From The Dead (36 page)

“You’re forgiven,” Chuck said. “Before you say
anything else—you’re forgiven. I’m always here for you. I don’t
count against you whatever you’ve done wrong. I’m your dad, Jess; I
love you.”

They held each other until the weeping subsided and
Jesse calmed.

A sense of cleansing in his chest, Jesse looked into
his father’s eyes. “Caitlyn and I—we’re back in touch, and I’m
making amends. I promise I’ll be a good father like you. Drew knows
I’m his dad; we’re growing together. But he’s in trouble. He’s
sick, and they don’t know what it is or if he can recover. I don’t
know what to do for him. I’m scared—so scared. Not for me, but for
Drew …” Jesse pleaded with his eyes. “He’s my son.”

Chuck rocked his son, an adult yet always his child.
“I know.”

When they parted from their embrace, the relief felt
like a morning tide, a fresh start.

A secret exposed. The darkness quenched.

They kept quiet for five minutes, or so it seemed to
Jesse. He had liberated himself from the heavy burden on his soul.
Even his exhales felt lighter.

At last, Chuck broke the silence. He put his hand on
Jesse’s knee and grinned. “So, when do I get to meet my
grandson?”

CHAPTER 59

During one treatment session, as he waited for his
son, Jesse’s mind wandered.

His son’s resolve fascinated him. Drew had withheld
his emotion the night Jesse told him he was his father, and that
self-control resurfaced during treatment. While Jesse wished Drew
would communicate more, he admired the kid’s inner strength.

But as the months progressed, Drew’s external
strength began to dissipate, due not to physical exertion but,
rather, to the stress of tests and treatment. Jesse wondered if the
treatment was painful. He couldn’t bear to watch his son flinch,
yet he refused to leave Drew’s side. Because Jesse had put his
permanent job search on hold and continued to work for his own
father, considerable leeway ensued. So Jesse took Drew to most
medical sessions.

Jesse loathed Drew’s illness. He resolved to find a
way to rescue his son. Somehow.

In his heart, Jesse sensed he would prove a precise
match for Drew, and the bone-marrow option was the only surefire
one. It would come down to that—and when it did, Jesse intended to
have a strategy ready. The need for a plan, a method to hide his
own suspected illness, consumed him as possibilities scurried
through his mind in a stream of consciousness. But he eliminated
each option for one reason or another.

His own hospital stay had occurred more than halfway
across the country, and no one here was aware of the incident. If
Jesse didn’t say a word, surely no one would figure it out—at least
not until he had accomplished whatever he needed to. Regardless of
the risk he himself faced, Jesse valued Drew’s survival more.

True, Jesse’s own sickness proved a stumbling block
and a greater enemy than he’d anticipated. But he was confident he
could defeat it, or at least downplay it.

His life for Drew’s.

For Jesse, the question was no longer
if,
but
how.

How could he mask his own internal symptoms?

Dr. Bernstein interrupted Jesse’s thoughts to inform
him he could take Drew home.

* * *

When they arrived home before six that evening, Drew
felt exhausted and wanted to sleep for the remainder of the night.
Caitlyn had prepared a quick dinner, but Drew wasn’t hungry. She
tucked him in, they spoke for a few minutes, and she kissed him
goodnight. Then Jesse made his way into Drew’s darkened
bedroom.

Drained from the emotional rollercoaster of recent
months, Drew lay limp against the pillow. Jesse sat beside him on
the bed, pulled the blanket snugger beneath the boy’s chin, and
kissed him on the forehead.

“Kinda rough today?” Jesse asked.

“It’s been worse.” Although tired, Drew’s eyes
remained halfway open.

“You’re my champ.” Jesse reached for Drew’s hand, and
the boy gripped him.

They listened to the heat as it billowed from the
vent on that mid-winter evening, before Drew whispered, “Do you
think there’s a God?”

Taken off guard, Jesse struggled not with the
question itself, but with the context in which it emerged. Even
though Drew was aware of the severity of his illness, Jesse grew
concerned. Did his son sense imminence within?

“Yes, I do.” Jesse brushed a hand through his son’s
hair. “Is everything okay?”

Drew shrugged. Jesse coaxed him further, and soon he
heard his son sniffle in the darkness.

Jesse found Drew’s other hand and held them both
between his own. “What’s wrong, buddy? You can talk to me.”

Jesse heard a heavy swallow from Drew. “I’m afraid to
die.”

