Final Sharp Turn (Sharp Turn Saga #3)

by Faye Byrd

  That’s all he says aloud, but his eyes say so much more. He needs this, too. He needs me to leave with him and allow myself a reprieve from the pain, if only for a little while.

  I reach for his hand and give it a light squeeze. “Two hours. Tops,” I finally agree. “That’s it.”

  He smiles a small smile at my compliance. “Thank you, baby.”

  “We’ll go after Dr. Andrews comes,” I add, putting them all on notice.

  “Works for me.” He squeezes my hand and stands.

  Our mothers make themselves scarce for a little while as Cam wakes and one of the team members come in to get him nourished. Afterwards, Dr. Andrews administers his daily dose of poison. You’d think our mothers were spying because they magically appear just as the doctor is leaving.

  “What sounds good for lunch?” Trystan asks as he pulls from the hospital lot.

  “Can you just make us some sandwiches at home?”

  He brings our joined hands up and kisses the back of mine. “Sure, sounds good.”

  After a lunch of hot ham and cheese sandwiches, I go upstairs to take a shower. Once my clothes are removed, I stand under the scalding spray. It’s here where I allow my grief to consume me.

  Tears mix with the spray as I slump against the wall and let all my heartache pour from me. Strong arms pull me into a bare chest and tighten around me. They hold me so tight it’s as if he’s literally keeping me together.

  My tears fall onto his chest, only to be carried away by the water falling from above. And when I’ve poured out all my fear and anger through my tears, I lift my eyes and attack with my lips.

  I consume him just as the grief over my son’s pain has consumed me.

  -3

  The last bit of poison enters his system today.

  Finally, his treatment is complete. The horrible torture my son has been through is over. He’ll have to endure no more. He is left with patches of red all over, and nausea still racks his weary body almost hourly.

  -2

  For the second time, our moms have sent me away.

  This time, we’re going to pick up Blake and enjoy lunch in the park. Give him the benefit of both of us at the same time. Something he hasn’t had in over a week.

  Trystan walks in to get Blake, and when he comes out and sees me sitting in the car, he breaks into a huge smile and starts running. I open the door and greet him enthusiastically.

  “Mama,” he exclaims as he wraps his arms tightly around me. “What you doin’ here?” Then his brows crinkle. “Where Cam?”

  “Cam’s still at the hospital, buddy,” Trystan explains, walking up behind him.

  “Who’s there wif him?” He holds up his hands, looking confused.

  “Nana and grandma are there. They’re taking good care of him,” Trystan explains, trying to herd him into his car seat.

  “Why can’t I go then?” He pouts.

  “Dude, I told you I’ll talk to the doctor and to see when you can visit, okay? You can’t come unless they give the all-clear.” Trystan tries to soothe him, but he’s having none of it.

  “Other people gets to see him. Why can’t I?” he demands, arms crossed, cheeks puffed.

  Trystan buckles his straps and takes his time walking to the driver’s seat. He has no answers to Blake’s question, and neither do I. We aren’t prepared for this. We have nothing to say that a three-year-old might find acceptable or understand.

  “Mama,” Blake says before Trystan makes it around. “Why can’t I?”

  Taking a deep breath to prolong the moment, I release it and try to come up with something. “Sweetie, when people visit, we take the chance of Cam catching something.” I turn in my seat so he can see me. “You know, like a cold? If Cam got a cold right now, it would be very bad.”

  “I not gots no cold, though,” he says with a shrug, and my heart rips in two.

  Trystan slides in and catches Blake’s proclamation. “Blake, you can’t go see Cameron right now, and that’s final.” He’s using his stern father voice, and my heart rips even more.

  Blake crosses his arms over his chest and looks out the window without saying another word to either of us. He’s already feeling excluded and confused, and we’re still only at the beginning.

  -1

  Today, Cam rests.

  Tomorrow, we begin the process of putting him back together.

  7 Tow Away Zone

  Trystan

  Today is the beginning.

  Day fucking zero.

