by John Herrick
Jesse explained the marrow process as Eden watched—and then Eden eyed him closer. The stress of watching his son endure a tragedy would strike anyone as understandable, as would the pressure of how to pay the medical expenses that would mount. Even with Caitlyn’s insurance, the copayments themselves would deal a hefty hit to their finances. But Jesse also forgot to maintain eye contact with Eden.
Eden’s eyes narrowed. “Are you facing something yourself? Beyond Drew?”
He’d let his guard down. Jesse maintained his facial composure and guarded against other abrupt movements. He had to remain calm. “Of course not. Just worried about Drew—he’s my kid.”
“I think it’s time you told Dad about Drew,” she said, and Jesse hoped this meant she figured she’d overreacted with her question. Eden added, “It’s none of my business and it’s not my life, so I don’t have a clue how Drew’s situation must feel to you. But you’re bearing this on your own shoulders, and you don’t need to—not when you’re surrounded by people who support you.”
Jesse could sense his resilience crumble. Wary at the idea of telling Chuck the truth—though he couldn’t explain why he felt that way—Jesse had to admit, the prospect appealed to him. By this time, he’d hidden Caitlyn’s pregnancy for just shy of twelve years. Jesse had no reason not to tell Chuck. After all, Drew was Chuck’s grandson, his flesh and blood. And it would help Drew to have the additional support.
It would be difficult to take such a step. Then again, Jesse had hidden the truth for so long, maybe it wasn’t fear he battled, but stubbornness.
Jesse had denied Drew of a father. How could he deny him a grandfather too?
* * *
Jesse stalled the entire next day. His church-maintenance tasks provided a convenient excuse.
When his workday ended, he took an indirect route to Chuck’s office, wound through corridors and stairwells, anything to kill time. Jesse felt nervous, a sensation reminiscent of when he’d first walked into Chuck’s office months ago, but more severe this time. For today he wouldn’t simply appear before his father—he would reveal a secret and admit he was a liar.
Jesse wouldn’t have imagined this scenario a year ago. His greatest fear didn’t rest in the revelation he would unveil, but in its aftermath. After months spent rebuilding his father’s trust, today he would risk destruction of that bond. In a matter of minutes, Jesse would admit he was not who his father believed him to be; Jesse was, in actuality, a father himself.
But this step would help Drew, Jesse reminded himself. After all, Jesse felt weak, whereas Chuck’s life abounded with faith. Drew needed his grandfather’s prayers.
A quiet tap on the door. Chuck looked up and invited Jesse in. Jesse closed the door behind him and sat down, not at the opposite side of the desk, but beside his father, eye to eye.
Jesse inhaled and exhaled in staccato, the way he breathed amid freezing temperatures.
Chuck furrowed his eyebrows. “Are you all right? Son?”
Son. That word sounded precious to Jesse, who held newfound appreciation for its meaning and flavor.
Son: a term of love, nearness and acceptance.
“I can’t do this anymore,” Jesse said.
Chuck removed his reading glasses and scooted closer. “Do what?”
“I can’t lie to you anymore.” Jesse felt his face grow flushed and heated. “Caitlyn and I—when we were eighteen …”
Concern washed over Chuck’s face. He placed his hand on Jesse’s knee. “Jess?”
“We have a son. His name is Drew.”
At first, Chuck’s face paled from shock; he tried to speak. Instead, he sighed and rubbed his eyes in frustration. “Jesse.” And then Chuck’s shoulders froze. He uncovered his eyes. “Wait a minute. You have a child and you were gone for—are you telling me you left him?”
This was the part Jesse dreaded. “I didn’t know she’d given birth.”
“How come?”
Jesse hesitated. “We’d agreed to get an abortion—”
Chuck shook his head. Jesse was a teenager again. Jesse startled at the sound of Chuck’s hands hitting his own knees in anger.
Jesse held his hands out. “She didn’t go through with it. She said she couldn’t do it. But I was already gone by the time she changed her mind. Listen to me.” Chuck’s lips tightened almost to the point of disappearance. “I’ve taken responsibility now.”
Neither man spoke for a while.