The words sent a dagger into Jesse’s kidney. He felt
Drew’s hands tremble.

“You won’t die,” Jesse said. “I won’t let that
happen. I promise.”

“Are you afraid to die?”

“I was,” he said, “but I’m not anymore, because I
know where I’ll be when I die. And it will be even better than
anything I’ve experienced.” When Jesse noticed the words soothed
his son, he continued. “When I was a kid, I listened to my dad talk
about heaven, and he said there will be streets of gold, people
from nations I’ve never visited, constant light. Water of life
flowing from God’s throne. And there’s a tree of life—the Bible
says its leaves are for healing. No more sickness up there. Doesn’t
that sound nice?”

“Mmm-hmm,” said Drew, a clear attempt at
boldness.

As Drew began to drift to sleep, Jesse told him,
“Your grandpa lives nearby. Would you like to meet him?”

A faint, sweet smile as Drew, half conscious,
nodded.

* * *

Drew’s favorite birthday gift that year was a
grandfather.

Born in early February, Caitlyn had delivered Drew
without a hitch, just overdue. Unlike the day of his birth,
however, he was surrounded by loved ones today, his eleventh
birthday. Eden and Blake arrived first. Before they walked inside,
they stomped off clusters of powdery Ohio snow. Caitlyn led them
into the living room, where she introduced them to Drew. Jesse
joined them, and the three guys turned on the television to watch
the Cleveland Cavaliers play in Chicago.

The doorbell rang a few minutes later and Jesse
jogged over to greet Chuck, whose face couldn’t have been brighter
as he peered into the living room to catch an advance glimpse of
his grandson.

Jesse called out to Drew and gestured for him to come
over.

As the blond-haired boy approached, Chuck knelt on
one knee. “Are you Drew? Happy birthday, big guy!”

Drew leaned against Jesse and offered a bashful
smile.

Chuck extended his hand and they shook. “I’m
Chuck.”

“This is your grandfather. He’s a minister.”

As Chuck peered face-to-face at his first grandchild,
he counted aloud the number of features that Drew and Jesse shared.
And the first feature he mentioned: their green eyes.

“Jesse said you ride a motorcycle,” Drew said.

Chuck laughed. “Yep, he’s right about that. Are you
gonna go for a ride sometime?”

Still shy, Drew said he would indeed, then bounced
back over to the game on TV. But by the end of the day, Chuck had
drawn Drew into a stream of conversation.

Jesse led Chuck over to Caitlyn, where Chuck hugged
the woman who, as a teenager, had made the choice that allowed him
to meet his grandson today.

That day, while a birthday celebration for Drew, also
carried a reunion tone for everyone else. Jesse floated around the
room to take snapshots, including several of Drew with his
grandfather. When the time came to slice Drew’s cake, Eden borrowed
Jesse’s camera—after, of course, a training session from Drew—and
snapped a shot of Jesse and Caitlyn, who surrounded Drew as he blew
out the candles.

The picture became Jesse’s immediate favorite: his
first family picture of Caitlyn, Drew and himself. Later, he would
print an extra copy and often hold it against his heart when no one
else was around.

In this moment of honesty, Jesse treasured the scent
of candle smoke, the cheers of Drew and crew as the Cavs won the
game, and two more inches of snow that accumulated outside. Jesse
wanted to soak in each detail.

Jesse shook his head in disbelief. To think that he
nearly gave this away for a superficial relationship with Jada.
Almost one year ago, he sought an abrupt end to his life in a
suicide attempt. But today he wanted his life more than
anything.

And then he remembered, to sacrifice his life on
Drew’s behalf meant a countdown of his own days and hours. This,
Drew’s first birthday spent with his dad, would, more likely than
not, also be his last. Jesse wanted to cling to his life, but his
desire to see Drew cling to life stood stronger.

Happy birthday, Drew.

From your dad.

CHAPTER 60

As the weeks marched on, Jesse obsessed in his hunt
for a method—any method—to mask his own sickness. Dr. Bernstein had
exhausted their other options. Drew had given a bone-marrow sample.
Caitlyn, Eden and Chuck had all undergone tests, but none of them
proved a match. Jesse had concocted excuses to delay his own test
but, by now, had run out of ideas. Meanwhile, the process to
identify a potential match in a national donor registry continued,
each day critical as Drew’s life projection dwindled to twelve
months.

