook his head. “Confidence. Too many came in too late. We had a lot of young not respond. I think you’re lucky that you have missed this last round. In case you’re curious....no. Aside from not being able to get there, I’ve no plans to go back to Africa. I do have plans to stay in Lodi.” Lars gasped as if he were faking shock. “Surprised? You and Mick laid a lot of groundwork for survival. My God, the pressure that is going to fall upon that man’s shoulders when this thing is over. People look to him as a leader. He’s gonna have to pull them through. He’ll need some help since...you abandoned him. Just like you to run, isn’t it? As I have said to you so many times, just like a criminal. Can I let you in on a little secret?” Lars dropped his voice to a whisper. “I have never viewed you as a criminal. I think you know that, I only liked to joke with you. I need to tell you something, Patrick, if you don’t mind. I wished I could have told you these things when you were around. I guess that regret will be multiplied ten-fold around here by everyone. But, forgive the sappiness. I’ll allow you to haunt my dreams and badger me, how’s that?” There was a pause of silence and sadness from Lars. “A month never is long, but when you seem to spend every single day with someone, it can contain a lifetime. You have never treated me as any more than the man I am. Your bizarre curiosity of me made me laugh and your energy and youth made me feel alive. I guess in essence you are a criminal, because my friend, you stole my heart. And when I speak of you in the years to come, as I keep your name alive, your spirit, I will always preface your name with the words, ‘my friend’. Because you are.” Lars ran his hand over the mound of dirt. He grabbed a little and placed it in his pocket. He let out a long breath and folded his arms over his bent knees. “Ah. Okay, sappy time over, mind if I hang out for a while and insult you?”
* * *
Peyton Place, the ageless story, was Marian’s favorite movie. Tom hated the thought of staying in the bedroom and watching it with her, but she asked for it. And since her spirits and health were improving, Tom gave in. It took a while, but he found that movie in his pile of ‘hide for good’ movies at the video store.
Some soup would hit the spot for the two of them. He had done a lot of digging the previous night, and he hadn’t warmed up from the chill that had set into his bones.
Movie under his arm, two mugs of soup in his hand, Tom pushed the bedroom door opened with his foot. “Hey, dinner and a movie. Just like old times.”
There was a gurgling sound that hit him the second he stepped in. Down onto the dresser went the mugs, the movie dropped from under his arms and Tom flew to the bed. “Marian!”
White. Her face was white, her eyes wide in panic as she struggled for each breath that seemed to come through a thick, slushy mud.
“Can’t...can’t…breathe,” Marian tried to gasp. The rumbling was louder.
Tom grabbed her hand with worry. “I’ll be back, Marian. I’ll be right back. I have to get Lars.” Murmuring, over and over, ‘I’ll be back’ Tom flew to the door.
“Tom?” Marian called out softly.
It was clear, too clear and perfect. Tom skidded to a stop. He heard nothing, and he knew. Slowly, he turned from the bedroom door.
Marian’s eyes had closed. She didn’t move or breathe. The silence bespoke of a blanketing peace that gave a small bit of comfort. But it wasn’t enough to ease the broken heart that, at that moment, Tom suffered. He felt a part of his own soul leave. Marian was gone.
* * *
Thump.
Against the hollowing chest cavity of his young body, Dustin’s lungs snapped against the struggle to take a breath, echoing in a sense his own beating drum, his final dance in life. There was complete and utter silence from everyone in the room. The only noise came from Dustin. The long breaths in, the thump, the wheeze out. Slowly, with a heartbreaking and frightening pause between each one.
He was sitting nearly upright, but his head tilted to the right, his eyes on his mother. His eyes that wouldn’t close held a half focus as they partially rolled to the back of his head.
Dustin had stopped blinking. The only movements he made were involuntary, the quick rise of his chest and slight twitch of his head with his inhalations.
Dylan held his hand, her eyes staying on him, trying telepathically to relay some s
ort of message of hope and freedom from fear.
Chris huddled in the dark corner, knees to his chest, eyes glued to Dustin.
Mick prayed. Between his palms, pressed to his lips, was Dustin’s hand.
Nobody moved. Nobody said anything.
Another moment of quietude ensued, only it was too long, much longer than any of the other breathless hushes. Dylan’s eyes rose to meet Mick’s and as soon as they did, a sound broke the silence.
It was whimpering, a tiny whine, soft, short. Dustin’s eyes shifted, and again he made that noise. It was almost inaudible. Then after a heavy gasping wheeze, Dustin’s breathing went out of control, labored, hard. And with the most paralyzing, anguish-filled scream they’d ever heard, his mouth dropped open, his body flung forward and Dustin’s arms reached out frantically as if desperately asking for help.
“Mick!” Dylan screamed, lunging for Dustin as his body convulsed out of control.
But Mick was there already, slipping behind Dustin, wrapping his entire being around the boy to keep his body still. No amount of strength could stop the uncontrollable shaking Dustin did, and nothing, absolutely nothing, blocked out the horrendous scream.
Over and over, long, loudly and painfully, Dustin cried out.
“Dustin!” Dylan grabbed his hand, her words trembling and crying. “Dustin, baby, let go.”
Mick cradled him, holding him tighter and tighter “Shh. We’re here. Just let go, it’s all right. We love you. We’re here.” Mick wanted to bellow out at that moment; everything crumbled inside of him as he held Dustin, trying to take it from him.
The Flu (A Novel of the Outbreak) Page 33