“Yeah, I am, actually.” He glances out the window. “It’s all I do. My dad had dreams of me becoming the next Beckham. Until the seizures started.”
“When was the first one?” I ask, unsure. I feel like a surgeon who never trained in the field but has a patient opening up in front of me, waiting for me to heal him.
“A week ago. I hit a header,” he glances at me, clearly assuming I don’t know what that means. “I tried to score a goal with my head.”
“Right.” I offer him a weak smile.
“A few minutes later, I was down on the ground, seizing.” He turns away again, his hand absently playing with the camera. “In front of everyone. My girlfriend, my friends, my dad,” he says quietly. “He’s scared I’ll never be able to play again.” He shakes his head, finally picking up the camera. “So, what’s this for?”
“A type of therapy,” I answer, reaching over to open the camera’s lens. “There are studies that show different types of therapy, including photography, can be part of the healing process. What do you think?”
“What am I supposed to take pictures of?” he asks, looking around. “The room?”
“If you want. Or we could walk around the halls, see if there’s anything interesting.” I see his hesitation, his lack of interest. “Dr. Ford thought it might help you.”
“I thought that’s what this was for,” he says, pointing to the wrap around his head with electrical probes attached, meant to study his brainwaves through the night. He hands me back the camera.
“This is meant to help in a different way,” I say, holding the camera like a lifeline. “Want to try? It might make you feel better. Maybe get you back to playing sooner rather than later,” I tease, trying to find common ground with him.
He shakes his head slightly, no. “Want to know the truth?” he asks. Before I can answer he says, “I hate soccer.”
David is not on the main floors. I ask the nurse to page him, waiting while she does. “He said he could meet you here or in his office.” She waits, with David on the other side of the phone line waiting for my response.
“Tell him I’ll be there in five.” I drop the camera in a safe spot behind the desk. I fight the anxiety that seeps through me, ordering myself to get it together. I take the empty elevator to his floor and walk quickly down the hall to his office. From a distance, I can see his door ajar, awaiting my arrival.
He’s behind his desk, reviewing a file. When he hears me, he glances up. In the second before he shutters his emotions, I see want and need in his eyes. My breath catches and I look away, staring through the window at the darkness that has fallen outside.
“He wasn’t interested in taking pictures,” I say. “He took a photography class in high school. Wasn’t his favorite.”
“I see.” He stands, coming around to the other side of the desk. “Thank you for trying.”
“What’s his prognosis?” I can’t help myself.
“We’re not sure yet.” He rubs his hand across his face. “A neurologist is scheduled to see him first thing in the morning.” He leans his weight against the desk. “We’ll have more information then.” He shakes his head, as if fearing he will fail the young man. “He’s hurting. Confused. I was hoping taking some pictures might cheer him up.”
I yearn to reach out, to offer comfort when I have none to give. What could I possibly offer another human being? “He doesn’t want to play soccer,” I reveal. David looks up in shock.
“He told you that?”
I nod. “He plays it for his dad.”
David shakes his head, puzzled. “It was all his father could focus on when they brought Will in. He must have asked me at least five times whether his son will be able to play soccer again.”
“Sometimes parents are the last ones to know what their child wants,” I murmur, not considering my words before saying them.