Unforgettable: Always 2 (12 page)

Shaking my head, I dropped my arms from around my torso and willed my heartbeat to slow. “I'm good,” I declared. Okay, I reassured. “It's all good.”

The sounds of children in hospital – a surreal, disquieting mix of carefree laughter and subdued crying – enveloped us. I'd grown up familiar with that sound, what with the times I'd visited Mum at work, but I'd never understood the profound heartache behind it until my own child was a contributor. I'd never really thought about the torment and grief of the families in their rooms, sharing precious moments together, maybe moments all too soon taken from them …

The shakes started to build again. Damn it. Closing my eyes, I pulled in another breath, let it out, and repeated the action. Parker didn't rush me, or say a word. His hand stayed on my shoulder, his silence a strength I was grateful for.

Finally, my tenuous calm returning, I opened my eyes and nodded. “I'm good,” I said again. It was almost a mantra now.

Parker smiled. “It's going to be all good, Brendon. You and me? We're going to make sure of it, okay? For Tanner.”

“For Tanner,” I repeated. The shakes had left me. In their place, a strange sensation had taken up residence – a holding pattern of emotions.

Parker grinned. “Then let's, in the words of the esteemed Jean-Luc Picard, Captain of the Starship Enterprise,
make it so
.”

I chuckled. The guy was definitely a geek. What were the odds he sometimes came to the hospital wearing Spock ears?

It only took us a few minutes to reach Examination Room 4. We stopped at a nurse's station first, where I signed a form giving permission for my blood to be taken and tested. I'm assuming that's what I signed. To be honest, I didn't read it, I just took the word of the nurse explaining it. Not like me at all.

A few feet farther down the corridor, and we arrived at our destination. A different nurse waited for us there, a kidney-shaped dish on the counter beside her. As with the rest of the hospital I'd seen so far, the colors and images painted on the walls gave it a joyous atmosphere. Strangely, I appreciated that more than I thought I would. I guess I was seeing this place through Tanner's eyes.

“Carla,” Parker said, moving past me to enter the room, “this is Tanner Sinclair's dad, Brendon.”

Tanner Sinclair.

Sinclair.
Not
Osmond.

A faint lick of anger stroked up my spine, and I squashed it just as quickly. Ego can be a stupid thing. I've never let it govern my emotions before, and I sure as hell wasn't going to let it now.

Carla beamed at me, her wide brown eyes warm and friendly, if somewhat curious. “Hi Brendon. I can see where Tanner gets his looks from.”

“You're not the first to say that,” I replied.

The syringe in the stainless steel dish seemed to mock me. I had no fear of needles. I
did,
however, have a fear of what the result would be from this test.

“Okay,” Parker slapped me on the back. “Let's do this.”

Carla twitched her head toward the armchair beside the counter. It was upholstered in fabric adorned with the characters from
Toy Story
. Buzz, Woody, Slinky Dog, Jessie, Mr. Potato Head all cavorted on the blue background, waving and smiling and generally making me want to do the same thing.

“It's comfy,” Carla said, smiling. “Comfy enough to sleep in.”

“Ah,” Parker guffawed at my side. “Did you hear about Brendon's powernap with Tanner in his bed?”

Carla's smile turned devilish. “Heard about it. Saw the pics.”

I frowned. “Pics?”

She grinned, eyes twinkling. “You think the nurses here are going to pass up an opportunity to photograph a sexy Aussie
your
size, curled up asleep in a kid's bed? No way.”

I chuckled as I crossed to the chair. “Hope they got my good side.”

Carla raised an eyebrow and looked me up and down. “There's a
bad
side?”

“Watch her, Brendon.” Parker dropped onto a stool near the door and cocked a smirk at Carla. “She's Dominican and a heartbreaker. She stole mine five years ago and has never given it back.”

Carla pursed her lips, eyes twinkling as she reached for a multi-colored elastic strap. “Of course I'm not going to give it back. I've got you right where I want you.”

Parker laughed. Carla winked at me.

It took me a moment to realize the bruised rawness I'd been feeling had eased, soothed by the obvious warmth and care of Parker and Carla. I suspected they were handling me like they would a scared child, but I was okay with that.