  The day we start to put Cam back together again.

  I’ve had to sit here and watch my whole family suffer for nine long days, and it’s not like I’m not suffering too, but their pain is paramount to mine.

  I watch as Cam retches and spends each new day in worse pain than the one before. His skin is covered in patches of red, and his lips are cracked and dry. He looks so small and frail lying in that bed that I want to cocoon him in my arms and keep all the doctors away, but I can’t. I have to let them near him and watch as they administer things that serve only to make him sicker.

  My fucking heart beats out of my chest as his condition deteriorates.

  I watch as my wife crumbles before my eyes. She pretends to be okay when really, she’s anything but. I have to fight to make her leave his side while she wars within herself over how to prioritize between our sons.

  My fucking soul is tortured right beside her.

  I watch my other son rage because he can’t see Cam, and I rage because I have to keep breaking his heart. The days of waking me up ready to go to Charlotte’s are behind us. Now he just wants to see his brother.

  My fucking mind is raging, too.

  Dr. Andrews and the transplant team enter the room to start preparing. Compared to what he’s already been through, this is the easy part. The part where they introduce the stem cells that will reinvigorate his life. It won’t be a result we’ll see right away, but we’re definitely turning a corner today.

  As her team sets up everything, Dr. Andrews comes to speak to Easton and me. “Do you have any questions about what we'll be doing today?”

  I stay quiet, placing my hand on Easton’s back in support. “How long will the procedure take?” she asks.

  “The transplant will be over in less than an hour. One of the drugs used this past week was to prevent his body from rejecting the new cells. After the transplant is complete, we’ll start him on a new regimen that will prevent his new immune system from attacking the cells already present in his body,” Dr. Andrews explains, but it’s all too much to keep up with. We just want him well.

  Easton nods, taking in this information. “So no side effects like from the chemo?”

  Dr. Andrews starts shaking her head and touches Easton’s arm. “No, Easton. Nothing from this point forward that we administer will intentionally hurt him, but we do have to worry about infections and watch for signs of GVHD, even though he’ll be receiving medications to help prevent it.”

  Easton takes a deep breath and looks to me. “Do you have any questions?”

  I caress her back and turn to Dr. Andrews. “How much longer can we expect the chemo side effects to torture our son?”

  Dr. Andrews sighs and clutches Cam’s chart closer to her chest. “I’m so sorry, but it can last weeks longer. They can also start to get less in just a few days. Right now, it’s a watch and see situation. We’ll take blood samples daily from here forward and steadily monitor his counts. He’ll also receive many transfusions in the next couple of weeks.”

  I give her a slight nod to let her know that, although it isn’t the answer I want, she did answer my question. “How long before our other son can visit?”

  She tilts her head, her eyes apologetic. “Again, that will be a wait and see. No visitors under twelve are allowed until his absolute neutrophil count is over five hundred for three days in a row.” At Easton’s sigh, she holds up her finger. “But, this also will be the first signs of engraftment. It’ll be a day to celebr
ate.”

  Easton gnaws on her bottom lips as she absorbs the doctor’s words. “Okay, we can work with that.” She glances at me, and I nod. “We’re ready then.”

  Fucking finally.

  The beginning of Cam’s cure.

  Day 2

  As I’m leaving the hospital for the night, a lone reporter stops me before I can make it to my car. “Mr. Ashby, I’m Frederick Thompson. The Atlanta Beacon is doing an update piece on your son, and I’d like to know if you’re willing to contribute?”

  Would I?

  I slow my steps and pause to consider this request. I’d rather have the correct information out than a bunch of bullshit reporting when it comes to my son. “What would you like to know?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

  He takes out a small tape recorder and hits a button. “It’s our understanding that your son, Cameron Wilder, received his transplant a couple of days ago. Is that correct?” Frederick asks, holding the recorder between us.

  “He did,” I answer with a hesitant nod. “But for accuracy, his name is officially Cameron Ashby.”

