UNTIL ANGELS CLOSE MY EYES
Chapter Sixteen

October, 1997

Jack sat in a chair in the nurse’s office at Nan Sanders Elementary School, a tissue pressed to his bleeding nose. Several more tissues lay discarded beside him.

This was the third time this week that he had suffered a nosebleed at school, and his teacher, who had sent him to the restroom the first two times, had shaken her head in worry and sent him to the nurse with a note. The nurse had handed him a box of Kleenex and reached for the phone to call his mother.

Jack pulled the tissue away from his nose to see if the bleeding had stopped, then groaned to himself as blood started dripping down his face again. He picked up a fresh tissue and squeezed his nose shut.

The nurse looked over at him, frowning at the number of bruises marring the boy’s thin arms and legs. It wasn’t unusual for sixth grade boys to have their share of bruises, cuts, and scrapes—the rough and tumble games so many of them played made such injuries common—but eleven-year-old Jack Dawson had more bruises than could be normally accounted for even by such activities. Unless he had taken to frequent fistfights or made a general habit of tumbling off his bike or skateboard, something else was going on.

Ordinarily, she would have called Child Protective Services when a child displayed so many bruises, as such injuries were sometimes a sign that they were being abused, but she had known Jack’s mother, Lorraine Dawson, for many years and doubted that either she or her husband were harming the boy. Furthermore, she had known Jack since he had entered kindergarten in 1991 and had burned himself on a hot metal slide on the first day. She had seen him occasionally since then for the usual injuries and illnesses that kids were prone to, but this bruising was new. If he was being abused, it was a recent occurrence.

Her call finally went through. A moment later, the phone was picked up.

"Riverside County Department of Social Services. Lorraine Dawson speaking."

"Hi, Lorraine. This is Elisa Chavez."

"Elisa, what’s going on?" Elisa often contacted her when a child on her caseload wound up in the nurse’s office.

"Jack’s in the nurse’s office."

"Jack?" Lorraine frowned. Elisa had only called her because of Jack once before, when he was in third grade and had insisted that he was well enough to go to school, only to throw up on one of his classmates an hour later. Lorraine had had to leave work to pick him and take him home; she had sympathized with his misery, but had still been annoyed that he had insisted he was feeling fine when he wasn’t. But then, Jack had never liked to admit to not feeling well. "What happened?"

"He has a nosebleed."

"A nosebleed? What was he doing?"

"Just sitting in class, as far as I can tell." She paused. "The teacher sent a note saying this is the third time this week it’s happened."

Lorraine sighed. "Why am I not surprised that he didn’t tell me or his father about this?"

Elisa chuckled in spite of herself. "Knowing your son, he probably decided that it wasn’t worth mentioning." She sobered. "Lorraine, this many nosebleeds with no discernable cause aren’t normal. And the air isn’t dry enough right now to have caused spontaneous bleeding. He also has a large number of bruises on his arms and legs."

"I’ve wondered about those, too, but he insists that they don’t hurt and he doesn’t know where they came from. James and I have decided to take him to the doctor if the bruises don’t clear up soon, though."

"What does he do after school before you or your husband get home? Does he have a new baby-sitter?"

"He’s been working on his homework with a college student who lives on our street every day after school this year, but I’ve known her since she was eleven years old. She hates causing pain to anyone, so I don’t think she’s abusing him."

"Does he get into fights with other kids a lot, or fall off his bike or skateboard often?"

"If he’s getting into fights, I haven’t heard about it, and I make sure I know where he is and who he’s with most of the time. And I’m pretty sure the school would tell me if he was fighting there. As to falling off his bike or a skateboard—he’s always been a good rider. It took him a grand total of two weeks to learn to ride without training wheels when he was six. He doesn’t have his own skateboard, though I know he sometimes borrows the skateboards of the kids across the street from us. But it’s like with the bike-riding—he’s got good balance and always has. And even though he doesn’t like it, James and I make sure he wears a helmet and knee and elbow pads. We’d as soon not see him split his head open or mangle his limbs if an accident does happen."

"I see." Elisa thought for a moment before going on. "Has he shown any signs of loss of appetite or excessive fatigue?"

"Now that you mention it, he has been eating less of his dinner lately than usual, but he just had a growth spurt, and he may not need to eat as much right now. And he has dozed off in front of the TV a few times and is spending less time playing outside than he used to. James keeps encouraging him to shoot hoops with him in the driveway—they both love basketball—but it seems that Jack would rather lay in the hammock or on the couch than do much these days." She paused as a beep sounded from the phone. "Excuse me, Elisa. I have a call on another line. Can you hold on a moment?"

