How to Save a Life (3 page)

T
HIRTY MINUTES LATER, after quick stops in the rooms of several other patients, I walk into Logan’s room.

“How’d it go?” he asks before I have a chance to open my mouth.

“How did what go?”

“The doctor’s appointment. How are you feeling?”

“Oh.” I look up to find Logan’s eyes full of concern. He holds my gaze for a moment, and I’m struck, as I always am, by how there’s something about his expression that makes him look wise beyond his years. Does fighting a potentially terminal disease do that to a kid? Make him somehow older, more intuitive, more mature? I see it occasionally here: kids who seem far more comfortable in their own skin than people two or three times their age. Logan is one of those kids.

“Jill?” he prompts.

I force a smile. “Oh, I’m fine. Don’t worry. Everything’s okay.”

“You’re not telling me the truth.” He says the words gently, without breaking eye contact. They’re not an accusation as much as they are permission to tell him everything. But I don’t want to. He’s ten. I’m his nurse—and perhaps the closest thing he has to an adult friend. I can’t burden him with this.

“Oh, Logan, you worry too much.”

“I know what your doctor said.”

The words hang between us as I stare at him. I laugh uneasily. “Logan, I don’t know what you mean.”

He beckons me closer, and he doesn’t speak again until I’m standing by his bedside. He reaches out one tiny, pale hand and rests it on my arm. “How much time did he give you?”

I can feel the blood draining from my face. “W-what?”

“How much time?” Logan repeats calmly.

“Logan, I—”

“It’s okay.” He begins stroking my arm, and his gentleness is enough to chip through my armor. Before I know it, tears are streaming down my face.

“I’m sorry,” I gasp. “I’m so, so sorry. I shouldn’t be crying in front of you.” I begin to turn away, but he tightens his grip.

“Stay,” he says. “And don’t say you’re sorry. What you’re feeling is totally normal.”

The words make me cry harder. He pulls me toward him and gives me an awkward hug as I sob into his tiny, bony shoulder. Finally, I sniffle and pull back, straightening myself out as I clear my throat.

“I’m so sorry, Logan. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Stop apologizing,” he says. He pushes his covers off and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He’s wearing gray sweatpants and a Spider-Man sweatshirt, and the clothes seem to swallow him, making him look even tinier than he really is. “Come on,” he says as he slides to the floor.

“Logan, you should be in bed. You need your rest.”

He’s already halfway to the door. He turns and gives me a look. “I’ve got all the time in the world for rest. Right now, I need you to come with me.”

A
GAINST MY BETTER judgment, I follow Logan out into the hall, where he makes a beeline for the elevator. Sheila is standing at the nursing station, but she has her back turned as I hurry after Logan. He grins and hits the button for the first floor as the doors slide closed.

“Logan!” I’m still shaken by Dr. Frost’s diagnosis, but I’m beginning to pull myself together, and I’m realizing how stupid this is. “You’re not supposed to be exposed to all the germs out there. I’ve got to get you back to your room!”

He laughs. “Jill, I do this every day. So far, so good.”

I stare at him. “You take the elevator downstairs every day?”

“You could say that.”

“I’ve never seen you do that.”

“Yes, you have.”

The doors slide open into the lobby before I can reply, and Logan grabs my hand and pulls me out. He leads me straight to the gnarled, beautiful tree in the middle of the atrium. Despite myself, I glance around, looking for the cute groundskeeper from earlier, but he’s nowhere to be seen, and his gardening tools seem to have vanished.

“Logan, what are we doing here?”

He smiles, and without answering me, he takes a small step forward, reaches out to touch the narrow trunk of the tree, and closes his eyes. “One day more,” he murmurs.

Nothing happens. I raise my eyebrows at him as he smiles and backs away. A handful of leaves flutter to the ground.

“Your turn,” he says.

“My turn for what?”

He nods toward the tree. “Your turn to ask it for another day,” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

I laugh uneasily. “Um, you’re talking to the tree?”

“Very observant. Come on. Do it.” His eyes are bright, and he looks happy, but he’s not making sense. I put a hand on his forehead, expecting to feel the heat of a fever, but his skin is cool. “Just put your hand on the tree, like this,” he says, demonstrating with a flat palm against the bark, his fingers splayed. “And say, ‘One day more.’ ”

“One day more?” I repeat dubiously.

He nods. “Yes. But you have to touch the tree when you’re saying it. You’re asking the tree.”

“Logan, you’re not making any sense.”

“Jill, just
do
it.” His tone is firm, and because he’s beginning to look upset and I don’t want to be responsible for making his blood pressure rise, I shrug and lean forward, placing my right hand on the tree.

I’m surprised for a second how smooth the bark feels against my skin.

“Do it!” Logan urges again.

I sigh. “One day more,” I say quickly. The tree seems to vibrate for a millisecond, and I pull my hand away, surprised. Several leaves flutter to the ground, and Logan counts them, his face clouding over. “What’s wrong?” I ask him.

“Nothing,” he says as he looks up at me, but I have the feeling he’s not being honest.

“What was that all about?” I ask him.

