Three weeks with my brother - Nicholas Sparks [123]
“I know,” I’d answer. “And you’re doing great—even the doctors admit that.”
Sometimes, when I answered, she’d grow quiet. “You think I’ll make it, too, don’t you, Nick?”
“Of course I do,” I’d quickly lie, fighting the lump in my throat. “You’re going to be just fine.”
In late December, a few days after Christmas, Micah called, sounding weary, his inflection flat.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“It’s Dana,” he said. “We just got back from her last appointment.” He paused. A moment later, into the silence, he began to cry.
“The tumor’s still spreading,” he said. “Her last CAT scan showed that the new drugs aren’t helping at all.”
I closed my eyes. Micah’s voice was trembling and broken. “They put her on another regimen anyway, but they don’t think it’ll work. They’re just doing it because they know Dana wants to try something else. They say that her attitude has been the reason she’s made it as long as she has, and they don’t want to break her spirit. She needs to feel like she’s doing something to fight it. But . . .”
“She doesn’t know . . .”
“No,” he said. “When we left, she told me she was sure that this time the chemo would work.”
I could feel the lump in my throat, could feel my own tears brimming. Micah continued to cry into the phone.
“Damn, Nick . . . she’s so young. . . . She’s our baby sister . . .”
I began to cry as well.
“How much longer does she have?” It was all I could do to get the words out.
He took a long breath, trying to get control.
“They don’t know for sure. When I cornered the doctor, though, he said that she might have six months,” he whispered.
Outside, the world was darkening. The sky was filled with stars and the moon hung white and heavy on the horizon. Leaves rustled in the winter breeze, sounding like ocean waves. It was a beautiful evening, as if all was right in the world. But it wasn’t, for with Micah’s call, I lost my last sliver of hope.
I didn’t realize how much I’d been clinging to that improbable hope, and when I hung up with Micah, I slipped a jacket on and went outside. I walked through our yard, thinking of Dana, thinking of how strong and optimistic she’d been, thinking of her kids, thinking of the future that she would never see. And leaning against a tree, I cried into the wind.
I spent the next two days wandering aimlessly through the house. I’d start something and stop, I’d watch a show for ten minutes before realizing I didn’t know or care about what was on, I’d read the same pages over and over, unable to comprehend the words on the page.
Two days later, the phone rang. Cathy was in the final month of her pregnancy, and after answering it, she brought the receiver to my office. Her eyes spilled over with tears.
“It’s Dana,” she said.
I took the phone, and as soon as I put it to my ear, I heard my sister begin to sing to me. It was our birthday, and I concentrated hard as I listened to her, wanting to freeze the moment in time, for I knew that it would be the last time we would ever do this for each other.
On January 11, 2000, Landon was born. With green eyes and blond hair, he looked like his mother, and I was struck by how small he was in my arms. It had been seven years since I’d held a newborn, and I never wanted to put him down.
Yet I had no other choice. I was being pulled by the feelings I had for my other family, and three days later I flew to California to see my sister. From that point on, I’d begin flying out to California regularly. In every two-week period, I’d spend at least four days with my sister at the ranch.
Because my sister still had hope—and because hope was the only thing keeping her strong—I had to hide my reasons for coming. Though the effects of her tumor were becoming more obvious, she was still sharp enough to notice that I was suddenly visiting regularly, and she would infer the worst. I couldn’t do that to her. Her spirits had kept her strong, and I didn’t want to worsen the quality of life she had remaining, so in the end I found myself telling her half-truths. I have to