"Sure."

When Lorraine came back on the line, she asked, "Why are you asking all these questions? Does something other than bruises and a nosebleed seem wrong?"

"I’m not sure, but the symptoms indicate that something could be wrong. I would recommend that you take him to the doctor as soon as possible, just to be safe."

The Next Day

"Dad!" Jack whined, sitting at the table with his arms crossed and a sulky look on his face. "I don’t need to go to the doctor! I feel fine."

"Nevertheless, the school nurse recommended that your mother make an appointment with Dr. Linaweaver for you as soon as possible, and this morning was the first appointment open. Since your mother has an important meeting today, I took a few hours off work to take you to see him."

"But I’m fine!"

"Jack, you would say you were fine if a rattlesnake bit you. I know you very well, so don’t even try to get out of it."

"But Dad—"

"That’s enough, Jack. Finish your breakfast."

"It smells funny."

"It smells fine to me, and you hardly ate any dinner last night. So don’t tell me you aren’t hungry."

"I don’t like scrambled eggs."

"You liked them well enough the last time I made them for you."

"I don’t like them now."

"You’re acting like a spoiled brat, Jack. I’m not buying you any snacks on the way to Riverside or on the way back, so you’d better eat now."

"I’m not hungry."

James sighed in exasperation. "If you’ll eat three bites, I’ll leave you alone, okay? But don’t complain about being hungry later."

Jack glared at him, but finally started nibbling at the eggs, still not hungry, but too tired to keep fighting with his dad about it.

*****

Just before nine o’clock, James pulled into a parking space outside the pediatric wing of the Riverside Medical Clinic. He turned to Jack, realizing that his son had fallen asleep and was snoring softly.

"Jack, wake up. We’re here." He shook him gently.

"Huh?" Jack opened his eyes, looking blearily at his father.

"We’re at the doctor’s office."

"Oh." Jack yawned widely, reluctantly unbuckling his seatbelt and opening the door of the car. "I’m really okay…"

"Enough of that, Jack. We’ll let Dr. Linaweaver check you over and see if you’re okay or not."

*****

Jack sat on the examining table as Dr. Linaweaver listened to his heartbeat and breathing. Finally, the doctor nodded and took the stethoscope out of his ears, turning to James.

"He has extensive bruising over his arms and legs, as you said, and some bruising on the head and torso as well. He has a slight fever and swollen glands."

"So you think it’s an infection of some sort?"

"Not exactly." Dr. Linaweaver hesitated. "Mr. Dawson, if you’ll step into the hall with me for a moment…"

A worried frown crossed James’ face, but he nodded. "Jack, get dressed," he instructed, getting to his feet and following the doctor into the hallway.

Dr. Linaweaver closed the door quietly behind them and turned to James. "The extensive bruising, lack of appetite, fatigue, and frequent nosebleeds, combined together, are worrisome, but the presence of swollen, painless, rubbery-feeling glands may point to leukemia."

"Leukemia!" James stared at the doctor in shock. "But…that’s impossible! He’s only eleven years old!"

"Leukemia is one of the most common childhood cancers."

"But how? How could he get leukemia? We don’t let him eat a lot of junk food or sit in the sun too long without sunscreen, and we don’t keep many chemicals in the house—none of those things that can cause cancer. Perris isn’t an industrial area, either, so there’s not a lot of chemical dumping except from meth labs, and he’s never shown any signs of having problems with smog. Neither his mother nor I smoke, either."

"The cause of leukemia can’t usually be determined, especially in children. There are cases where it’s caused by radiation or chemicals, but that’s unlikely in Jack’s case. It can also be inherited. His records indicate that he was adopted. Do you have access to his family’s medical history?"

"They would probably share it if we asked—we know his blood relatives—but we’ve never had cause to look into it. All I know is that his birth parents died in a house fire when he was two weeks old, and his other relatives were unable to take him in, so Lorraine and I were able to adopt him."

"Does he know he was adopted?"

"No, and please don’t tell him. Lorraine and I would prefer to tell him ourselves."

"I’m ordering blood tests and a bone marrow aspiration to confirm the diagnosis. You can go straight to the lab. I would like to see him back in here next Thursday. The results should be available by then."

*****

"Why do I have to get blood tests?" Jack and James were sitting in the waiting room outside the lab. "And what’s a bone marrow aspirin?"