Carla tapped my left forearm, her smile now for me. “Just rest your arm out please, Brendon.”

I did as instructed, and a flurry of butterflies swarmed into my stomach. I watched her stroke the skin of my inner elbow, trying to coax a vein to make itself known.

“That is an impressive arm you've got there,” she commented, prodding at one slightly raised vein as it appeared beneath my skin. “Give it a curl for me?”

Once again, I did as asked, my left bicep flexing.

“Oh yes.” Carla grinned up at me, the laughter lines around her eyes and lips creasing. “There's the money shot.”

I burst out laughing.

“You didn't need him to do that, did you, Carla?” Parker admonished from the stool.

“Nope.”

I laughed again.

Carla grinned, looping the elastic strap around my upper arm, just beneath the bulge of my bicep. “Okay, game time. If you promise not to cry I'll give you a lollipop after.”

“Hey,” Parker said, “if
I
promise not to cry will I get—”

“Shush, Doctor.” Carla tapped at the vein in my arm again. “Bunch your fist a few times for me.”

As I did, the vein in my inner elbow popped, turning into a bluish-green ridge straining against my skin.

“Now,
there's
the money shot,” she murmured, stroking it with two fingers. Without looking up at me, she wiped at the vein with an alcoholic swab a few times, and then reached for the syringe.

“So Brendon,” – Parker's calm voice drew my attention – “tell me what you know about Tanner's leukemia.”

The question set off the butterflies in my stomach. I let out a slow breath, glancing at my inner elbow. Carla was just about to puncture my skin with the needle. I stiffened, preparing for the sting.

“Uh-uh,” she scolded me, her voice gentle. “Don't do that.”

Forcing my muscles to relax, I looked back at Parker. “To be honest, I don't know that much,” I confessed. Yeah, those aren't words I liked saying that often. Saying them now … it was like a fist twisting in my chest. “He has Philadelphia chromosome-positive leukemia. He was diagnosed a month ago. The doctors … you, I guess, have only given him six months to live if he can't find a suitable donor match. Going by the fact he's lost most of his hair, he's undergone chemo, but I don't know how many rounds.” I stopped, swallowing. “That's it.”

Which was pathetic. I should've demanded Amanda tell me everything the second I learned he was sick. Everything. Instead, I'd ranted and raved and lashed out and bawled.

Parker watched my face. I wondered what he saw there. “It's a start,” he said.

A tiny sting pierced my awareness, so faint I barely registered it. I gave Carla a smile. “You're good.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Hell yeah.”

Chuckling, I turned back to Parker. “Can you tell me more? I have no clue what Philadelphia leukemia is. How is it different from normal leukemia? Amanda said it's like leukemia decided to … screw with itself, and said something about abnormalities, but I don't know what that means.”

Parker shifted on the stool. “Philadelphia leukemia is a very rare condition, especially in someone Tanner's age. It's classified a high-risk abnormality and the only treatment that holds any promise of a cure is a bone marrow transplant.”

I couldn't help but notice the man before me now was nothing like the Parker who'd first appeared in Tanner's room. Nor even the playful flirting doctor who'd introduced me to Carla. The man speaking now was serious. A serious man, for a serious conversation.

A part of me desperately wanted the fun doctor back.

“How is it different?” I needed to understand this. It was how my brain worked. In much the same way I approach exercise – go hard or go home – I approach knowledge and learning. Despite what Amanda's father thinks, I know how to exercise my mind. I know what my brain is for, and it isn't just to get me out of bed so I can hit the gym every day. “From normal leukemia?”

“In Philadelphia chromosome-positive leukemia, an abnormal chromosome is produced when part of two different chromosomes get swapped over, for want of a better explanation. It's called translocation, but essentially, they get swapped. This translocation creates a specific gene that makes cells resist treatment. And as I said earlier, chemotherapy is not enough. A stem cell or bone marrow transplant
is
required as well for any hope of a cure.”

“And that's why I'm here?” I asked, needing to hear it from a medical professional. I think I was convinced if a medical professional told me I was here for that reason, I'd be less angry, less destroyed by Amanda's deception.