Twelve months—with Jesse’s hands still tethered and
not an inkling of a plan.

On a Saturday afternoon in early March, Jesse drove
to the church and sat down on the sidewalk in front of the
building. His car sat solitary in the parking lot.

The sun sliced through dreary skies in a hairline
fracture. Jesse shivered and shoved his hands into his pockets.
With the temperature still cold in the upper thirties today, it had
warmed even further earlier in the week and the snow, the bottom
layer of which dated back to December, had started to melt. Along
the perimeter of the sidewalk peeked splotches of green grass,
jagged lines which ate their way toward the center of the lawn.

Twelve months.

Alone and riddled with angst, Jesse clenched his jaw
to release the heartbreak of watching his son suffer. Time was
running out fast, slipping away beneath their feet.

Jesse had no doubt of his own Baer’s Disease
scenario; the symptoms had worsened since December. He could feel
his body react but had, for Drew’s sake, managed to conceal it. As
marrow tests eliminated each family member, Jesse sensed in his gut
he was Drew’s final hope for a donor. His son was dying—and Jesse
had no choice but to watch, unless a plan occurred to him.
Soon.

Pictures of Drew flooded Jesse’s mind. Not pictures
of today, but of Drew’s childhood without a father. His first day
of kindergarten. His eighth birthday. His first unexpected
basketball through a regulation-height hoop.

Then Jesse pictured the nights when Drew had
questions but lacked answers. The family life Drew had been forced
to forego because his dad wasn’t around. It wasn’t fair to the
kid.

And now this.

Numbness settled in Jesse’s belly as he dropped to
his knees beside the lawn. In torment, Jesse screamed with all his
might.

And as expected, no one heard. His voice echoed
against the brick walls.

His gut wrenched, but Jesse couldn’t cry anymore. Dry
and empty, he fell prostrate to the ground and closed his eyes,
desperate for an answer.

He lay his palms flat against a patch of moist grass.
He clutched the blades and felt the damp, defrosted soil between
his fingers.

Once again, Jesse sat up and fingered the cold soil.
In an absentminded manner, he picked a random chunk and rubbed it
between his thumb and forefinger. Jesse watched the dirt and grass
particles crumble and fall to the ground. He recalled his father’s
sermon on a particular Sunday, when Chuck mentioned that God had
formed the first man, Adam, from the dust of the earth.

The dust of the earth.

Jesse examined the soil on his hand, held it against
his nose and closed his eyes. He savored the vibrancy in its scent.
It smelled like life.

His heart jumped. He opened his eyes.

His fingers slowed in motion as he reached down and
plucked another blade of grass. Rapt with the grasshopper-colored
herb, he held it close to his face, rubbed his thumb along the
specimen’s smooth, lined surface.

And realized he had a plan.

CHAPTER 61

After Drew’s next treatment, Jesse and Caitlyn
conferred with Dr. Bernstein while a nurse tended to Drew.

“I had hoped we could find an alternative, but that
hasn’t been the case. We haven’t been able to hinder Drew’s
illness, so we need to move into our final option,” the doctor
said. He turned to Jesse. “Have you given further thought to a
bone-marrow test?”

“I want to be tested,” Jesse said. “But we’ll need to
get Drew home today. Can I set up an appointment?”

“Of course. It’s a simple procedure: They’ll prick
your finger and collect drops of blood. If it’s a match, then we’ll
take the next step.”

Jesse’s next step would occur sooner, but it wouldn’t
involve a finger prick.

* * *

According to Jesse’s research on the Internet, Baer’s
Disease involved a lower-than-normal count of all three blood-cell
types: red blood cells, white blood cells, and platelets.
Ashwaganda was an Asian herb prevalent in the areas of Sri Lanka,
Pakistan and India—and it lifted all three cell types. Jesse needed
to locate a product of pure Ashwaganda or, at least, one with a
heavy presence of it.

Not only would the herb’s presence increase his
blood-cell counts, but the increase would, in turn, bring temporary
relief of his symptoms as well. A nosebleed while in the doctor’s
office could upset his plan as much as a low cell count. And the
beauty of an herb, as far as Jesse could tell, lay in its natural
origin: During the test and donation phases, no one would detect
the presence of a manufactured drug in his blood. After all, he
figured, a multivitamin contained an assortment of natural
elements. No one questioned their presence, did they? Just products
of the earth. Dust to dust.