Jesse had pierced his father with the truth. Chuck, who must have tried to determine whether to blow up or restrain himself, glared from one corner of the room to the other. Though these revelations occur, what parent expects a day like this to come, one in which your son tells you he got his girlfriend pregnant? At this point, Jesse could think of nothing else to do except bear his heart. So he did.
“I’ve been an awful person,” Jesse said. His tears burned his cheeks as they rolled down. “I didn’t know what else to do or where else to go, so I ran. Back then. To California. And that’s the reason I came back—I ran out of steam. I couldn’t ignore the guilt anymore.
“I’m a liar and a coward, Dad. I hid the pregnancy. And then, when I found out Drew was alive, I hid him from you and begged Eden not to tell. It’s not her fault; it’s mine.” Jesse’s hands and voice shuddered from lack of emotional control. His heart palpitated with thumps he swore were audible. “I’m so sorry for the pain I’ve put my own family through—you, Eden. And Drew. I’ve tried to put things together—honest, I have. But I’m too screwed up to make it happen by myself. Please forgive me for what I did to all of you. I hate myself, the person I’ve become.”
While Jesse spoke, Chuck’s glare softened, and then transitioned to a look of compassion. As Chuck drew his son into his arms, Jesse couldn’t resist; he leaned into his father’s shoulder. And together, the two wept.
“You’re forgiven,” Chuck said. “Before you say anything else—you’re forgiven. I’m always here for you. I don’t count against you whatever you’ve done wrong. I’m your dad, Jess; I love you.”
They held each other until the weeping subsided and Jesse calmed.
A sense of cleansing in his chest, Jesse looked into his father’s eyes. “Caitlyn and I—we’re back in touch, and I’m making amends. I promise I’ll be a good father like you. Drew knows I’m his dad; we’re growing together. But he’s in trouble. He’s sick, and they don’t know what it is or if he can recover. I don’t know what to do for him. I’m scared—so scared. Not for me, but for Drew …” Jesse pleaded with his eyes. “He’s my son.”
Chuck rocked his son, an adult yet always his child. “I know.”
When they parted from their embrace, the relief felt like a morning tide, a fresh start.
A secret exposed. The darkness quenched.
They kept quiet for five minutes, or so it seemed to Jesse. He had liberated himself from the heavy burden on his soul. Even his exhales felt lighter.
At last, Chuck broke the silence. He put his hand on Jesse’s knee and grinned. “So, when do I get to meet my grandson?”
CHAPTER 59
During one treatment session, as he waited for his son, Jesse’s mind wandered.
His son’s resolve fascinated him. Drew had withheld his emotion the night Jesse told him he was his father, and that self-control resurfaced during treatment. While Jesse wished Drew would communicate more, he admired the kid’s inner strength.
But as the months progressed, Drew’s external strength began to dissipate, due not to physical exertion but, rather, to the stress of tests and treatment. Jesse wondered if the treatment was painful. He couldn’t bear to watch his son flinch, yet he refused to leave Drew’s side. Because Jesse had put his permanent job search on hold and continued to work for his own father, considerable leeway ensued. So Jesse took Drew to most medical sessions.
Jesse loathed Drew’s illness. He resolved to find a way to rescue his son. Somehow.
In his heart, Jesse sensed he would pro
ve a precise match for Drew, and the bone-marrow option was the only surefire one. It would come down to that—and when it did, Jesse intended to have a strategy ready. The need for a plan, a method to hide his own suspected illness, consumed him as possibilities scurried through his mind in a stream of consciousness. But he eliminated each option for one reason or another.
His own hospital stay had occurred more than halfway across the country, and no one here was aware of the incident. If Jesse didn’t say a word, surely no one would figure it out—at least not until he had accomplished whatever he needed to. Regardless of the risk he himself faced, Jesse valued Drew’s survival more.
True, Jesse’s own sickness proved a stumbling block and a greater enemy than he’d anticipated. But he was confident he could defeat it, or at least downplay it.
His life for Drew’s.
For Jesse, the question was no longer if, but how.
How could he mask his own internal symptoms?