"A bone marrow aspiration," James corrected him quietly. He had been almost silent since Dr. Linaweaver had told him his suspicions, telling Jack only that they needed to go the lab for some tests. Jack had taken the paper and tried to read the doctor’s sloppy handwriting, but found that he didn’t understand half of it anyway.

"What’s it for?"

"Dr. Linaweaver isn’t sure what the problem is, so he ordered tests to find out."

"What does he think it is?" Jack looked at his dad. "What did he say while I was getting dressed? Is there something wrong with me?"

"He’s not sure, Jack. That’s why he wants you to get these blood tests and the bone marrow aspiration."

"What’s a bone marrow aspiration?"

"I’m not sure, but we’ll find out."

"What did he think was wrong?" Jack was beginning to get worried. His dad wasn’t usually so quiet and secretive.

"He wasn’t sure."

"But what did he think it was?"

"We don’t know yet."

"But he thought it was something."

"And when he knows, he’ll tell us."

"But I want to know—"

"Thirty-four. Number thirty-four," the intercom announced.

James stood. "That’s you, Jack. Come on."

He escorted Jack into the lab, where a technician greeted them politely and took the paper with the test order on it. As he got the needle and vials for the blood, Jack turned to his dad.

"Are they going to give me a shot?"

"Not exactly. They’re going to stick you with a needle, but they’ll be taking blood out instead of putting anything into you."

Jack frowned at the equipment in front of him. He hated being stuck with needles. They didn’t scare him, exactly, but he didn’t enjoy it, either.

"Ow!" he complained as the technician put on the tourniquet, then tested his vein.

"It’ll only hurt for a minute," the man assured him, taking the needle and quickly sticking Jack’s arm with it.

Jack looked with interest as the first vial filled with blood. There was a brownish-purple tint to it that he had never seen before.

"That looks funny," he commented. "Does that color mean I’m sick?"

"No," the technician told him, "it doesn’t mean you’re sick. That’s the normal color of blood from a vein."

"What’s a vein?"

"That’s the blood vessel I put the needle in."

"How come the blood doesn’t look like that when my nose bleeds?"

"Because it’s been exposed to air, and air makes it turn bright red."

"Oh." Jack stared as the last vial was filled with blood. The tourniquet still hurt, and he still didn’t like the needle, but the strange-colored blood was interesting.

The technician loosened the tourniquet and took it off, then pressed a cotton ball over the needle and slid it out, putting a band-aid over the small injury.

Jack made a face when he saw the band-aid. "Barney! He’s stupid."

The technician shrugged. "Sorry. We don’t have any other kinds of band-aids right now."

"Be nice, Jack," James told him, frowning at his son. "You can take it off in a little while."

The technician pointed to an open doorway down the hall. "I need you to go in there now. Someone will be with you shortly to do the bone marrow aspiration."

*****

Jack lay on the cold metal table, watching nervously as the young female technician swabbed something on his hip.

"What’s that for?"

"It’s to make it hurt less when the needle goes into the bone."

"You’re sticking a needle into my bones?"

"That’s how a bone marrow aspiration is done."

"What’s it for?"

"To see if there are certain kinds of cells in your bone marrow."

"Cells?"

James shook his head at the technician, signaling to her not to tell him. He didn’t want to scare Jack needlessly—if it was leukemia, they’d explain to him about it when the diagnosis was confirmed, and if it wasn’t, there was no use in frightening or confusing the boy.

"Things that don’t belong there." She pushed him into a position where she could insert the needle. "Hold still."

"Dad…" Jack didn’t like this at all.

James put a comforting hand on Jack’s shoulder. "Just hold still, Jack. The sooner she gets it done, the sooner you can get off this table."

Jack nodded and bit his lip, trying to be brave, but when the technician inserted the needle, he cried out and tried to pull away.

"Hold still!" she told him, steadying him as she began the bone marrow aspiration.

"It hurts!"

James rubbed Jack’s back soothingly. "I know it does, but try to hold still. It’ll be over in a minute."

Jack put his hands over his face, trying to hide the fact that he was crying.

The technician finished the aspiration and put a bandage over the spot, then took the sample towards the lab. Jack sniffed miserably as James helped him up, ducking his head to hide his face.

"Jack, I know this is scary. It’s okay to cry," James told him, handing him a tissue from a box on a nearby table.

"I’m not scared," Jack sniffed, wiping his eyes. "It just hurt. And I’m too old to cry."

"No, you’re not. Everybody cries sometimes."

"Nuh-uh."

"Uh-huh." James hugged his son, letting him rest his head against his shoulder. "Don’t be embarrassed, Jack."

