I nodded again.
I looked down at those red gym shoes, watched them move step by step forward as I followed Dad into the hospital, watched them as I climbed into a seat in the waiting room, watched them as Dad asked the nurse at the reception desk to watch me while he visited with Charlie, watched them when the nurse asked me if I wanted a cookie or something to read.
“No,” I said, my voice small.
I couldn’t even look in the direction of Charlie’s room, convinced Dad was telling Mom what I’d said, worried Charlie would overhear.
I closed my eyes tight, kicked my red shoes together three times, like in the movie with the flying monkeys, and wished I could trade places with Charlie, that I’d be the one who was sick instead. I wished so hard, my whole body scrunched up, like I could force the transformation into existence.
But when I opened my eyes, I was still in the waiting room.
When my parents came out later, I stood up, looked them both in the eye.
“I want to be a doctor to make Charlie better,” I said.
“Oh, my girl,” Mom said, rushing forward and pulling me into a hug. “I have missed you so much.”
Over her shoulder I watched Dad, his face tired and tear-streaked, how he looked at me with so much love then, how I knew I’d finally said the right thing.
Nineteen
I SLIDE OPEN THE screen door to the back deck.
Dad’s stretched out on a lawn chair, beer in hand, head tilted back, nodding slightly in time with whatever he’s listening to on his iPod.
Mom looks up from the stack of student papers she’s grading as I sit down next to her. “Hey, hon.”
Dad takes off his headphones. “Dr. McCullough!”
“Hey, guys. Are we having dinner soon?”
“I’m thinking of ordering pizza in a bit. That okay with you? It’s just the three of us, so we can get green peppers and pepperoni,” Mom says, picking up the paper she’s grading and fanning herself with it. Even though it’s a little before six, it’s still warm outside, the heat from the day sticking stubbornly to everyone’s skin.
“What’s Charlie doing?” I ask, trying to sound casual. Much to my relief, he wasn’t home when Finn dropped me off. I’m not sure I’m ready to see him yet.
“Dinner with some of the people in his cancer support group,” Mom says, blowing her bangs off her face.
Dad leans forward. “Soooo . . . ?” he starts, grinning.
I know exactly what’s at the end of that question mark. I’ve been debating how to answer it ever since Finn dropped me off this afternoon. But now that the moment’s here, seeing how happy he is, how relaxed Mom is, I can’t believe I ever wondered what to say.
“So what?” I ask, purposefully acting nonchalant.
“Day two! How’d it go?”
“Pretty awesome,” I lie, the words gliding easily through water, smooth and noiseless.
“I knew it!” Dad says. “How are the other people in the program?”
The sour face of the waitress at the Anchor Grill flashes through my mind. “There was one crabby nurse named Mabel, but everyone else was really nice. I think it’s going to be really good working there. Not what I expected, but really good.”
I don’t tell them about my fight with Charlie.
I don’t tell them about the e-mail that was waiting for me when I got home—the one from the head of the program asking me to call him immediately regarding my unexplained and unacceptable absence, reiterating how competitive the program was and how other students would welcome my spot.
I don’t tell them any of this because I have to go back tomorrow. I’m going back tomorrow.
(My bottom right eyelid twitches.) Dad takes a sip of beer and gets that look on his face, the surefire sign he’s a little tipsy and about ten seconds away from getting sentimental. “Parker, when I saw you standing up there on graduation night, giving your valedictorian speech, it was pretty much the proudest moment of my life. If only your grandparents could have seen you. Your mom and me, we’re so proud of you. You know that, right?”
“She knows,” Mom says, patting Dad on the shoulder. “I’m going to order the pizza.”
I watch her leave, resting my legs on the deck and flexing my bare toes.
“So, what’s on the agenda for day three?” Dad asks.
“Why did you stop writing?” I ask instead of answering him, thinking of the concerts he used to attend when we were kids, the CDs he’d get in the mail to review, the prized Rolling Stone article he wrote about Pearl Jam, now framed in his office. “Why did you start at the brand agency?”
He looks surprised. “Things changed.”
“But you loved writing.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“Your brother got sick. Schneider and Hall was looking for a copywriter. They offered a steady salary, better insurance than your Mom had at the university.”
“Oh,” I say, realizing even more keenly what he did to take care of us, everything taking on a new feel in light of the internship. “That must have been hard, giving up the music writing.”
Dad leans forward, meeting my eyes. “If it meant helping your brother, I would do it again in a heartbeat. You know that, right?”
I nod. “But did you have to give up writing for good?”
Dad shrugs. “Your mom and I barely had time to sleep when Charlie was sick. And by the time he was better? I don’t know, I guess you get so used to something, you don’t realize it could be different.” He squints, tilting his head back in the sun again. “Why do you ask?”
I fiddle with the hem of my T-shirt.
“I was just thinking about the day I decided to be a doctor. You had just started at Schneider and Hall. Do you remember that?”
“Of course. You were at the hospital with me and Mom.”
“Because Grandma and Grandpa Rose were busy,” I add.
“Yeah, that’s right.”
I brace myself for him to remember, my whole body tensing with shame over the memory of what I said in the parking garage.
Instead, he gets a nostalgic smile on his face. “You had to stay in the waiting room with a nurse. I felt bad leaving you, but when I came out, you were sitting there with your pigtails and a smile from ear to ear. You stood up and promised me and your mom you were going to be a doctor so you could make Charlie better.”
“But—” I start, not sure what to say.
Dad doesn’t even hear me. “It was the only good thing in the middle of all of that time. I was blown away by how smart you are and how big your heart is.” He finishes his beer in one last gulp and stands, presumably to get another one, when he stops, looks down at me.
“Hey, you still didn’t tell me what you’re doing on day three.”
“A tour of the oncology unit,” I say. “It should be really amazing.”
He leans down and gives me a kiss on the forehead before heading back inside.
I wonder if Charlie knows what Dad gave up for him.
For some reason, I kind of hope he doesn’t.
Twenty
THAT NIGHT, I CAN’T sleep, my thoughts pinballing between imagining Dad’s alternate career and the internship.
I’m going back tomorrow.
My skin itches and I want to crawl out of my body, crawl into someone else’s life. I realize I’m picking at my lip and I drop my hand to my side.
I’m never going to fall asleep, so I get up and turn on my laptop, the screen light giving the room an eerie glow.
I click into my e-mail, and there at the top, like a gift from baby Jesus, like a sweet breath of relief, I see an exclamatory allcaps message from Em titled “HELLO FROM FOGGY LONDON TOWN!” My whole body eases for a second.
Park!