Holy shit.
I stare at the certified letter in front of me in a kind of wide-eyed shock. I read it over two more times, mostly to make sure I’m not hallucinating.
I’m not. The words are still there.
Holy shit. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!
It’s from a local Salt Lake City attorney informing me that an anonymous donor wants to pay for Timmy’s Make-A-Wish trip. Only he—or she—doesn’t want Timmy to settle for ski camp in Oregon. Oh, no, this donor wants to pay to fly Ash, Timmy’s family, a home health care nurse and me—by private plane—to Arpa, Chile, so that Timmy can have a real, eight-day snowboarding experience.
There’s a breakdown of costs, along with a check made out to the Make-A-Wish foundation that covers all expenses except the private plane, which he explains the donor will provide, plus an extra twenty thousand dollars for incidentals or additional healthcare needs—with more available, if needed.
What kind of incidentals cost twenty thousand dollars? is the first thing that occurs to me. And the second is, Who goes out of their way to do something like this and then doesn’t even claim credit? It makes no sense, and yet the letter is right here in black-and-white. And so is the check. Well, black-and-green, but still. It’s right here, in my hands.
I don’t even know if what this person is requesting is possible. Chile is half a world away—obviously, or there wouldn’t be snow there in July—and I’m not sure it would be safe for Timmy to travel that far. But the donor is willing to pay for a nurse, any necessary medical equipment, whatever Timmy needs …
The possibilities get to me for a second—the unmitigated kindness of someone who just wants to help—and I have to blink the tears back. I’m not a crier normally (had to give that up years ago when the cancer kept coming back) but this … this is something special. And even if it doesn’t work out, even if Timmy’s doctors say there’s no way for him to travel that far … it doesn’t matter. Because someone thought to do this. Someone cared enough to give Timmy an opportunity like this.
It boggles my mind.
Not sure what else to do, I bound down the hall to my boss’s office. Show her the letter and the check. Then, with her approval—she’s less shocked than I am, as things like this have been known to happen before—I roll up my sleeves and get to work.
There are about a million things I have to do to make sure this happens for Timmy, not the least of which is convince Ash that an eight-day trip is even better than a three-day one.
Chapter 5
Ash
It’s been another shit day in a week of shit days.
Work’s been crazy, Logan still isn’t talking to me in anything but monosyllables, and Z and Ophelia—along with Luc and Cam—have taken it upon themselves to drive me crazy about that stupid Make-A-Wish thing about a million times a day. I’ve explained to them all the reasons I can’t do it, told them that there’s no way I’m leaving Logan alone for three days even if they all offer to be here watching him at the same time. He’s my brother, my responsibility.
It just isn’t going to happen, no matter how many times they bug me about it.
I let myself into the house, hoping that a miracle will have happened since this morning and Logan will have had a personality transplant—or at least memory loss about our last real conversation. I’ve done everything I can to talk to him about what he overheard between me and Z, but he isn’t giving an inch. Won’t talk to me about it, won’t talk to me about anything else. Hell, he’ll barely look at me even when I put myself directly in his path and make it impossible for him not to see me.
It’s making me crazy, which—of course—is exactly why he’s doing it. If nothing else, this experience has given me a whole new sympathy for parents everywhere. I don’t know how my own did the whole parenting thing as well as they did, especially considering the trouble Z, Luc, Cam and I got into in high school. Obviously, they had more talent at this than I do.
The second I walk into the kitchen and see Logan making dinner with Sarah, I can tell I’m in for another evening of the same-old, same-old. He’s all lit up, talking excitedly to her about the new video game I bought him as a bribe to talk to me, but the second he lays eyes on me he shuts down. Goes all silent and surly and I swear it makes me want to pull out every hair on my head. Or his head, I’m not sure which at this point.
Sarah smiles at me sympathetically, right before she slides a casserole into the oven. “Dinner will be ready in half an hour,” she tells me as she grabs her bag from the hook near the back door. “You should make a salad to go with it.”
“Yeah, okay.” I rub the back of my neck, trying to alleviate the stress headache that’s been brewing there all day. “How did everything go today?”
“Fine,” Logan tells me in that snide voice that makes my head want to spin around. Where’s a bucket of pea soup when you need it?
“It went well,” Sarah answers after a second. “Logan’s doing really well in physical therapy. We got him in the pool today and he swam six lengths. His therapist was thrilled
.”
“That’s amazing, man!” I tell him with what I hope is an encouraging smile. I already knew about his progress—his therapist called to tell me after the session—but I don’t want to take anything away from this moment. He’s already come so far, considering the fact that he had a broken arm and dislocated shoulder from the accident as well as the spinal injury. It’s been a long road to get Logan to this spot and he deserves all the credit.
He rolls his eyes at me.
“Well, I’ll see you on Thursday,” Sarah tells me. “Enjoy your day off tomorrow!”
Yeah, right. Something tells me Logan is going to make that next to impossible.
After Sarah leaves, I’m left alone with a grumpy-ass Logan and a pile of dirty dishes. Deciding the dishes are easier to tackle than my brother at the moment, I head to the sink. Logan doesn’t leave as I start to run the water, instead choosing to stick around and glare at my back, and I decide to take that as an encouraging sign. The last few days he’s done everything he can to avoid me, so this has to be progress. Right?