"Everybody’s gonna laugh when I walk out there."

"No, they won’t. Most people won’t even notice you’ve been crying."

Jack wiped his nose on his sleeve, not really agreeing, but hoping at the same time that his dad was right.

James handed him another tissue. "Why don’t you wipe your nose on this instead?"

Jack nodded, taking the tissue and wiping his face.

James looked at his watch. "That took longer than I thought. I don’t think I’m going to make it back to work on time. What do you say I call the high school and tell them I’ll need a sub for the rest of the day, and then we’ll go have some lunch? You can go back to school tomorrow."

"I thought you said you weren’t going to buy me any snacks."

"It’s about lunchtime, so we’ll go to McDonald’s or something."

Jack took a deep, shaky breath. "Okay," he agreed. He gave his dad a hopeful look. "Can I have a Happy Meal?"

James ruffled his son’s hair. "Sure."

Thursday

"How come you’re both still home?" Jack eyed his parents suspiciously as he walked into the kitchen. He wasn’t going to school today because he had an important doctor’s appointment, but usually only one of his parents stayed home to take him to the doctor.

Lorraine gripped her coffee mug tightly. "It’s because of your doctor’s appointment today, sweetie," she told him, glancing at him briefly before looking blankly at the newspaper in front of her. She had been tense and worried since James had told her what Dr. Linaweaver suspected.

Jack sat down in his chair. "But usually only one of you takes me." He looked from one to the other, trying to get them to meet his eyes. They’d been having quiet conversations that stopped as soon as he came into the room, and once he’d seen his mom staring out the kitchen window, looking like she was going to cry. He’d asked what was wrong, but she’d waved him off, assuring him that she’d just had a long day at work.

Jack knew that something was wrong, and he suspected it had to do with him, but neither of his parents would answer his questions. In spite of what he’d told his dad, whatever it was that had them so worried was starting to scare him, too—but he didn’t know what he was supposed to be afraid of.

James glanced at his watch, then pushed his chair back. "We should get going," he told Jack and Lorraine, trying to inject a note of cheer into his voice.

"Dad…" Jack looked up at him. "What’s wrong with me?"

"We don’t know, Jack. Maybe nothing."

"But what do you think it is?"

"Let’s go find out what the doctor says, shall we?"

"But, Dad…"

Lorraine put a hand on his back, pushing him gently towards the door. "Let’s go, Jack. The doctor will tell us if there’s anything to worry about."

*****

Jack sat in a hard plastic chair in Dr. Linaweaver’s office, tapping his fingers on the armrests. His parents sat on either side of him, both looking tense and worried as the doctor pulled Jack’s chart and set it on the desk in front of him.

Jack leaned forward, hoping that he would finally find out what had his parents so worried.

Dr. Linaweaver opened the chart and looked at it grimly as the elder Dawsons exchanged worried glances. Finally, he spoke.

"The test results were positive. Jack has acute lymphocytic leukemia."

"Leukemia!" Lorraine cried softly, then clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes darting from the doctor to her son.

James leaned forward. "Dr. Linaweaver, are you sure?"

"Quite sure."

"What’s leukemia?" Jack asked, looking from his parents to the doctor. Whatever it was, it was bad, but he wasn’t sure what was wrong with him. He didn’t think he’d ever heard of it before.

"It’s a cancer of the white blood cells," Dr. Linaweaver explained, looking at him seriously.

Jack frowned. "My blood is red, or purplish-brown when it comes out of a vein," he asserted. "It’s not white."

"You can only see white blood cells under a microscope," the doctor explained. "Do you know what cells are?"

"Yeah. My teacher talked about them when we had science yesterday. They’re these tiny things that make up the whole body."

"Exactly."

"So my blood has cancer in it?" Jack knew what cancer was—he’d read a book about someone who had it.

"Yes."

"Am I going to die?"

"Jack!" Lorraine scolded him. "What a thing to ask!"

"No, Mrs. Dawson, he has a right to know. He’s old enough to understand." Turning to Jack, he told him, "We hope not. There are very good treatments for leukemia now, and the majority of kids who get it get better."

"Will I have to take medicine?"

"Yes. You’ll have to stay in the hospital, too." He looked at James and Lorraine. "I’ve already made arrangements for him to be admitted to the hospital at Loma Linda University this afternoon."

"This afternoon! So soon?" James stared at Dr. Linaweaver in disbelief.

"The sooner treatment is started, the better his chances are."

"Why do I have to go to the hospital?" Jack interrupted. "Why can’t I just take medicine at home?" He thought for a moment. "What about school?"

