Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 84802 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84802 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
“I’ll make the call,” Max says, no questions asked. “I can’t guarantee you anything since it’s up to her in the end, but ...” He is just about to continue when his phone rings, and he answers.
“Angel, can I call you back?” he says, and I hear Matthew groan, and then talk low.
“Angel, my ass.” He looks at me while Max talks. “She kicked me in the balls just last week.”
I try to hide my smile when I look back at Max as he hangs up. “She kicked you in your balls last week ’cause you tried to throw her over your shoulder to toss her into the pool.” He points at him, then looks back at me. “You have dinner plans?”
“I’m not sure,” I answer honestly.
“Well, change them because Denise is coming for dinner. No time like the present,” he says, and I just nod at him. For the first time since my life fell to shit a year ago, I finally see hope.
Chapter Three
Denise
“How about we go play with the cars in the playroom?” Allison says while she tries to pry Alex out of Max’s arm, but she leans away from her mother while shouting, “Dada.”
“I’ll come with you,” Max says and looks at me, giving me an I’m sorry to ambush you here look. “Jack, would you like to come and see Michael’s car collection?”
“I have Hot Wheels,” Michael looks at him and tells him, “with remotes.” He turns and runs into his playroom, and Jack follows him.
“I’m sorry to ambush you here,” Zack says out loud, and I just look at him. He has the look that all the parents have when they are faced with the rude reality that they could be burying their child. “I had no choice.”
I shake my head. “Have you tried to contact me and I haven’t gotten back to you?” I ask him, and he just nods.
“I’ve been calling you nonstop for a month now,” he tells me. “Your voicemail is full.”
“Fuck,” I say out loud. “Let’s go in the other room and talk,” I tell him, and he follows me into the formal living room. I sit down, and he sits next to me on the same couch. Turning to face him, I fold one leg under me. “Tell me what happened.”
He looks down at his big hands. I watch him fidget with his thumbs before he looks up at me, and his crystal blue eyes are clouded over. Tears pool in them, and I reach out, putting my hand on his hands, and squeeze. “Breathe.”
I lean back and wait for him to talk. “About a year ago, we noticed that he would get bruises easy. So easy.” He shakes his head. “He would bump into things, and it’s normal, he’s a kid, but the bruising was nonstop, so I forced my wife to take him in.” I want to ask questions, but I’ll wait for him to finish. “It took them a month to diagnose him. He has ALL.” His voice cracks when he tells me his diagnosis.
It’s worse than I thought. I close my eyes to stop the tears. “What did they say?”
“At first, they said he was in the standard risk,” he says, and I nod my head. That’s what they usually say. “But then we started chemo, and his white blood cell count went past 50,000, which meant it was refractory, so we tried a stronger dose, and it seemed to be working, but then it just stopped.”
“Two rounds, that’s it?” I ask him.
“Nothing was working, so they basically just gave up. But then one of the nurses mentioned you,” he says, looking me dead in my eyes, and the pull is stronger than I thought it would be. “She said if anyone can give him a fighting chance, you can.”
“Where does Mommy stand in all this?” I ask him. It’s better to get both parents on the same page than ones who fight with each other.
“She isn’t involved,” he tells me and then inhales. “She basically checked out when they gave him the diagnosis.”
“I’m sorry. That can be harder on the patient than you know,” I tell him. “So what do you want to hear?”
“I want to hear that you’ll help save my son. I want to hear that I didn’t come all this way for nothing. And most of all”—a tear escapes his eye—“I want to hear that I won’t have to bury my son.”
“I can’t promise a specific treatment or outcome until I read his file, but I will take his case,” I answer honestly. “I need to know exactly what I’m dealing with.”
“But you’ll help?” he asks.
I smile at him, this time not a doctor smile but a smile from one person to another. “The good news is survival for children has increased from under 10% in the 1960s to 90% in 2015.”