I wasn't.

Parker adjusted the glasses on his nose with a push of his finger. “Well, yes and no.”

I frowned, something tight balling in my chest.
No
. I didn't like that word at all.

Parker gave me a smile that showed he recognized my uncertainty. “Do you know it's a common misconception that a parent will be a suitable match for a child needing a bone marrow transplant?”

“I do,” I answered, that ball in my chest growing tighter. I think a part of me had expected Parker to tell me I was going to be a match regardless of what I already knew about the odds. Eternal optimism can be a bitch at times.

He adjusted his glasses again, regarding me with a steady gaze. “After Tanner was diagnosed, we began chemo straight away. We knew it wouldn't cure him, but we needed to get him into remission in preparation for finding a donor. We can't transplant healthy bone marrow into a person with cancer cells, that would obviously be counter-productive. Unfortunately, Tanner's leukemia is
very
aggressive and we've had to give him a complete round of chemotherapy already, which makes him very sick and puts a great toll on his body. In the interim, we looked for a donor, hoping against the odds Amanda or her family would match. They didn't.”

Before I could stop it, an image of Tanner lying weak and crying filled my head. “And if I'm not a match?”

“We find one,” Parker answered. “Before Tanner's leukemia beats us.”

The sentence hit me like a wild punch. I drew in a slow breath, fighting the grief, the anger threatening to overwhelm me. Parker regarded me, his expression contemplative. Perhaps he was waiting for me to crumple again? Perhaps he knew I needed time to digest the finality of his statement.

I sat motionless, the faint pulling sensation in my arm telling me Carla was still drawing blood. “What chance is there I
will
be a match?” I finally asked, my gut a churning, knotted mess. “Don't sugar-coat it. I need to know.”

The slight slump in Parker's shoulders answered my question before he spoke. “Unfortunately, the percentage of parents being a match is low, even with all the advancements made in medical science recently. Thirty percent at best. There
are
options available. And I could throw fancy terms at you like
haploidentical donor
, but until we test you to determine if you are remotely suitable, I think bombarding you with that kind of information will only stress you out more. For the immediate present, we test your suitability and wait and see. And hope.”

Hope. That word again. I don't think I've ever hated a word before, nor hung so much importance on what it defined.

“And if I am? How is the transplant … how does my bone marrow get into Tanner?”

“Let's see if you're a match before we go into detail.”

I wanted to tell him I
was
going to be a match. I wanted to tell him to get ready whatever room was needed for the transplant. I wanted to believe that. But as optimistic as I am, I'm also a realist. And false hope is as dangerous to a person's mind, to their psyche, as hope.

“Done.”

At Carla's soft voice, I turned to face her. Withdrawing the needle from my inner elbow, she pressed a cotton wad against the tiny puncture in my arm and then smiled up at me. I didn't fail to notice how sympathetic that smile was. “Lollipop time?”

I gave her a shaky laugh.

“Brendon?”

Heart racing, I turned back to Parker. He was frowning. I didn't like that. No one wants to see the doctor in charge of curing their child frowning. “Yeah?”

“There's something you need to understand. I wish I could sugar-coat it, but it's better I don't.”

“What's that?”

“The numbers for long-term survival for patients with this type of leukemia are not fantastic. Unfortunately, approximately thirty percent of patients experience relapse. In someone Tanner's age … that percentage is higher.”

I stared at him. A lump filled my throat. My pulse pounded in my ears. “But not a hundred percent, right? The percentage for relapse isn't a hundred percent.”

“No. It isn't a hundred percent,” he answered.

“Then Tanner will be in the percentage that kicks cancer's arse.”

Parker walked me back to Tanner’s room, but didn’t come in.

“I’ve got some other patients to see,” he explained, as he took my hand in another one of those firm, confident shakes. “When we get the results back, we’ll be in contact. Is Amanda’s cell the best number to get you on?”

I pondered the question. Its simplicity stirred in me a complicated, ambivalent response.

“No,” I finally answered. “It won’t be.”