"At the hospital you can get special care that you can’t get at home," Dr. Linaweaver told him. "Until you’re in remission—until there’s no more cancer in your blood—you’ll have to stay in the hospital. After that, you can come home, but you’ll still have to take medicine for two or three years and have regular check-ups."

"That’s a long time."

"Yes, but it’s to make sure you get better and stay better."

"What about school?" Jack asked again.

"You’ll be able to study and do your work in the hospital when you feel up to it."

"How long will I have to be in hospital?"

"It depends on how long it takes you to achieve remission. Some people can leave it just a few weeks, while other people are there for months." He didn’t say it, but he knew what both parents were thinking. Some people never come out at all. He hoped very much that young Jack Dawson wouldn’t be one of them.

"What should we pack for him?" Lorraine asked, putting a trembling arm around her son.

"Just simple things…his pajamas if he wears them, books that he likes, his homework, maybe handheld video games if he has them and isn’t afraid of losing them. No valuables, nothing that you don’t want to lose. No food or medicine—that’ll all be provided for him there."

"Can I bring my sketchpad?" Jack interrupted. Drawing had always been one of his favorite activities.

"Of course." Dr. Linaweaver smiled briefly at him, then turned back to his parents. "The hospital is expecting him between three and four this afternoon. He’ll be in pediatric oncology with a lot of other kids."

"I feel fine," Jack spoke up hopefully, although, in truth, he felt tired, achy, and short of breath. "Are you sure I have cancer?"

"Unfortunately, yes. That’s why you’re going into the hospital—so the cancer can be treated and you can get better."

*****

The Dawsons got into the car in silence. Jack buckled himself into the back seat, staring out the window, while James and Lorraine slipped into the front seat, not speaking and not sure what to say. This was something they had never anticipated.

Lorraine stared resolutely ahead, occasionally wiping her eyes as James pulled out of the parking lot. Finally, she spoke.

"I told you we needed to take him to the doctor when he started getting all those bruises."

James sighed. "It wouldn’t have changed the diagnosis. The leukemia has been causing those bruises."

"You heard what Dr. Linaweaver said. The sooner he starts treatment, the better his chances of recovery are."

"We’ll take him to the hospital this afternoon."

"We should have taken him to the doctor weeks ago! But no. You said that kids will be kids, and it’s normal for kids to get a few bruises."

"I didn’t know, okay? Neither of us knew the symptoms of leukemia."

"I knew all those bruises weren’t normal, but you said we should wait and see if they cleared up."

"And I was wrong, but we can’t change things. We can only get him the treatment he needs and hope for the best."

"Maybe you just don’t care."

James slammed on the brakes, turning to his wife furiously. "Lorraine, don’t you ever accuse me of not caring about our son!" There were loud honks from drivers swerving around them, but he paid no attention. "I do care about him, but like everyone else, I make mistakes! You aren’t so perfect yourself. You didn’t have to listen to me. You could have taken him to the doctor."

"Stop fighting!" Jack demanded, leaning forward and poking his head between the seats. "I’m the one who’s sick! You should be taking care of me, not fighting!"

"Jack, stay out of this," Lorraine told him, her voice carefully controlled.

"But I’m the one you’re fighting about." He turned as something caught his eye. "Hey, Dad, I think that cop wants you to move."

James looked in the rear-view mirror. "Goddammit!" He rolled down his window. "Yes, officer?"

"Is there a problem here?"

"Not really…"

"I’ve got leukemia, and they’re mad at each other," Jack put in helpfully.

"Jack, stop it," Lorraine warned him.

"But Mom—"

"If you need to stop and talk about something, you need to pull over somewhere safe, not stop in the middle of a busy thoroughfare." He looked at James. "I’ll let it go this time, but you need to move someplace safe. Okay?"

James sighed. "Sure. Thanks, officer." When the man headed back towards his car, James put his foot on the gas, moving back into traffic.

They didn’t speak the rest of the way home.

*****

Jack sat on his bed, clutching his sketchpad, as Lorraine bustled around his room, packing the things he would need in the hospital into a duffel bag.

"Hey, Mom?"

"Yes, sweetie?"

"How long am I going to have to stay in the hospital?"

"I don’t know, Jack. As long as it takes for you to get better."

"What if I don’t get better?"

"You’ll get better, Jack."

"But what if I don’t?"

Lorraine stopped, turning to him. "Jack—"

"I don’t want to die, Mom." Jack’s voice quivered, his lower lip trembling. "I don’t want to die."

