Three weeks with my brother - Nicholas Sparks [122]
And then I’d feel guilty for what I’d been thinking. Terribly guilty. It wasn’t Ryan’s fault. It wasn’t God’s or anyone’s fault. And Ryan had worked so hard, harder than any young child should be expected to work, and he wasn’t quitting. We’d been through fire together, and I wouldn’t—couldn’t—give up on him. He was my son and I loved him. And, after all, no one ever said that life was fair; what you want and what you get are usually two entirely different things. With a job to do, I’d begin work with him again.
I had no other choice. He’d be starting kindergarten in less than six months, and there was still such a long, long way to go.
A month later, in April 1999, we found out Cat was pregnant, and surprisingly, my sister’s tumor had stabilized again. Or possibly even shrunk. Micah celebrated his first anniversary a month later, and after I called to congratulate him, he asked: “How’s Ryan doing? I sure do miss that kid.”
Micah always asked about Ryan. Always. And he always said something kind.
Over the summer, I continued working on The Rescue, working with Ryan, and spending time with Miles. Cat and I marveled at her growing belly, and I woke every morning with the renewed belief that she was the most wonderful woman in the world. We also took another trip to California; our trips out there were becoming both longer and more frequent.
In the fall, Ryan started kindergarten. We spent his first day pacing the house and worrying about him endlessly. We were terrified by the thought of what would happen to him. Though he’d improved substantially, he was still so far behind in so many areas. We worried that no one would like him, that other kids would tease him, that he wouldn’t be able to handle the work. Every day, we waited for a phone call from the school, telling us that it would be best if we enrolled Ryan elsewhere. We prayed for him every single night.
Again, I had to leave town for two straight months, this time while Cat was pregnant. I toured in Europe and the U.S., promoting A Walk to Remember. While on the road, I worried about Cat and worried about Ryan. And halfway through the tour, I learned that my sister’s tumor had reversed itself, and was growing once more. Dana was placed on experimental drugs, in experimental combinations, with no promises whatsoever. And so I worried about her, too.
Almost always, interviewers would ask if I felt I’d been born under a lucky star. Or if I thought my life was blessed. I never knew what to tell them.
Throughout 1999, the phone calls between my brother and me continued regularly, and whenever we spoke I began to sense his emotional exhaustion. In addition to taking over my dad’s role in shuttling Dana to and from various appointments, he’d also become my sister’s confidant and cheerleader, all while trying to keep her from knowing how worried he actually was.
Like me, my brother was using work as an escape. His businesses had grown, he had nearly thirty employees, as opposed to six when he’d first started, and he pushed himself hard. He worked weekends and evenings, and by thirty-five, as once had been his goal, he’d become a millionaire as well.
Dana and I spoke on the phone, too, usually twice a week. Sometimes I’d call, but more often than not my sister would be the one to pick up the phone. She loved talking to Cat—they would talk primarily about the kids, and how tiring being a mother could be—and she followed Cat’s pregnancy closely. In moments like those, it was easy to forget there was anything wrong with her.
Whether my sister was in denial or just an optimist, she downplayed her tumor. Usually, she didn’t mention it at all; if she did, it was only to tell me that she was going to beat it.
“I just know it,