  Frederick’s eyes barely show the surprise, but it’s there, yet he stays on course with his next question. “And can you tell us what his condition is now?”

  “Cam’s been through a lot in the past week and a half, but for now, he’s still holding strong,” I answer.

  “What about your other son, Blake. This must be hard on him, too,” he observes, and his tone is soft, sympathetic, not salacious like I’ve seen from reporters before.

  If he only knew.

  Without the actual physical pain, this has been almost as hard on Blake. He doesn’t understand, and I’m at a loss to find the right words to make it better for him.

  I clear my throat before I speak. “It has been hard on Blake, but we’re doing everything we can to make it easier. We have a huge support system with our families, and we make sure he knows he’s loved.” I have to stop and swallow down the lump in my throat. “His biggest question is when he can see his brother, and right now, I don’t have that answer.”

  Frederick stops his recorder. “Are you sure you’re okay with this, Mr. Ashby? I know it must be a very tough situation for all of you.”

  “It is,” I tell him. “I’d rather you print the truth than some half-ass story that has no sympathy for the pain my family is suffering.”

  “So you’re okay to continue then?” he asks. At my nod, he hits the button again. “Can you give us a timeline on Cameron’s recovery?”

  I take a deep breath and blow it out in a huff. “We’re looking at a year long term. Short term, hopefully in the next fifteen or so days we’ll start to see engraftment.”

  “Engraftment?” he repeats, looking for me to explain.

  “That’s when we’ll see signs that the new cells have started to make more healthy cells,” I respond.

  “Is there anything specific you’d like to get out to the public?” he asks, closing out the interview.

  I think it over and decide this is another chance to help other people like Cam by getting the message out. “Yes, I’d like to ask everyone to get tested. The process is simple, and you could save a life by being a match. Many people never find one.” I then remember the most important thing. “My wife and I would also like to beg for privacy during this situation. We hope people can respect that and allow us to deal with this as a family. We’ll gladly inform you as Cam progresses.”

  Frederick turns off the recorder and holds out his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Ashby. We’ll honor your request, and I’ll leave my card so you may contact me, personally, in the future. No one from The Beacon will bother you again.”

  I shake his hand and retrieve the card he offers. “Thank you, Frederick. I’ll be in touch in a few weeks.”

  Day 5

  For the first time since the transplant, I was finally able to talk Easton into going home. She put up a small fuss but also wanted to see Blake for herself. She’s spent more time with Cam, and the guilt burns her from the inside, but the choices she faces are impossible.

  So I sit here, holding my son’s tiny hand in mine while he sleeps. He’s peaceful right now, but I know in a little while he’ll wake to another round of dry heaves and ChapStick.

  I jerk my head up at Cam’s sudden movement; he’s sitting upright, hand clutching his stomach. Grabbing the basin, I make sure it’s positioned where he needs it. After several minutes of rubbing his back while he gags up nothing, he finally calms enough for me to wipe his face.

  “Are you okay, buddy?” I ask as I brush the cloth over his forehead.

  He gives me a small nod. “Yeah, Daddy, I all right.”

  It breaks my heart to hear his small voice after such an awful experience. “Do you want me to get your toothbrush?”

  Again, he gives me a small nod.

  After retrieving a clean basin and a cup of water, I return to his side, carrying his toothbrush with paste on it already. “Be careful and don’t swallow any water or you’ll probably get sick again.”

  He brushes his teeth just enough to get the nasty taste from his mouth and rinses only once. “That better, dude?” I ask, taking the items back from him.

  “Yeah, Daddy, my mouth tastes better. Can I have some ChapStick now?” he asks, puppy eyes in full effect when there’s no need whatsoever.

  “Of course you can. What flavor you want this time?”

  “Chocolate,” he states firmly.

  I pull out his bedside drawer and start digging around, only to find that his chocolate tube is empty. “Aw, buddy,” I say, opening the top and showing him there’s none inside. “You’re all out of chocolate. What other flavor do you want?”