Lorraine sat beside him, pulling him into her lap. He didn’t resist, although, at eleven, he usually considered himself too old to sit in anyone’s lap.

He buried his face in his mother’s shoulder, not trying to stop his tears. "I don’t wanna die, Mom."

Lorraine stroked his hair. "We don’t want you to die, either, Jack," she told him. "We’re going to make sure you have the best care possible so you’ll get better."

"I’m scared."

Lorraine hugged him, rocking him gently. It was a rare admission for him to make—he was as filled with bravado as the next sixth-grade boy, and didn’t like anybody to know that some things still scared him.

James came in to see if they were ready, seeing Lorraine sitting with Jack in her lap, the boy sobbing quietly into her shoulder. He sat down next to them, unsure whether Lorraine was still upset with him from earlier, and put his arms around both of them, gently rubbing his son’s back.

"It’s okay to be scared, Jack," he told him. "We’re scared, too."

Jack raised his head slightly. "Why? You don’t have cancer, do you?"

"No, but we’re scared for you, because you do have it, and we want you to get better."

"Dad? Do you think I’m going to die?"

"I hope not, Jack. Dr. Linaweaver says the majority of kids who have leukemia get better, so probably not."

"What we do want you to do is listen to the doctors and do what they and the nurses say. Take your medicine and don’t hide it and pretend you’ve taken it like you do with us."

Jack looked a little sheepish. "That was only once, and it tasted funny."

"Well, the medicine you’ll be taking now might do more than taste funny, but we want you to take it anyway. It’ll make you better."

Jack nodded, sitting up and wiping his face. "Can I take a picture of you guys to the hospital with me?"

"Of course," James told him, patting his back gently before standing. "I’ll go find one for you."

"Are you guys still mad at each other?"

Lorraine smiled gently, picking up his duffel bag. "No, sweetie. Not anymore."

"That’s good." Jack gave them both hugs. "I’m gonna get better. Just wait."

James ruffled his son’s hair. "I’m sure you will, Jack. I’m sure you will."

October 30, 1997

"I hate it here," Jack groaned, curled up on his side with an emesis basin a few inches from his face. "I want to go home."

"Just remember that it’s helping you get better, Jack," Lorraine told him, sitting in a chair beside his bed.

Jack had just been through his first round of IV chemotherapy and was feeling worse than he ever had in his life.

"I think they’re trying to kill me, Mom."

James rubbed his son’s back gently. "They’re not trying to kill you, Jack. They’re trying to make you better."

"Dad…this sucks. I hate chemo. I hate throwing up…I want to go home."

"We’d like to take you home, too, Jack…but if you don’t get your leukemia treated, you’ll die. And we don’t want that."

Jack just groaned, reaching for the basin. "I think I’m gonna throw up…"

A couple of minutes later, he handed the basin to Lorraine. "Can you empty that for me, Mom? And then bring it back. I might need it again." He put his head down, moving his eyes to look at James. "I didn’t know anybody could throw up that much. Do you think it helps make the leukemia go away?"

"I don’t think so, Jack. I think the medicine would help whether you threw up or not."

"Then why do I gotta throw up so much? I hate it…I was feeling better until they gave me that stupid chemotherapy."

"I’m sure you were. The blood transfusion they gave you helped a lot. But it’s the chemo that kills the cancer cells."

Lorraine brought the basin back, setting it gingerly next to him. "How are you feeling now, sweetie?"

"I hate cancer."

"Everybody hates cancer," the boy in the next bed, a skinny, bald twelve-year-old, told him. "It’s gross and stupid and chemo’s worse than the flu and a cold and my aunt’s gross perfume put together."

Jack looked at him tiredly, worn out from his chemo session. "Yeah," he agreed. "And worse than my mom’s turkey meatloaf."

"Jack!"

"Sorry, Mom."

"But we gotta stay here until we get remission," the boy went on, "even if it takes six years or whatever. So you can’t go home until the doctor says you can. Besides, if you went home now, you’d miss the Halloween party they’re having for us tomorrow."

"You see, Jack?" Lorraine stroked his hair gently. "That gives you something to look forward to."

"I still hate leukemia," he complained, his eyes drooping shut.

"I know you do."

December 25, 1997

"Merry Christmas, Jack." James and Lorraine entered the room, each carrying a pile of brightly wrapped gifts.

"Merry Christmas," Jack responded listlessly, looking at the empty bed beside him.

"What’s wrong, Jack?" Lorraine set the packages down and pulled up a chair.