Dr. Bernstein interrupted Jesse’s thoughts to inform him he could take Drew home.
* * *
When they arrived home before six that evening, Drew felt exhausted and wanted to sleep for the remainder of the night. Caitlyn had prepared a quick dinner, but Drew wasn’t hungry. She tucked him in, they spoke for a few minutes, and she kissed him goodnight. Then Jesse made his way into Drew’s darkened bedroom.
Drained from the emotional rollercoaster of recent months, Drew lay limp against the pillow. Jesse sat beside him on the bed, pulled the blanket snugger beneath the boy’s chin, and kissed him on the forehead.
“Kinda rough today?” Jesse asked.
“It’s been worse.” Although tired, Drew’s eyes remained halfway open.
“You’re my champ.” Jesse reached for Drew’s hand, and the boy gripped him.
They listened to the heat as it billowed from the vent on that mid-winter evening, before Drew whispered, “Do you think there’s a God?”
Taken off guard, Jesse struggled not with the question itself, but with the context in which it emerged. Even though Drew was aware of the severity of his illness, Jesse grew concerned. Did his son sense imminence within?
“Yes, I do.” Jesse brushed a hand through his son’s hair. “Is everything okay?”
Drew shrugged. Jesse coaxed him further, and soon he heard his son sniffle in the darkness.
Jesse found Drew’s other hand and held them both between his own. “What’s wrong, buddy? You can talk to me.”
Jesse heard a heavy swallow from Drew. “I’m afraid to die.”
The words sent a dagger into Jesse’s kidney. He felt Drew’s hands tremble.
“You won’t die,” Jesse said. “I won’t let that happen. I promise.”
“Are you afraid to die?”
“I was,” he said, “but I’m not anymore, because I know where I’ll be when I die. And it will be even better than anything I’ve experienced.” When Jesse noticed the words soothed his son, he continued. “When I was a kid, I listened to my dad talk about heaven, and he said there will be streets of gold, people from nations I’ve never visited, constant light. Water of life flowing from God’s throne. And there’s a tree of life—the Bible says its leaves are for healing. No more sickness up there. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
“Mmm-hmm,” said Drew, a clear attempt at boldness.
As Drew began to drift to sleep, Jesse told him, “Your grandpa lives nearby. Would you like to meet him?”
A faint, sweet smile as Drew, half conscious, nodded.
* * *
Drew’s favorite birthday gift that year was a grandfather.
Born in early February, Caitlyn had delivered Drew without a hitch, just overdue. Unlike the day of his birth, however, he was surrounded by loved ones today, his eleventh birthday. Eden and Blake arrived first. Before they walked inside, they stomped off clusters of powdery Ohio snow. Caitlyn led them into the living room, where she introduced them to Drew. Jesse joined them, and the three guys turned on the television to watch the Cleveland Cavaliers play in Chicago.
The doorbell rang a few minutes later and Jesse jogged over to greet Chuck, whose face couldn’t have been brighter as he peered into the living room to catch an advance glimpse of his grandson.
Jesse called out to Drew and gestured for him to come over.
As the blond-haired boy approached, Chuck knelt on one knee. “Are you Drew? Happy birthday, big guy!”
Drew leaned against Jesse and offered a bashful smile.
Chuck extended his hand and they shook. “I’m Chuck.”
“This is your grandfather. He’s a minister.”
As Chuck peered face-to-face at his first grandchild, he counted aloud the number of features that Drew and Jesse shared. And the first feature he mentioned: their green eyes.
“Jesse said you ride a motorcycle,” Drew said.
Chuck laughed. “Yep, he’s right about that. Are you gonna go for a ride sometime?”
Still shy, Drew said he would indeed, then bounced back over to the game on TV. But by the end of the day, Chuck had drawn Drew into a stream of conversation.
Jesse led Chuck over to Caitlyn, where Chuck hugged the woman who, as a teenager, had made the choice that allowed him to meet his grandson today.
That day, while a birthday celebration for Drew, also carried a reunion tone for everyone else. Jesse floated around the room to take snapshots, including several of Drew with his grandfather. When the time came to slice Drew’s cake, Eden borrowed Jesse’s camera—after, of course, a training session from Drew—and snapped a shot of Jesse and Caitlyn, who surrounded Drew as he blew out the candles.