  His little eyes fill with tears, and the big fat drops spill over his cheeks. “Chocolate is my favorite,” he cries, and I’m broken, bleeding on the floor.

  I crawl up on the bed beside my broken-hearted son and hold him close. “I’m sorry, dude. I promise to get you more.”

  He starts shaking his head frantically between tears. “No, Mama said they not sell chocolate no more right now. I want more chocolate.”

  “Shh, it’s okay. Daddy has you. I’ll get you some chocolate,” I soothe as I rock him back and forth. “How about trying some of that stuff the doctor gave you? It worked when you were really sick.” He’s still sniffling, but I feel his little head nod into my chest, so I lean over and grab the small container from the still-open drawer. “Here ya go, bud.”

  After I apply the medicine to his lips, I sink further into the bed, bringing him to snuggle into my side. With soft strokes along his forehead to across his stiff, lifeless hair, he’s finally lulled back to sleep.

  Once I untangle myself from his hold, I grab my phone and bring up a browser window.

  Ten tubes of chocolate ChapStick coming right up.

  Day 10

  Easton and I are sitting in Cam’s room while he naps after lunch. He still spends more time asleep than awake, but I’ll gladly take more sleeping, less retching any day. His lips have regained their usual pink sheen, and the rash has started to fade.

  Now it’s just a waiting game.

  Just as I’m about to suggest Easton goes to eat her own lunch, something on the TV catches my attention. I grab the remote and turn up the volume.

  "As reported earlier this week by The Atlanta Beacon, three-year-old Cameron Ashby―last name previously Wilder―is currently in the process of receiving a bone marrow transplant at Metro University Pediatric. The Ashbys were previously featured in The Atlanta Beacon when we learned he and his brother, Blake Ashby, were switched at birth. Easton Wilder became aware of the switch when she discovered her son Cameron was sick, and their test results showed no match between them.

  We’ve recently discovered that Trystan Ashby and Easton Wilder have gotten married, and just before Cameron was admitted to the hospital, they appeared before a court to legally adopt each of their sons. While thi—”

  As soon as the bitch g
oes into our personal stuff, I hit the power button and toss the remote back on the end table. My eyes immediately seek Easton, as her and my boys are the true things that matter.

  “Wow, that was … unexpected,” she says, shell-shocked.

  “See, this is why I stopped and spoke with Frederick. I wanted the facts out there about Cam, not all this get-into-our-personal-business-shit,” I say, frustrated that someone took it upon themselves to dig into our life.

  She comes over and props herself on my knee. “Hey, it’s okay. It is public information that we’re married. It’s no big deal as long as we aren’t hounded by the press,” she assures, her fingers floating over the fuzz on my head.

  “I know, baby.” I sigh and peck her pouty lips. “Why do you always make so much sense?”

  She gives me a cheeky wink. “Because you just got lucky like that.”

  And I know I fucking did.

  Too fucking lucky.

  Day 13

  Thanksgiving dawns bright and much warmer than I’m accustomed to, but that seems to be the case since I’ve been in Georgia. The fall has been mild, and according to Easton, I can expect the same from winter, too.

  It breaks my heart to drop Blake off at Coop and Kari’s on a day that supposed to be filled with family togetherness, but it can’t be helped. At least I was able to get Easton to agree that it’ll be her who picks him up. She needs it. They both need it. My boy used to be accustomed to only having his dad, but that simply isn’t the case anymore. He wants to see his mom, too.

  By the time I make it to Cam’s room, Dr. Andrews is giving Easton the daily briefing. “At this point, I don’t see any reason to be concerned. We’ll change his antibiotics and keep a close watch.”

  I step to Easton’s side and slip my arm around her back. “Is something wrong?”

  “It’s only a very slight infection,” Dr. Andrews says, her eyes apologetic. “I still expect to see signs of engraftment within a week or so.”

  “So this is a setback?” I ask, my hope sinking.

  “Not at all,” she replies. “His counts are improving. We just need to nip this in the bud before it gets worse.”