Page 31 of Bad Blood

I wince, drawing my shoulders up to my ears. A commotion draws my attention past Dax to a staff member scooping charts and scattered papers from the floor. She apologizes profusely to the man who stoops to help her next to the elevator. She keeps her eyes down, head tucked. Lauren and a couple of others rush over to help her, clearing up the mess and sending her on her way.

“With my help.” I cement the decision in my brain. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Dax gives me a slow, deliberate nod, taking my declaration as the only confirmation he needs. He readjusts his hat, rubbing the back of his neck as he makes his way past me and onto the oncology floor.

I follow him, pausing at the nurses’ station, and watch as he strides to the elevators. He doesn’t glance back, his shoulders squared, and his head held high.

I lean over the counter to steady myself. I can do this.

I slide my badge over the pad on the wall. The door swings closed with a push. It’s a typical day in my cancer-filled, fucked-up excuse for a life. Avoiding the truth comes too easily, especially in this profession. I shake my head, unsure of how to navigate all the ins and outs of taking Liam’s case and how I’m going to break it to Kline. My eyes gloss over, and I cover my mouth with my hand, stifling a groan as it falls from my lips.

The never-ending hall gives me the time to get myself under control. I collapse into the chair behind my desk, unsure how to convince Kline I’m the best way to deal with the brothers. The brothers. I chuckle. I’ve given them a nickname. It’s disarming, and the human part of my brain clicks into place. I’m allowed to care. It’s called empathy for a reason.

It doesn’t matter what my heart tells me. I have to get on with the day—whether or not I want to.

I place the charts in a pile on the table and fumble as I grab the voice recorder from my pocket, rifle through Liam’s paperwork, and narrate his dictation.

CHIEF COMPLAINT: I had the pleasure of seeing Mr. Liam Blakely, a nineteen-year-old male who presents with a confirmed case of Ewing Sarcoma.

HISTORY OF PRESENT ILLNESS: Mr. Blakely was accompanied today by his brother. He has had ongoing pelvic pain for upwards of three weeks. He attributes his discomfort to extensive practices for college soccer.

I stop recording and stare at the recorder, swallowing the lump in my throat. Dax’s face keeps popping into my head. I have personal experience with what the brothers are facing. The trials and difficulties they’re going to have to overcome. I want to be there for them in a capacity I haven’t felt toward another patient’s situation in a long time. The dynamic of the brothers’ relationship reminds me of how hard it is to be in a position where there is no control.

Everything about this is devastating.

My last wavering piece of restraint slips through my fingers as a tear rolls down my cheek. I wipe it away, frustrated at the turn of events and the shitty way my day started.

Emotions I’ve had buried for years bubble to the surface. I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. Grady’s diagnosis of ES came when I was sixteen. His strength is what I held on to when our world crumbled, and our family fell apart.

Liam reminds me of him—the free spirit, joking demeanor, stubborn optimism—and everything I lost.

And I will do everything I can to ensure their situation doesn’t end up like mine.

10

One Foot in Front of the Other

Dax

Wednesday, May 10 th

6:43 a.m.

As I run, the cathartic high of my feet pounding against the pavement drowns out the lingering depressing thoughts from my pointless conversation with Liam about his appointment.

For a few seconds.

Maybe I’m making a bigger deal out of this than it is. But probably not. Liam is a liar. A damn good one at that—always cold, strange appetite, sleeping all the time—How did I miss the signs?

The torture of not knowing what to do is killing me. By Monday, we’ll have more answers. And he can’t hide from me anymore.

I repeat the mantra to the succinct rhythm of my footfalls.

Can’t hide. Can’t hide. Can’t hide.

My mastiff, Axel, pulls on his leash as we round the last familiar bend before our cooldown. The amber hue of the sun cresting over the skyscrapers drowns out the morning haze as it filters through the canopy of trees.

Axel gets a second wind when our bench comes into view, pulling me the last hundred yards to rest. I unlatch his leash, and he barrels into the pond beside us, lapping up the water. He had no idea what type of torture he was getting himself into when he joined me for our morning run.

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