But he doesn’t reply. He’s staring at the tree with a puzzled frown.

“Logan?”

He shakes his head. “Come on, Jill. Let’s go back upstairs, and I’ll explain everything.”

3

“
T
HE TREE
’
S ALWAYS
been magical, I think,” Logan says calmly after I’ve settled him back into his hospital bed.

“Magical?” I repeat, sitting down beside him.

“I mean, way before I knew about it officially, I just had the feeling that it was something special, you know?”

“Okay.” I try to figure out where he’s going with this. He has a big imagination. “I agree that it’s a really pretty tree.”

“Oh, it’s more than that.”

I shrug. “Okay, I guess you’re right. When I pass by it, I always wind up thinking about life and reaching for the light and all that.”

“Exactly!” He beams. “See, you felt it too!”

“Felt what?”

“The magic of the tree, silly! I mean, it’s really, seriously magic. It keeps letting you live extra days, even when your time is up. Just like you said. Life and light and all that.”

I blink a few times. His answer is hitting too close to home. “Logan, what are you talking about, buddy?”

“You think I’m ten, don’t you?”

His abrupt change in topic throws me for a second. “Of course you are. It says so right on your chart. We celebrated your tenth birthday just a few months ago.”

“Okay, so on paper, I’m ten. But the truth is, I’ve lived a lot longer than that.”

“Now you’ve lost me.”

“Right. It
can
be confusing.” He doesn’t elaborate.

“Are you telling me you’re actually older than ten?”

“Not exactly. Just that I’ve lived way more days than the usual ten-year-old.”

When I don’t say anything, he continues. “It’s the tree, Jill. You touch the tree, and it gives you more time.”

I relax a little. “Logan, honey, that’s not possible.”

“I would have thought that too! You wait and see. You’ll believe me tomorrow. Except it won’t really be tomorrow. It’ll be today all over again.”

“What?”

“See, you touched the tree and said, ‘One day more.’ As long as you do that once a day, the tree keeps giving you an extra day. The trick is, it’s the same day over and over again.”

I stare at him for a minute. His eyes are wide and guileless, and I have the feeling he actually believes what he’s saying to me. “Logan, that kind of thing doesn’t actually happen in real life.” I realize I’m being overly harsh with a sick kid who probably just wants to believe that his story isn’t over, so I soften my words by adding, “But it’s fun to think about, right?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know that I’d call it fun. It’s just . . . a thing. It just happens. I think maybe it’s God’s way of letting you live after all, even after you have an expiration date.”

“Logan, you don’t have an expiration date. You’re doing chemo. You’re going to get better.”

He smiles sadly. “No, I’m not, Jill. But that’s okay. I’ll get to live more in ten years than lots of people do in a long lifetime, thanks to the tree.”

I’m suddenly too tired to argue, and he looks so excited about his idea that I don’t want to burst his bubble. “Well, Logan, that sounds wonderful. I’ll have to thank the tree on my way home today.”

“I can tell you don’t believe me. But just wait until the morning. Then you’ll get it.”

I smile at him. “Okay, Logan. Now what do you say you get some rest?”

He nods and burrows down under his covers. “Remember, it’s all going to be okay.”

“Sure.” I can feel tears in my eyes. “See you tomorrow, kiddo.”

He yawns. “No, I’ll see you the next today.”

M
Y MIND IS still whirling with Logan’s strange words as I walk out into the waiting area and find Sheila standing at the nursing station, swiping through patient notes on a notepad. She looks up. “Girl, you look like death warmed over.”

I manage a smile. If only she knew. “I was actually thinking that I might take the rest of the day off, if you can cover for me. I’m sure I’ll feel up to coming back in tomorrow.”

Sheila returns to looking at her iPad. “Why, what miracle is going to happen tonight? You finally going to get laid?”

I don’t say anything, and suddenly, her head jerks up.

“Jill! The doctor’s appointment! I forgot! How did it go?”

“It could have gone better.”

“But you’re okay, right? Tell me you’re going to be okay.”

I study Sheila for a moment. She can be coarse and pushy sometimes, but I know it’s because she loves me. I love her too, and that’s why I know I have to be honest, although I dread it. “Let’s sit down for a second,” I say gently.

“Sit down?” Her eyes widen. “No. No, no, no, no. You’re going to tell me bad news.”

“Sheila—”

“Out with it, then! Just say it!” Her voice has risen an octave.

“I’m dying,” I say.

She stares at me for a moment before her entire face crumples. I see her swat away a few tears before she pulls herself together. “No,” she says firmly. “Absolutely not. I refuse to believe it. You’re fine. You’re standing right here, and you’re fine.”

“Sheils, you know as well as I do that that means nothing.”

“Nope. Not true. It has to mean something. You can’t be dying.” She stares me down, like she can silently bully all the cancer out of me. I meet her gaze and hold it until she comes to the realization that she can’t change my fate. “No,” she whispers. “How much time?”

“A month. Maybe two. I’m past the point that treatment will work.”

Her mouth falls open. “What? No! That’s just not possible. You can get a second opinion. Jill, you need a second opinion.”