"My friend, Eric…he was in the bed next to me…he died. He kept getting skinnier and skinnier and they stopped giving him chemo, and I thought he was lucky, but then…he wouldn’t wake up yesterday and all the doctors were in here…and he died and they took him away."

"Oh, Jack." Lorraine put her arms around him. "I’m so sorry."

"Why’d he have to die, Mom? He was only twelve—and it was Christmas Eve, too. Nobody should die on Christmas Eve." His eyes filled with tears.

"I don’t know, Jack…I can’t tell you why he died. Maybe it was his time."

"It’s not fair…kids shouldn’t die. He kept talking about all the things he was gonna do when he got better…and now he’ll never do them."

"I’m sorry, Jack. I know how much it hurts to lose a friend."

Jack sniffed, wiping his eyes. "How do you know?"

"When I was a little older than you…when I was twelve…one of my friends got hit by a car walking home from school. She died at the hospital a few hours later. The person who hit her was never found."

"I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t know one of your friends died."

"I never told you before."

"Jack…" James pulled up another chair and sat down beside his wife. "We brought Christmas presents and we have something important to talk to you about, but if you’d rather wait until later, we’ll understand."

"No…it’s okay…what did you have to talk to me about?"

Lorraine took an envelope from her purse. "It’s this."

She handed him the envelope. Jack took it, pulling out the paper inside.

"What is it?"

"It’s your birth certificate."

Jack looked at it curiously, then frowned. "No, it isn’t. This belongs to someone named David Jackson. I think they sent you the wrong one."

"It is yours, Jack," James told him. "That’s what we need to talk to you about."

"But my name’s not David Jackson."

"Jack…" James hesitated, not sure how to tell him. "After you were…diagnosed…your mother and I decided to look into your family’s medical background to see if anyone else had leukemia."

"What does that have to do with this birth certificate?"

Lorraine took his hand. "You’re adopted, Jack."

"That’s not funny, Mom."

"It isn’t meant to be funny, Jack. It’s the truth."

Jack looked at them, his eyes wide with shock. "What? How come you didn’t tell me that before?"

"We wanted to wait until you were old enough to understand. Now that we’ve contacted your birth family, they’d like to meet you, once you get well."

"You’re not my parents?"

"We are your parents, Jack, in every way that matters. We may not have brought you into the world, but we’ve raised you since you were a tiny baby, and we’ve loved you all that time," James told him, running a hand over his son’s bald head.

"What about my birth parents? Why’d they give me away?"

"They didn’t, Jack. We took you in after your birth parents died in a house fire when you were two weeks old. They were our next door neighbors when we lived in Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin. Your mother and I had come home late from dinner and smelled smoke as we got out of the car. We looked around and saw flames starting to come from the house next door. Your mom ran to call the fire department, while I went next door to see if there was anything I could do to help.

"The fire was spreading fast, and the front door was locked so I couldn’t get in to help them, but I heard wailing coming from an open window on the front of the house…it was a warm night, and your parents had left the window open next to your crib. I got in the window and rescued you, but by that time the whole house was in flames and there was nothing more I could do.

"We stood outside and watched the house burn. The firefighters arrived a few minutes later, but by that time it was too late for your parents. The house went up so fast that there was nothing anyone could do."

"Social services came and got you the next morning," Lorraine interjected, "but your father and I asked to be able to keep you if your surviving family couldn’t take you in. As it turned out, your aunts and uncles were either too young to take you or not ready for the responsibility of a baby, and your maternal grandmother was struggling to provide for the children she had. There was no way she could take another. Your paternal grandparents hadn’t spoken to your father in years, and they didn’t want you, either—I don’t why, but I was grateful when we were allowed to take you home three days later. The rest of your family didn’t want to lose you, but none of them could take care of you, so your grandmother agreed that we could adopt you. It was an open adoption, and a friendly one, so when we needed to know about your family’s medical history, we contacted her."

Jack was still staring at them in shock, not quite able to believe that he had been adopted. "How come you didn’t just have kids of your own?"

"We tried, but it never happened. We had been discussing adoption when the fire happened. You kind of fell into our laps like a wonderful, unexpected gift."

"Was that why you got mad at each other when you found out I had leukemia? Was it because you adopted me and then there was something wrong with me?"

"Oh, Jack, no." Lorraine stroked his forehead. "No, sweetie, we weren’t mad at you. We were upset that you were sick, yes, but we got upset with each other because we didn’t know what to do or why it had happened. We were upset because we were afraid we might lose you. It had nothing to do with there being something wrong with you."

