Whiskey and Country

3

NICHOLAS

In the doorway, I ground my molars together. Derek lay in his hospital bed, and if it wasn’t for the steady beeping of the monitor next to his head, I’d think he was already dead. His face—usually a mix of gray and white—had lost all traces of color. All the spark. All life. I studied the rise and fall of his chest, thanks to the ventilator.

A nurse spoke to him as she adjusted the pillow underneath his frail frame. Did he lose even more weight in the last twenty-four hours?

Murielle cocked her head, and our eyes met. My feet turned to lead as I stumbled forward and enveloped her in my arms, her tiny figure trembling, her tears soaking my clothes. No words were needed as grief poured out of us, creating a lifelong bond.

“Thanks for coming, Nick. I know he’d want you to be here. I believe he can feel us. I feel my baby. He isn’t gone.”

“Derek is the best. A good kid. You did well. I’m so sorry it’s happening to you two.” Emotions drowned my words. I blinked to get a slice of my composure back.

Murielle hugged my midsection. “You’re one of the good ones, Nick Peterson. Derek is lucky to have you in his life. You make him happy. You bring cheer into his days. He looks up to you. You’ll never understand how much you mean to him.”

I rested my chin on the top of her head, watching Derek as he lay there peacefully, not knowing the rubble he was leaving behind. My gaze zeroed in on the equipment keeping him alive. So many tubes. And cords. And machines. Drips and pumps everywhere. Each one of them splintered my heart a little more. A firm clamp tightened over my chest. My friend was a trooper, took everything head-on. My eyes followed the ventilator as it pumped air into his lungs through the tube. No expression marred his face. The lines had smoothed out. No sign of pain. He seemed to be almost at peace. After life had put him through a wringer. But I already missed him, his cheerful grin. And sparkling eyes. And liveliness. Everything that made him—well, him. A big chunk of my heart died at this sight.

The room looked like a scene from a sci-fi movie. But this wasn’t fiction. It was real life. Derek’s life. Ending too soon. Way too soon. I wrinkled my face, not ready to give up hope as tears rolled down my cheeks. People often talked about out-of-body experiences. Now I got it. Nothing felt factual right now. As if I was living someone else’s surreal existence and this wasn’t my life.

In silence, Murielle and I broke apart and sat on the opposite edges of the bed, each of us holding one of his hands.

“Hey bro, it’s me and your mom. Listen, we’d like you to fight this. Come back to us. It’s selfish. But can we have more time together? We’re so not ready to let go. But only if you can, okay? We miss you. I miss you. And I promise I’ll learn to play chess better so that I can be more of a challenge. And we still have that game to get to. With the guys. Come back to us, bro. I promise I will buy the front row seats. I don’t want to say goodbye yet. I can’t—I need—” My voice fell to a whisper as my words echoed in the room, strained. My trembling chin pointed to the ceiling, my tears soaking the short stubble covering my jaw. I squeezed Derek’s hand, relishing the warmth in his. My voice cracked as I forced the next words out. “Come back to me, bro. I am not ready to say goodbye.” My head bent down to our clutched hands as tears covered his.

Then it happened. Derek squeezed my hand. My breathing halted. I blinked, wondering if I’d dreamed it. My eyes landed on our connected hands, begging him to do it again. After a few seconds, his hand jerked. A tiny, barely perceptible movement of his fingers against mine. A ghost of a smile grazed my lips.

“He moved. Derek is still in there.”

Murielle straightened. Eyes round and full of confusion, she pressed the emergency red button, and two nurses rushed into the room. Still perched on Derek’s bedside, I urged him to shift his hand again. “Come on, bro. Show them. Move. Derek, I’m asking you to move your hand. Please. Once. Just do it. Show them.” I wrapped my fingers around his, pressing harder. Nothing. Not even a tiny flicker.

Stephen, the oncologist, walked in. Over the years, we’d gotten to know each other pretty well. He had always treated me with respect. Almost like a son. He examined the boy and joined me by the side of the bed. His large hand clapped my shoulder. “Nick, what you witnessed is called spontaneous movements from the muscles. They spasm sporadically, spinal reflexes. Nothing more. It has nothing to do with Derek’s brain activity.”

“But he moved. I felt it. He squeezed my hand. I swear.”

“Son, I know. And it’s quite common. He suffered an intracranial bleed due to his metastases. Hence, we put him on the ventilator. We’ve run the tests and scans. No neural activity. We would be repeating them in the next twenty-four hours, do another EEG. But I’m not expecting a different outcome.”

I folded my arms on each side of my head, curled on myself, shielding my body from the pain. And the harsh words.

“What do we do now?” Murielle asked, her usual soft voice gravelly and shaky. Imprinted with a cocktail of emotions that should be illegal to feel as a parent.

“We wait.”

And so, we waited.

* * *

For the next few days, our vigilance by Derek’s bedside never stopped. Either Murielle or I would speak to him, holding his hand, praying for a sign. Any sign. My heart broke a little more as she related the story of his birth, the first time she held her newborn baby close to her heart. Happy milestones in her child’s short life. His first smile. His first crawl. His first steps. Every story enveloped in a mother’s love and wrenched in her tears as she probably realized with each word that they were all she had left. Memories.

My friends kept in touch. Jace even offered to deal with Cody, smoothing out things with my boss since I was in no mind to heed the five times he called to coax me back to work. All my focus was on this friend of mine. The brother of my heart. The light of my soul.

Murielle read stories to him; I told him all about my friends’ antics. Tales from my own childhood. My work. Our Little League days. Anything that struck my mind at this time. I wasn’t completely aware of the words I spoke, but I knew they were memories of my good times. Minutes became hours as Derek was wheeled out of the room for his scans, then wheeled back in. Each time, I held my breath, bracing myself for some news. Any news. Nurses drew blood, specialists came in, then walked back out with a grim demeanor. Even as the tears of our hearts deepened, we refused to let go of the tiny bursts of hope we held on to. Derek still had the good fight in him. Didn’t he? In silence, I prayed for it.

Night overpowered the light of the day. Murielle took the mattress provided for her. I paced the corridors. The hospital, which was so busy during the day, now turned into a grave town where only the machines made their beeps and nurses spoke in hushed tones. The respectful silence accentuated the emotions floating in the air, knowing someone was leaving and someone else was being welcomed in this cycle of life.

A sudden series of high-pitched beeps followed by an alarm pierced this silence, and nurses ran toward Derek’s room. My steps carried me inside. Code blue. A crash cart was rolled in, along with a defibrillator. Murielle and I hunched in the corner of the room, clutching each other for support, taking the whole scene in with widened eyes and hitched breaths.

My blood turned to ice, firing chills through my entire being. A rock grew in my chest, pushing against my lungs.

Derek’s heart had stopped.