Full Tilt (Full Tilt #1)(29)
“No, but it might've slowed the f*ck down, or stopped altogether. Maybe you have longer than you think. A lot longer. If you weren't so goddamn pessimistic…”
He held on to a hope that wasn’t there, but I knew the truth. I felt it in the marrow of my bones, in the weakening pulse of my heart, its walls and passageways hardening slowly like cooling glass.
“If I get another biopsy,” I said, “I’d lose at least one full day at the shop.”
Theo said nothing and anger flamed red hot in me.
“I’ll go back after the gallery opening, okay? Dammit, Theo, I’m just trying to talk about something real for a goddamn change. I miss having someone in my life. I’m not selfish; I know it’s too late now. But I missed it and it sucks, okay?”
“Yeah, man,” Theo said, retreating to a quieter tone. “That's cool. We've just never talked about it before. About what you want.”
“You mean what I want before I die? You can say it, Theo. I wish you would.”
“What for?” he snapped. “What f*cking good does that do anyone?”
“Me. It does me good. So I don't feel like…”
“What?”
So goddamn alone.
We pulled into the parking lot of the hot shop and Theo killed the engine. He sat straight, eyes forward as he spoke.
“Look, if you want or need anything… just tell me, okay? You're always saying don't bucket-list me. But if there’s something you want and I can give it to you, tell me, okay? Anything at all.”
Dying, I learned, is a not a team sport. It’s a solitary endeavor. Everyone I loved was standing on dry land, while I was alone on a boat as it slowly pulled away from the shore, and there’s nothing anyone could do about it but watch it happen.
I immediately felt shitty for letting my anger out on Theo, or telling him what I missed or wanted or could never have. What were they but just another burden for him to carry? One more thing he could do nothing about. The pain of it was written in every line of his face.
“Okay, thanks, Theo. Thanks for looking out for me.” I mustered a smile, and smacked his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get to work.”
Theo could’ve been a glass artist if he’d wanted to. He was talented, and utterly fearless. He loved the fire, but hated the fragility of the glass afterward. Theo liked permanence. He worked with thick black ink that punched the skin, made it bleed, then remained imbedded forever. Our father thought he was wasting his incredible ability to draw and sketch by working with tattoos, but it was just right for my brother.
We worked in near silence; but for the roar-hiss of the furnace, the hot shop was quiet and my thoughts drifted to our conversation, to Theo, who had been with me through my illness, through Audrey’s betrayal. She hadn’t broken up with me, she’d told Theo, and then skipped town, leaving him to break the news.
I rolled the pipe in my hand, watched as the flames enveloped it, made it glow hot and white…
I sat on a chair in Dr. Morrison’s office. Not the white exam room where he usually saw me, with its long, white-papered table and the little tray of instruments, latex gloves, and individually-wrapped syringes. That room was for patients who were receiving treatment. Patients still in the fight.
Today, I was in the private office of Dr. Conrad Morrison—cardiovascular surgeon and cardiac transplantation specialist. Rather than a battlefield, this was where victory champagne was popped…or where white flags of surrender were thrown.
Theo sat next to me, slouched down, gnawing on his thumbnail, his leg jouncing. I could feel my younger brother’s energy radiating out. He took the yellow glow of his fear and burned it until it was red hot and ready to combust.
I expected to be wracked with dread. I felt nothing. No dread. Not even fear. I was beneath fear. Numb.
We waited for five minutes in that office—I watched the clock circle off each one. Five minutes that felt like years and also no time at all. The door opened and Dr. Morrison walked in, a file folder tucked under his arm and a grim look on his face. My borrowed heart slammed against my rib cage, shattering the numbness. I immediately wanted it back. Feeling nothing was better than this bone-deep terror.
Dr. Morrison had the appearance of an eighth grade social studies teacher—late fifties, receding hairline, tall and somewhat lanky. His eyes were sharp. Surgeon’s eyes, with a vast wealth of medical knowledge and expertise behind them.
He offered me a thin smile and extended his hand to shake. “Jonah. Good to see you. Sorry to have kept you.”
I half-rose to my feet on watery legs and shook his hand. “No trouble,” I said, eyeing the file folder tucked under his arm.
That file that told a far-fetched story of a perfectly healthy young man—who’d never been sick in his life but for a bout of tonsillitis in the fifth grade—struck down by a virus that destroyed his heart. It was thick now, filled tissue-type analyses, diagnostics, blood work, lab work, an urgent surgery, a mile-long list of immune-suppressant medications, and finally, biopsy results. Seventeen of them. Number eighteen was the day before. Its results would be on top.
“Theo,” Dr. Morrison said with a nod. He didn’t offer his hand and Theo didn’t rise from his seat, only nodded in return. His leg jounced faster.