His eyes narrowed, and then he slipped his hand into the back pocket of his pants and took out his wallet. “When you get your American cell number working,” he said, flipping it open to withdraw a business card, “give me a call.” He handed the card to me.

I couldn’t help but chuckle. Grinning up at me was a caricature portrait of Parker in his doctor’s clothes holding an iconic Star Wars light saber. Beside that were the words
Dr. Parker Waters, MD, FAAP. Pediatric Hematologist and Oncologist. The force is strong in this one
.

“You get the special card for family and friends,” he said. “The professional one I have is reserved for boring people.”

Lifting my gaze from the image, I held out my hand for another shake. The double-shake. Holy crap, I was doing the double-shake. “Thank you, doc,” I said, meaning it with every fiber of my being. “I don’t know …”

He cupped my upper arm with his free hand and fixed me with an unwavering stare. “I can see where Tanner gets his fighting spirit from, Brendon.”

I smiled.

“
And
his looks,” Parker’s face split into a wide grin, and it was like he was suddenly infused with light and all the joy in the world. “How am I meant to woo the nurses with you two around?”

I laughed. Damn, the guy was good. If there is a higher power, a greater force directing the paths of our lives, He/She/It had done their job to perfection with Parker Waters. I watched him wander down the corridor before he stopped at the next open door, turned to face the room beyond the threshold and threw up his hands. “No no no, Charlotte,” he cried, comical horror in his voice, “those are
my
high heels and wig!”

He stepped into the room amid a faint cloud of girlish laughter, and was gone from my sight.

It wasn’t until I walked back into Tanner’s room that I realized how calm he’d helped me stay over the last half hour. However, at the sight of Tanner sound asleep in his bed – now more like a cot with its high side railings – with the oxygen tube in his nose and an IV now connected to the PICC in his arm, all the rawness of his condition slammed into me again.

From the seat beside the bed, Amanda raised her head and gave me a small smile. “Hey, Bren. Was that fun? Did the nurse give you a lollipop?”

I crossed the room to Tanner and loosely gripped the top of the rail. The metal was cool beneath my palms. Almost icy. “He doesn’t have anything in there with him,” I commented, watching him sleep.

The emptiness of the sleeping space, no pillows, no toys, not even Optimus, jarred me. He looked alone. There’s a widely accepted opinion that all children look peaceful while asleep, and yet I couldn’t help but notice Tanner looked sick. His skin was paler, and there were now dark smudges under his eyes. His thumb was back in his mouth, his lips a tight seal around it. The tape fixing the oxygen tube to his cheek seemed to stretch the flesh around it, and I found myself wanted to ease its grip on his young skin.

“The only thing he wants to take to bed is Optimus,” Amanda answered. “I let him fall asleep with it and then take it out. So he doesn’t roll onto it and hurt himself.”

“He needs a soft toy.” The kookaburra I’d bought for Chase at Sydney International entered my mind, laughing in its maniacal way. I let out a low chuckle, imagining how Parker Waters would react to that sound.

“Soft toys collect dust mites,” said Amanda, “even in a hospital. They could cause him breathing problems.”

My gut turned at the statement. It was wrong for a little kid not to have something to cuddle while asleep, especially a sick kid. Wrong. Unfair. So fucking …

I dragged in a deep breath.

“C’mon,” Amanda said. “You need some sleep as well. Real sleep. I’ll take you home … to my apartment, I mean. You should probably call your mom and dad as well, let them know you got here safely.”

I shook my head. “No.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You don’t want to call them?”

“I’m not going to stay at your apartment.”

A stillness fell over her. She swallowed. “Why … where are you going to go?”

Closing my eyes for a moment, I let out a slow breath. “I need to think, Amanda. I need some space to get my head around everything, to work out where I stand on it.”

“It? Do you mean Tanner? The bone marrow trans—”

“Us, Amanda,” I interrupted her. “I need to work out where I stand on
us
. When it comes to Tanner’s treatment, I don’t need to work anything out. I’m here for him until he doesn’t need me any more.”

Teeth catching her bottom lip, she nodded. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not … for not leaving us … leaving him.”