“I know. I’ll get one. But Dr. Frost is the best. You know that. And he didn’t seem to have any doubt. I have an aggressive glioblastoma, and apparently, it’s already spread.”

“Dear God,” she whispers. “Jill, I . . .” Her voice trails off.

“It’s okay,” I soothe as she begins to cry.

“No, it’s not, Jill,” she says through sniffles. “You’re one of the best people I know. If you’re dying, well, there’s nothing fair left in the world.”

I want to agree with her. I want to cry and scream and rage about the fact that my own cells are betraying me. But we’re surrounded by unfairness all the time. We work with children whose lives revolve around hospitals rather than classrooms and school yards, whose lives will be over before they have a chance to really begin.

“This is just a part of life,” I finally say. “Some of us get to live longer than others. It’s just the luck of the draw.”

Her eyes well again. “Is there anything I can do?”

I smile. “Just be here for me. Be my friend.”

“Always,” she whispers. “And, Jill? Take all the time you need. You don’t have to come back in if you don’t want to. You have plenty of vacation time saved up.”

I consider this for a moment, but my life is here. I can’t imagine not seeing Logan, Frankie, Katelyn, and the rest of the kids on a regular basis. “Thanks, Sheila. I’ll take today, but I’ll be back in tomorrow. I promise.”

“You’ll call if you need anything?”

“I will.”

A
S
I
HEAD out through the lobby, I glance at the beautiful tree and shake my head. Believing in its power is a nice fantasy, and I’m disappointed in myself for shooting down Logan’s imaginative ideas. We all need something to believe in, and who am I to tell a ten-year-old what he can and can’t hang on to?

I’m in a fog as I head for the parking garage, but something across the street in front of Atlanta Memorial catches my eye. The old man I talked to this morning is back on the bench. Remembering his handkerchief, which is still stuffed in my pocket, I start toward him, but I come to an abrupt halt when I realize something: the man is slumped over, his chin against his chest, his shoulders bent at an odd angle.

“Oh my God,” I murmur as I break into a run. There’s something about the way he’s positioned that tells me instinctively that he hasn’t simply dozed off; there’s something terribly wrong.

I reach him in thirty seconds and bend down, putting two fingers on his neck to search for a pulse. I let out a huge sigh of relief when I find one. It’s weak and thready, but he’s alive.

“Sir?” I say loudly, shaking his shoulders a little. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he’s just fallen asleep. “Sir?” I repeat, putting a hand on his cheek. His skin is cold and clammy. He doesn’t stir, but he’s breathing shallowly, which is a good sign, at least.

I turn and scan the lawn. There’s no one close by, but there are people coming in and out of the front doors of both Atlanta Memorial and Atlanta Children’s. I don’t want to leave the man’s side—what if he stops breathing and needs CPR?—so I begin to yell, “Help! Someone, please help me!”

A few people glance my way, but astonishingly, no one makes a move to head over.

“Help me!” I yell again, annoyed now as well as worried. “I have an unconscious man here!”

I look toward the front door of Atlanta Memorial again, and I see that only one person—a nurse in scrubs—has even paused. She looks at me for a moment and then hurries inside. I shake my head in disbelief and am about to cry out again when there’s a deep voice behind me. “What’s wrong? What can I do?”

I whirl around and find myself face-to-face with the groundskeeper with the green eyes. I blink at him for a second.

“I heard you yelling from across the street,” he says into the silence. “What’s happened? How can I help?”

“Um, this man is unconscious. I need to get him into the hospital, but I don’t want to leave him in case he stops breathing and I need to perform CPR.”

“Of course.” The groundskeeper is already jogging away. “I’ll get help,” he says over his shoulder. I turn back to the old man and feel for his pulse again, grateful that I can still find it. When I look up, the groundskeeper is running toward me, followed by a nurse and an EMT with a rolling gurney.

“Move aside, ma’am,” the EMT says as he and the nurse lift the man onto the gurney.

“What happened to him?” the nurse asks, lingering for a second.

“I don’t know. I just found him this way. I work across the street at Children’s.”

She nods crisply as she glances at my name tag. “Thanks, Jill. You might have saved his life.”

I glance at her name tag too.
Melissa Peterson
. I make a mental note so that I can call the hospital later and ask for her when I check on the patient. “No problem,” I murmur.

I stare after her as she and the EMT head toward the entrance of Atlanta Memorial, thinking how ironic it is that I might have saved a life on the same day I find out that I’m dying. I shake my head, close my eyes and sink down onto the bench, suddenly exhausted. Beside me, the groundskeeper clears his throat. My eyes fly open. I’d forgotten he was still standing there.

“I’m so glad you noticed the man.” He smiles at me, and I can’t help but notice his dimples.

“Oh,” I say, suddenly nervous. “He just didn’t look right, so I came over to check on him.”

The man looks impressed. “Great instincts.” He sits down next to me on the bench. “I’m Jamie, by the way,” he says, reaching out to shake my hand. “I figured I might as well introduce myself since our paths keep crossing today.”

I smile. “Right. You’re the groundskeeper across the street. I’m Jill. I work at Children’s too.”