Three weeks with my brother - Nicholas Sparks [105]
Later, when I finally reached Cat, she was flabbergasted. In excited moments, my wife’s New Hampshire accent becomes pronounced.
“No suh!” she screamed. “No suh!”
“Yes suh!” I shouted in response.
Even my dad, when I told him the news, seemed genuinely excited for me; after speaking to him, I spent much of the evening on the phone, talking to various relatives. Micah was almost the last person I talked to that day, and he was silent for a long moment after I finally told him the news.
“You’re kidding,” he finally said.
“It’s unreal, isn’t it?”
“A million dollars? For a book that you wrote?”
“Can you believe it?”
“Not right this moment, but give me a second.” He breathed into the phone. “This is . . . unbelievable . . .” he murmured, before pausing again.
As close as we were, we weren’t completely immune to sibling rivalry. Ever since we’d graduated, Micah had always been more successful in his various careers than I’d been. It had always made sense to both of us; he was the older brother, and—aside from school and track—had been more successful in everything. He was happy for me, but I also knew that part of him wished he’d been the one with the news.
Yet Micah was able to put all that aside, and his next words meant more to me than anything anyone else had said to me.
“I’m proud of you, little brother. You done good.”
“Thanks, Micah.”
“Now, there’s just one thing left.”
“What’s that?”
“You have to help me figure out how to make my million. You made yours, so now I guess I have to do it, too.”
Though the money seemed dizzying, I decided to keep my job as a pharmaceutical rep. I didn’t know how well the book would do once it was released, nor did I know whether I would be able to write a second one. Cat and I viewed our windfall in much the same way we would have viewed a winning lottery ticket. Other than the purchase of a used Ford Explorer, the clearing of our credit card debt, and a new wedding ring for Cat, we spent none of the windfall. Our years in poverty had left us both extremely cautious. The money, we’d decided, would go to three areas: our mortgage, funds for the kids’ college educations, and retirement.
Still, the months of November and December were thrilling. So much was new—book clubs and foreign rights sales, a film sale to New Line Cinema, even the editing process—and every day, there was something new, something exciting, to share with Cat.
Yet aside from those conversations, our lives went on as normal. Thanksgiving came and went; Christmas came and went. Dana’s CAT scan was clear again—making it three years—and she called me on our birthday to sing to me. Dad, we learned, was still seeing his girlfriend, and seemed to get along well with her.
In January 1996, Miles was four and a half and Ryan two years younger when we brought Miles to the doctor to prep him for the tonsil surgery he was supposed to undergo the next day. While the doctor talked to Miles, Ryan stood quietly between my wife and me. The consultation didn’t take long. When the doctor turned to engage Ryan in conversation, Ryan said nothing.
This didn’t surprise either Cat or me. Ryan still hadn’t learned to talk, we explained, and the doctor simply nodded. Right before we were to leave, however, the doctor asked us if he could visit with Ryan alone for a few minutes.
“Sure,” we said, thinking nothing of it. We figured the doctor would give him a lollipop, or show him some of the gadgets in the office.
Strangely, however, the doctor’s door remained shut for almost ten minutes. When he finally brought Ryan out of the office, we couldn’t help but notice the concerned expression on his face.
“What’s up?” I asked. I knew the doctor well; I’d been calling on his office for months as a pharmaceutical rep and considered him a good friend.
“I just spent some time with Ryan, going over a few things . . .”
He paused, drawing a long breath. He glanced down at Ryan, then back at us again.
“I think,” he said slowly, “Ryan may be autistic.”
I think Ryan may be autistic.
All Cat and I could do was stare at him. My stomach