I stared at her over our sleeping child, separated from her by the width of Tanner’s bed and a chasm of pain I had no hope of ignoring.

“I’ll get a SIM for my phone while I’m out,” I said, “and text you my US number.”

She nodded again. “Okay.”

With one last lingering look at Tanner, I turned and left. Every fiber in my body screamed at me to turn and go back. What the fuck was I doing? I was walking away?

What. The. Fuck.

But I had to. At this point in time, I had to. I was, to put it mildly, raw. I hadn’t been lying to Amanda when I said I needed to think. And I couldn’t do that clearly near her.

Angry, hate, desire, love, contempt, sympathies … all warred for control of my next word, my next action. Until
I
had regained control, it was better I wasn’t with her.

Hot Southern Californian air blasted me as I left the hospital. I squinted against the glaring sun for a second, welcoming the discomfort, before covering my eyes with my sunglasses. If I cried again – and seriously, I was expecting to – while trying to clear my head, at least passersby wouldn’t be subjected to a six-foot-plus Aussie’s tears.

It took me just a few minutes to find a taxi. I asked the driver to take me to the closest telco store. A few minutes after that, we pulled up outside an AT&T. In those few minutes, I refused to let my mind turn to Amanda. As stupid as it sounds, I was forcing myself to deny she existed for a moment. I needed to get my phone happening so I could talk to Mum and Dad.
I
needed to function for a moment as Brendon, single guy, with one mission and one mission only: getting my phone to work here in the US. Once I’d achieved that goal, I wouldn’t feel so … adrift, cut off from the life I’d known without any support.

Which should tell you how fucked up I felt. Reaching out for support was
not
the norm for me.

A ridiculous amount of money later (damn, my bank manager was going to have a fit when I got home), my iPhone was connected to the US network. The first thing I did was text Parker Waters my number, then Heather back in Australia, and then Amanda. I tried not to focus on how much it hurt to see the previous messages she’d sent to get me here. Mysterious messages that lied via omission. Trouble is, if she’d sent me a photo of Tanner and said “This is your son and we need you” would I have reacted any different? Or would my rage, my shattered trust, have kept me in Sydney? Would my wounded heart, my wounded ego, have prevented me from coming here and saving my son?

My phone chirped in my hand with an incoming message.

Thanx. A. xo

Fuck me, how many times had Amanda sent such a text when we’d been together? In response to simple, inane things like:
I’ve just left uni. Shall grab some dinner for us on the way home. B.

Shutting down the conflicted heat trying to creep over me, I shoved my phone into my hip pocket and went searching for sustenance. I needed some protein, some carbs, coffee and a bottle of water.

One turkey-lettuce-and-Swiss on wheat later (Subway is a discombobulated tourist’s friend), I found a quiet park overlooking an even quieter street. The park was crowded with gum trees, the familiar foliage and distinct scent of eucalyptus filling me with a surreal sense of homesickness and comfort. Dropping onto a bench beneath one particularly large tree, I placed my water on the table in front of me, cupped my coffee with two hands, and closed my eyes. I drew in a deep breath, and then released it. I meditated like that for ten minutes, holding my warm coffee and letting my senses dance on the edge of awareness. Sunlight dappled my face, peaking from behind the leaves swaying in the gentle breeze, a breeze that played with my hair and rippled my shirt.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

But no matter how much I focused on my breathing, on slowing my heart rate and letting the tension flow from my muscles, in my mind were Tanner and Amanda. My gut tightened. Opening my eyes, I reached for my phone, scrolled through my contacts and dialed Mum.

A cautious
Hello?
filled the connection after the sixth ring (yes, I counted them). It hit me then I had no idea what time it was in Sydney.

Shit.

“Mum,” I said, guilt slamming into me. I wasn’t being the best of sons at the moment. “It’s Brendon.”

“Brendon?” Caution gave way to worry. “Is something wrong? Are you okay? What are you doing calling so early in the morning?”

“I’m fine, Mum,” I lied. Man, what was I doing? “Actually, no I’m not.”

