Ike Hamill - Migrators

“What’s up?” Liz asked over the phone.

“Can you pick us up? Joe’s not feeling well,” Alan said.

“Dad, I can’t see right,” Joe said.

Alan rubbed his son’s back. “He says he can’t see right.”

“Where is that place? Behind the movie theater?” Liz asked.

“Yeah,” Alan said. “Just take a left immediately before the parking lot and then take your first right. You’ll see us. I’m the tall one, and Joe is the green one.”

Alan smiled and coaxed Joe over to a little patch of grass. If he was going to throw up, it might as well not be on the asphalt.

“Okay,” Liz said, “I’m at the gas station now, so I’ll be…”

“Dad?” Joe asked.

“Hold on,” Alan said into the phone.

Joe collapsed.

“Joe, if you take a left at that desk, you’ll find a couch and a TV and an Xbox. Is he allowed Xbox?” the doctor turned to Liz.

She nodded.

“We’ve got at least three or four games out there. I’ll be done with your parents in a moment.”

“Okay,” Joe said.

Alan watched his son walk down the hall. Joe was looking better, but not by much. The doctor had introduced himself, but Alan couldn’t remember the name. It was on the outside of the building as well.

Something like Ambroccia, or Andoccia? Are those names?

As he closed the door behind Joe, the doctor’s face changed. He lost his don’t-scare-the-child face and dropped right into his straight-talk-to-adults face. His mustache and frown made him look like Wilford Brimley.

“You want to have a seat?” Dr. Wilford asked.

Liz sat on the rolling exam stool. Alan sat in the chair with the wooden arms. Dr. Wilford leaned back against the counter.

“So no listlessness, nausea, or vision problems before today?” Dr. Wilford asked.

“No, not that I can think of,” Alan said. “He’s been going to school and hasn’t complained of any of those things.”

“What is it?” Liz asked. “You clearly have something in mind.”

“What I have in mind is a trip down to Portland on Friday and a contingency plan,” Dr. Wilford said.

“How do you mean?” Liz asked.

“Well,” the doctor said. He paused before he continued. “I’d like to get an MRI. There’s a chance that it will come up clear and you’ll come home. Then we’ll start looking for another explanation.”

“But you think you know what the MRI will show. Just tell us,” Liz said. “What’s the contingency plan?”

Dr. Wilford nodded at Liz for a second.

“There’s a chance that the MRI will show us a medulloblastoma, producing intracranial pressure. That means that there may be a tumor that is blocking his fourth ventricle and causing fluid to put pressure on his brain.”

“A tumor,” Alan said. “Cancer?”

“If we see that tumor, then we’ll want him in surgery before the end of the weekend.”

“Then we’ll take him right now,” Liz said. “Why would we wait? Let’s get this over with so we can eliminate this possibility.”

Dr. Wilford shook his head at the idea.

“When I stepped out earlier, I was checking on the schedules of Portland, Boston, Manchester, and even down in Connecticut. Friday is our day.”

Liz turned to Alan. She took his hand in hers.

“What are the odds that this medullo-thing is the problem?” Liz asked.

Dr. Wilford looked down for just an instant and then locked eyes with her. “Given all his symptoms, I’d say it’s a definite possibility.”

“Give me a percentage,” Liz said. “Give me a number.”

The doctor didn’t flinch. “More than fifty percent.”

Liz turned to Alan. “We need to take him south. We’ll go to Virginia or New York, Alan. What’s the best hospital there?”

“The surgeons will come to us,” the doctor said. “After the MRI in Portland, if necessary, the surgeons who specialize in this type of surgery will join us in Boston for the procedure. We don’t take any chances with this kind of procedure. These are elite surgeons.”

Liz squeezed Alan’s hand.

The doctor pushed away from his counter. “I know the urge to act is overwhelming, but trust me, the course of action I’m suggesting is lightning-fast. We will have done well to catch Joe’s problem this early.”

“Have you ever seen this type of problem before?” Alan asked.

Dr. Wilford nodded. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“And the patient?”

Dr. Wilford shook his head. “We didn’t act fast enough. That’s not going to happen this time. Take him home, keep an eye on him, and check his temperature every four hours. Let me know if you see any change. My staff will give you a number you can call day or night.”

Liz held her tongue all the way back to the hotel and let Alan do the talking. He calmly told Joe that they would be going to Portland for more tests on Friday, and hopefully the doctors would figure everything out. Meanwhile, they had half of Wednesday and all of Thursday to kill. Alan put Joe to bed and sat in the chair, looking at his son sleep.

Alan heard Liz pacing in the adjoining room. He wondered if they had downstairs neighbors. He wondered if anyone had complained to the front desk about the crazy stomping coming from room 220.

When Joe’s breathing evened out—even asleep he still looked troubled—Alan limped to the door and shut it most of the way behind himself.

“Liz, you have to stop pacing,” Alan said.

She was walking a tight line, back and forth, between the bed and the TV.

“I can’t, Alan.”

“I know how you feel. Why don’t you go down to the gym and use the elliptical or something? Don’t they have an indoor pool there? Maybe you can do some laps.”

“One, I don’t have gym clothes or a bathing suit. Two, I put my head in there the other day—the chlorine would kill me. You know my eyes can’t deal with that.”

“Then go for a run. Do anything except fill up this room with your nervous energy, please?”

“Fine,” she said. She picked up her key card and walked to the door. “But didn’t I suggest he had a tumor weeks ago?”

“Liz,” Alan said. “What good does it do us…”

Liz cut him off by closing the door quietly. It was clear that she wanted to slam it.

Alan stretched out on the bed. He turned the TV on but muted the sound. The announcer talked while charts flipped by over her shoulder. The market was up. Somehow the people of the world kept moving through their irrelevant lives while something might be growing inside Joe’s head. Alan couldn’t fathom it. He couldn’t wrap his brain around the concept.

It felt like cancer kept coming up. It was October’s recurring theme.

Alan set a timer on his phone for four hours. He would need to check Joe’s temperature again then. With that done, he drifted off to fitful sleep. The day they’d spent at the doctor’s office had been exhausting, but his mind wouldn’t stopping spinning. Alan spent the night in a endless pattern of napping, taking Joe’s temperature, and staring at Liz. Ever since she’d returned, she’d done nothing but sit at the little desk and read information about Joe’s possible illness. Alan knew that she would be an expert on the subject by the time Friday finally arrived, but she would insufferable for most of Thursday.

He drifted back to sleep.

OCTOBER 31

ALAN WOKE on Thursday morning when Liz came in to the room holding a tray of food.

“Is it time to take his temperature?” Alan asked.

“No,” Liz said. “But I thought he might be hungry when he wakes up, so I got us some food from the breakfast buffet.”