Дэвид Балдаччи - One Summer

At three a.m. he sat up in bed and then did the unthinkable. He released the side rail and swung around so his feet dangled over the sides of the bed. He inched forward until his toes touched the cold tile floor. Every part of him straining with the effort, little by little, Jack pushed himself up until most of his weight was supported by his legs. He could hold himself up for only a few seconds before collapsing back onto the sheets. Panting with the exertion, pain searing his weakened lungs, he repeated the movement twice more. Every muscle in his body was spasming from the strain.

Yet as the sweat cooled on his forehead, Jack smiled — for good reason.

He had just stood on his own power for the first time in months.

The next morning, after the hospice nurse had come through on her rounds, he edged to the side of the bed again, and his toes touched the floor. But then his hands slipped on the bedcovers and he crumpled to the floor. At first he panicked, his hand clawing for the call button, which was well out of reach. Then he calmed. The same methodical, practical nature that had carried him safely through Iraq and Afghanistan came back to him.

He grabbed the edge of the bed, tightened his grip, and pulled. His emaciated body slipped, slithered, and jerked until he was fully back on the bed. He lay there in quiet triumph, hard-earned sweat staining his hospice gown.

That night he half walked and half crawled to the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror for the first time in months. It was not a pretty sight. He looked eighty-four instead of thirty-four. A sense of hopelessness settled over him. He was fooling himself. But as he continued to gaze in the mirror, a familiar voice sounded in his head.

You can do this, Jack.

He looked around frantically, but he was all alone.

You can do this, honey.

It was Lizzie. It couldn’t be, of course, but it was.

He closed his eyes. “Can I?” he asked.

Yes, she said. You have to, Jack. For the children.

Jack crawled back to his bed and lay there. Had Lizzie really spoken to him? He didn’t know. Part of him knew it was impossible. But what was happening to him seemed impossible too. He closed his eyes, conjured her image in his mind, and smiled.

The next night he heard the squeak of the gurney. The patient next door to him would suffer no longer. The person was in a better place. Jack had seen the minister walk down the hallway, Bible in hand. A better place. But Jack was no longer thinking about dying. For the first time since his death sentence had been pronounced, Jack was focused on living.

The next night as the clock hit midnight, Jack lifted himself off the bed and slowly walked around the room, supporting himself by putting one hand against the wall. He felt stronger, his lungs operating somewhat normally. It was as though his body was healing itself minute by minute. He heard a rumbling in his belly and realized that he was hungry. And he didn’t want liquid pouring into a line. He wanted real food. Food that required teeth to consume.

Every so often he would smack his arm to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. At last he convinced himself it was real. No, it wasn’t just real.

This is a miracle.

Two weeks passed, and Jack celebrated the week of his thirty-fifth birthday by gaining four pounds and doing away with the oxygen altogether. Miracle or not, he still had a long way to go because his body had withered over the months. He had to rebuild his strength and put on weight. He sat up in his chair for several hours at a time. Using a walker, he regularly made his way to the bathroom all on his own. Another week passed, and four more pounds had appeared on his frame.

Things that Jack, along with most people, had always taken for granted represented small but significant victories in his improbable recovery. Holding a fork and using it to put solid food into his mouth. Washing his face and using a toilet instead of a bed pan. Touching his toes; breathing on his own.

The hospice staff had been remarkably supportive of Jack after it was clear that he was getting better. Perhaps it was because they were weary of people leaving this place solely on the gurney with a sheet thrown over their bodies.

Jack talked to his kids every chance he got, using his old cell phone. Jackie was bubbly and mostly incoherent. But Jack could sense that the older kids were wondering what was going on.

Cory said, “Dad, can’t you come live with us?”

“We’ll see, buddy. Let’s just take it slow.”

With the help of the folks at the hospice, Jack was able to use Skype to see his kids on a laptop computer one of the medical techs brought in. Cory and Jackie were thrilled to see their dad looking better.

Mikki was more subdued and cautious than her brothers, but Jack could tell she was curious. And hopeful.

“You look stronger, Dad.”

“I’m feeling better.”

“Does this mean?” She stopped. “I mean, will you...?”

Jack’s real fear, even though he did believe he was experiencing a true miracle, was that his recovery might be temporary. He did not want to put his kids through this nightmare again. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t talk to them. Or see them.

“I don’t know, honey. I’m trying to figure that out. I’m doing my best.”

“Well, keep doing what you’re doing,” she replied. And then she smiled at him. That one look seemed to make every muscle in Jack’s body firm even more.

One time Bonnie had appeared on the computer screen after Mikki had left the room. Her approach was far more direct, as she stared at Jack sitting up in bed. “What is going on?”

“I’m still here.”

“Your hospice doctor won’t talk to me. Privacy laws, he said.”

“I know,” Jack said. “But I can fill you in. I’m feeling better. Getting stronger. How’re things working out with Mikki?”

“Fine. She’s settled in, but we need to address your situation.”

“I am addressing it. Every day.”

And so it had gone, day after day, week after week. Using Skype and the phone, and answering all the kids’ questions. Jack could see that more and more even Mikki was coming to grips with what was happening. Every time he saw her smile or heard her laugh at some funny remark he made, it seemed to strengthen him even more.

It was on a cold, blustery Monday morning in February that Jack walked down the hall under his own power. He’d gained five more pounds, his face had filled out, and his hair was growing back. His appetite had returned with a vengeance. They had also stopped giving him pain meds because there was no more pain.

The hospice doctor sat down with him at the end of the week. “I’m not sure what’s going on here, Jack, but I’m ordering up some new blood work and other tests to see what we have. I don’t want you to get your hopes up, though.”

Jack simply stared at him, a spoonful of soup poised near his lips.

The doctor went on. “Look, if this continues, that’s terrific. No one will be happier than me — well, of course, except for you. All of my patients die, Jack, to put it bluntly. And we just try to help them pass with dignity.”

“But,” said Jack.

“But your disease is a complicated one. And always a fatal one. This might just be a false remission.”

“Might be.”

“Well, without dashing your hopes, it probably is.”

“Have others in my condition had a remission?”

The doctor looked taken aback. “No, not to my knowledge.”

“That’s all I needed to know.”

The doctor looked confused. “Needed to know about what?”

“I know I was dying, but now I’m not.”