“Do you want to come around?” Worry still laced her words, but now so did protective control. When it came to taking charge of delicate situations, Mum was brilliant. “Or do I need to send your father to get you? Where are you?”

“I’m in San Diego.”

Silence greeted my confession.

“Okay, it may take him a little bit longer to get there, but if you give me an address …”

I snorted out a laugh. God, I loved this woman. I don’t remember the last time I ever told her that, but I really loved her. “It’s okay, Mum. No need to send the cavalry. Or wake him up.”

She snorted in return, a warm sound of affection. “Honey, it’s breakfast time. He’s standing right beside me, frowning. As is Caden.
And
Aunty Rachel. See? You’ve interrupted
all
our breakfasts. Now tell me why you’re in San Diego.”

Scrunching up my face, I dropped my head to the table and head-butted its surface twice. “Ah man, Aunt Rachel’s there? And Caden?”

“They are. I take it you forgot it’s your father’s birthday the day after tomorrow?”

I head-butted the table again.

“Brendon’s in trouble,” Caden chanted in a sing-song voice in the background.

My cousin Caden O’Dea is twenty-two, studying to be a veterinarian at the University of Melbourne, and rarely takes anything serious. He’s great, dedicated to a cause – animal welfare – and looks so much like me we’re often mistaken for brothers. Of course, I’d never tell him I thought he was great.

Mum laughed. “That he is. Unless he has a good reason for being in San Diego. Brendon? That reason is …?”

Okay, here goes. “I have a son.”

This confession was also met with silence. I couldn’t help but picture Mum’s face. Oh man.

“You have a son?” she repeated.

“He
what
?” Dad’s voice boomed through the connection. Suffice to say, I didn’t miss the shock in it, not even from the other side of the world.

“You have a son in San Diego?” Mum said.

“Holy crap, dude.” Caden sounded as stunned as Dad.

“I do,” I said, rolling my forehead side to side on the table. “His name is Tanner. He’s eighteen months old.”

“And Amanda Sinclair is the mother.”

It wasn’t a question. Mum isn’t dumb. Amanda was the only American girl I’d had any kind of relationship with. The censure in Mum’s statement told me she remembered the broken heart Amanda had left me with as well as I did.

I straightened on the bench seat and nodded at the empty park. “She is.”

“How long have you known?”

I glanced at my watch. “About seven hours. Give or take a few minutes.”

“Oh, Brendon.” Worry flooded Mum’s murmur.

I heard muffled voices in the background. I assumed Caden was bringing
his
mother, my aunt, up to speed. It was either that, or Dad was in the process of cursing my name and his sister was trying to calm him down. Maybe both.

“He’s gorgeous, Mum,” I said into the phone. For some reason I was having difficulty swallowing. And yet, at the thought of Tanner, a smile stretched my lips. I couldn’t stop it. “Looks like a mini version of me.”

“So there’s no question of his parentage?”

I didn’t get angry at her question. It was a natural one, born from a maternal need to look out for her son. “No.”

“Okay, so when are we going to meet him?”

Something hot and wet stung my eyes. I blinked. My vision blurred. Damn it. “That’s … I don’t …” I stopped, swallowing the hot lump suddenly in my throat.

“Talk to me, Brendon,” Mum said, the command gentle. “What’s going on?”

“He’s got leukemia, Mum. Philadelphia chromosome-positive leukemia. He’s in the New Dawn Children’s Hospital here in San Diego. His doctor, Parker Waters, said he has six months to live, maybe less, unless they can find a bone marrow match.”

“Oh, honey.” I felt Mum’s grief. It was clear in her voice.

“What’s going on?” Dad asked in the background. “What’s with the ‘oh honey’s? He’s not five, y’know. He goes around sticking in his wick without protection then he needs to—”

“Brendon?”

I blinked at Caden’s voice in my ear. “Hey, dude. What’s … where’s Mum gone?”

“She’s currently beating up your dad.” He chuckled. “She’s got a good swing on her. What did you say to get her so fired up?”

“My son has leukemia.”

“Holy fuck, dude.”
Fuck
. Not
crap
. Caden didn’t swear much, especially in front of his mum, or my parents. “Oh God, man, I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”