The picture became Jesse’s immediate favorite: his first family picture of Caitlyn, Drew and himself. Later, he would print an extra copy and often hold it against his heart when no one else was around.
In this moment of honesty, Jesse treasured the scent of candle smoke, the cheers of Drew and crew as the Cavs won the game, and two more inches of snow that accumulated outside. Jesse wanted to soak in each detail.
Jesse shook his head in disbelief. To think that he nearly gave this away for a superficial relationship with Jada. Almost one year ago, he sought an abrupt end to his life in a suicide attempt. But today he wanted his life more than anything.
And then he remembered, to sacrifice his life on Drew’s behalf meant a countdown of his own days and hours. This, Drew’s first birthday spent with his dad, would, more likely than not, also be his last. Jesse wanted to cling to his life, but his desire to see Drew cling to life stood stronger.
Happy birthday, Drew.
From your dad.
CHAPTER 60
As the weeks marched on, Jesse obsessed in his hunt for a method—any method—to mask his own sickness. Dr. Bernstein had exhausted their other options. Drew had given a bone-marrow sample. Caitlyn, Eden and Chuck had all undergone tests, but none of them proved a match. Jesse had concocted excuses to delay his own test but, by now, had run out of ideas. Meanwhile, the process to identify a potential match in a national donor registry continued, each day critical as Drew’s life projection dwindled to twelve months.
Twelve months—with Jesse’s hands still tethered and not an inkling of a plan.
On a Saturday afternoon in early March, Jesse drove to the church and sat down on the sidewalk in front of the building. His car sat solitary in the parking lot.
The sun sliced through dreary skies in a hairline fracture. Jesse shivered and shoved his hands into his pockets. With the temperature still cold in the upper thirties today, it had warmed even further earlier in the week and the snow, the bottom layer of which dated back to December, had started to melt. Along the perimeter of the sidewalk peeked splotches of green grass, jagged lines which ate their way toward the center of the lawn.
Twelve months.
Alone and riddled with angst, Jesse clenched his jaw to release the heartbreak of watching his son suffer. Time was running out fast, slipping away beneath their feet.
Jesse had no doubt of his own Baer’s Disease scenario; the symptoms had worsened since December. He could feel his body react but had, for Drew’s sake, managed to conceal it. As marrow tests eliminated each family member, Jesse sensed in his gut he was Drew’s final hope for a donor. His son was dying—and Jesse had no choice but to watch, unless a plan occurred to him. Soon.
Pictures of Drew flooded Jesse’s mind. Not pictures of today, but of Drew’s childhood without a father. His first day of kindergarten. His eighth birthday. His first unexpected basketball through a regulation-height hoop.
Then Jesse pictured the nights when Drew had questions but lacked answers. The family life Drew had been forced to forego because his dad wasn’t around. It wasn’t fair to the kid.
And now this.
Numbness settled in Jesse’s belly as he dropped to his knees beside the lawn. In torment, Jesse screamed with all his might.
And as expected, no one heard. His voice echoed against the brick walls.
His gut wrenched, but Jesse couldn’t cry anymore. Dry and empty, he fell prostrate to the ground and closed his eyes, desperate for an answer.
He lay his palms flat against a patch of moist grass. He clutched the blades and felt the damp, defrosted soil between his fingers.
Once again, Jesse sat up and fingered the cold soil. In an absentminded manner, he picked a random chunk and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. Jesse watched the dirt and grass particles crumble and fall to the ground. He recalled his father’s sermon on a particular Sunday, when Chuck mentioned that God had formed the first man, Adam, from the dust of the earth.
The dust of the earth.
Jesse examined the soil on his hand, held it against his nose and closed his eyes. He savored the vibrancy in its scent. It smelled like life.
His heart jumped. He opened his eyes.
His fingers slowed in motion as he reached down and plucked another blade of grass. Rapt with the grasshopper-colored herb, he held it close to his face, rubbed his thumb along the specimen’s smooth, lined surface.