"We love you, Jack," James told him, "and we would never get angry because you’re sick. It isn’t your fault, and we don’t think you’re defective in any way. We chose to adopt you, and we were never so happy as when you became legally ours."

"But your birth family would like to see you…they haven’t seen you since we moved to California when you were a baby. Once you’re better, we’ll take a trip to see them."

"Why is my name different? I thought my name was Jack David Dawson."

"We changed your name when we adopted you…we wanted to give you a name that would reflect both your new family and your old one…so we got Jack from your old last name, David from your first name, and Dawson from us."

Jack was still looking at them uncertainly. Lorraine got up and gave him a hug, James following.

"I know this is a lot to take in," she told Jack, "but we do love you very much, and nothing’s going to change that."

"You’re our son," James added, "and you have been since I took you from that burning house. We weren’t settling for second best…I think we would have taken you even if we’d been able to have children of our own. You worked your way into our hearts very quickly."

"Now," Lorraine said, changing the subject, "we have a pile of presents here for you. Would you like to open them?"

Jack looked again at the birth certificate in his hand and at the empty bed beside him, then nodded. "Okay."

James pulled a knit cap from his pocket. "I didn’t have a chance to wrap this, but I thought you’d like it. You keep complaining that your head gets cold."

Jack took the cap, pulling it onto his hairless head and smiling for the first time that day. "Thanks, Dad. It helps a lot."

"You’re welcome. I’m glad you like it."

Lorraine handed him the first package. "Merry Christmas, Jack."

"Merry Christmas, Mom and Dad."

May 20, 1998

Jack was sitting up in bed, drawing in his sketchpad. He’d been feeling better lately, and was hoping that he’d be in remission soon and get to leave.

Today was also his twelfth birthday, and his parents had promised to bring a cake to share with the other kids in the cancer ward.

He had been disappointed when his parents had told him that he would have to repeat the sixth grade—he’d been too sick to keep up with his studies at the hospital—but at least they were pretty sure he’d have a chance to repeat it. His doctor had told him that his blood tests were looking better and better.

He looked up as the doctor walked in, setting his sketchpad aside. "How am I doing now?" he asked, looking at her hopefully.

She smiled. "This is the news you’ve been waiting for, Jack…you’ve finally achieved remission."

"I have?" His face lit in a wide grin. "Yes!" He jumped up, pushing the covers aside. "Does this mean I get to go home?"

"Yes, it does. I’ve already called your parents, and they’ll be here to get you this afternoon."

"All right!" He got out of bed quickly, dancing around. "I’m going home! I’m going home!"

"Lucky you," one of the other boys in the room called.

"Yeah. Now can you shut up? I’m trying to sleep," another one complained.

Jack was too happy to care. "This is the best birthday present ever!"

"Today’s your birthday?" the doctor asked. "Happy birthday."

"Thanks. Yeah, I’m going home! I’m going home!"

"Settle down, Jack. Your parents won’t be here for several hours yet, and you do know that you’ll have to keep taking medicine and come in for check-ups and maintenance chemotherapy, don’t you?"

"Yeah, but…I’m in remission! Finally!"

"Sit down, Jack. You’re disturbing the others. They’re not better yet."

"I know." Jack sat back down on his bed.

"There are some things you need to know."

"Like what?"

"You aren’t cured yet. That’s why you have to keep taking medicine and coming in for additional chemotherapy and check-ups. If the leukemia comes back, you’ll have to come back here for more treatment. You’ll probably keep taking medicine for the next three years, but if the leukemia doesn’t come back after five years, you’ll be considered cured. So aim for your seventeenth birthday…if the leukemia hasn’t come back by then, you’ll be cured."

"So I could get sick again?"

"Yes, but let’s hope you don’t. If you do, we’ll try to catch it right away and get you back into remission."

"I heard that it’s harder to get into remission the second time."

"Yes, it can be…but there are other treatments we can try if you need them. Let’s hope you don’t."

Jack thought for a minute. "Is my hair going to grow back now?"

"It should, yes. It might be slow, but it should grow back now that you’re taking less medicine."

"Will I still throw up a lot?"

"Not as much, and maybe not at all. It depends on how well your body handles the medicine you’re given. You’ll be going to see a pediatric oncologist, so you’ll need to tell them if the medicine makes you sick."

"Okay. You know what? I’ll miss you…but I won’t miss chemo and radiation and blood tests and spinal taps and all that."

She laughed. "You’re a good kid, Jack. I hope I don’t see you back here, though…at least not for cancer treatment."

"Yeah. Me, too."

Chapter Seventeen
Stories