Saving Meghan(15)

Stacy’s income as a teacher was a good supplement, but college was looming, only seven years out, and the 529 plan Zach had intended to infuse with cash would buy half a semester of classes and maybe a few pizzas. Will was a fine baseball player, but the prospects of a scholarship were somewhere on the scale of slim to none.

The sun beat down on their faces, and Zach thought he should apply sunscreen, anticipating Stacy’s questions should Will return home redder than when he left. Even though Zach was the doctor in the family, it was Stacy who paid the closest attention to their son’s health. She was the one who told Zach that something was wrong with Will. It wasn’t like Zach didn’t want to hear it. He was a pediatrician, after all.

Zach saw sick kids all the time. He saw terrible diseases—cancers in children, cystic fibrosis, congenital heart disease, type 1 diabetes, and so many others. His son wasn’t sick like those kids. He had some stomach pains, which of course was normal for an already nervous kid about to start middle school.

Instead of telling his wife she was being unnecessarily anxious, Zach had another doctor look at Will, because everyone knows a parent shouldn’t treat his or her own child. A parent knows the patient too well; knows the little tricks they might employ to get out of some obligation, such as school. A parent would be the first to say an upset stomach was just a case of the nerves. Besides, Stacy would never believe Zach if he told her that nothing was wrong with William. She’d think his need to be right had blinded him to the possibility that he could be wrong.

When Will’s doctor could not find anything medically amiss, Zach figured that would be the end of it, but no. Stacy wasn’t near done. She was certain Will’s ongoing stomach pains were symptomatic of something dire. The medical websites she visited and the mommy blogs she scoured gave her plenty to worry about.

Long before that ground ball had met up with Will’s kneecap, Stacy had begun to point out subtle declines in their son’s motor skills. Perhaps she had gotten Zach thinking. Maybe that’s why he found himself reliving that play in his head, trying to decide if the Will from last year would have gotten his glove down in time to dig out that grounder. Ultimately, Zach decided Stacy was wrong to be so worried.

“What are we going to do now?” Will looked up at his dad with a sweetly earnest expression. Zach’s heart swelled. His love for his son anchored him, though lately, he could feel a tug on the line as Will began to pull away. It was subtle, all normal, minor steps toward independence. There’d be times here or there when Will would rather read alone at night. Or there was the day when Will insisted on making mac and cheese himself, and the first time he rode shotgun. Those moments were gentle reminders that Zach’s time with Will, his time as the guiding force in his boy’s life, would soon come to an end.

Zach wanted so desperately to maximize each opportunity that he sometimes put too much pressure on himself to come up with the perfect father–son activities. So what to do today? They could go ride go-karts, but that was a drive. Maybe they’d take a stroll through the Sculpture Park at the DeCordova Museum, but Zach anticipated the groans and complaints, and today—maybe more so because of that injured knee, or maybe because he felt the fingers of time tapping on his shoulder, or maybe because Stacy had him a bit more worried about Will’s health than he cared to admit—he wanted his boy to be completely satisfied with whatever choice they made.

“What do you want to do?” Zach asked, putting it back on Will.

Will gave it some thought while Zach studied his son. He could see traces of himself in the round shape of Will’s eyes and the fullness of his lips, but overall, Will looked far more like Stacy’s son. He was a fair-skinned boy with wispy blond hair. Zach’s complexion was much darker, almost swarthy, and his hair was dark as well, fuller and wavy and with more body than Will’s. If Zach failed to shave for a day, he’d sprout a face full of stubble. Two days and he’d turn into a Chia Pet. While Zach had a round face and dark eyes, Will was blessed with Stacy’s more fragile bone structure and a far sweeter-looking face, perfectly conjoined with his nature.

Will took his time to answer, and when he did, his request somewhat surprised Zach. “I just want to go home and hang out,” he said. “Maybe we can watch a movie or something.”

Zach smiled and ruffled his son’s hair. “Fair enough,” he said, and together they rose.

Being the conscientious child he was, the kind of kid who volunteered for community road-litter pickup, Will tossed his used ice cream cup into the trash basket, took two steps, and then doubled over in pain. Zach let out a gasp and rushed to his son’s side. Will righted himself. Fear boiled in Zach’s gut. In a blink, his son’s coloring had gone from pale to ash, almost gray. The sclera of Will’s eyes were bloodred.

“Dad, what’s wrong with me?”

Zach’s blood thrummed in his ears. He reached for his phone to call 911, but his movements felt languid, oddly constrained, as though he were pushing through molasses.

“Dad … help me…”

To Zach’s horror and utter bewilderment, Will’s skin continued to darken. Zach tried to move, to reach his son, pull him to the ground, shield him from this horror, but he was paralyzed. He did not understand why his arms were immobilized. His legs, too, felt encased in cement and could not move. The scream rising in his throat refused to come out.