Secret for a Song by S. K. Falls

stepping aside. “Come in, come in. He’ll
be so happy to see you.”
    She
seemed to notice me once I was inside. We smiled at each other tentatively,
waiting for Drew to make the introductions, for us to know each other.
    “This
is Saylor,” Drew said, extending his hand out toward me. “She’s new to TIDD.
She actually helped me get our first signatures on the petition today.”
    “Oh.
Oh, I see.” Jack’s mom came forward, and took my hand between both of hers. “Thank
you for doing that. I’m Jeannie, Jack’s mom. You have no idea how much that
means to me.”
    “Uh,
you’re welcome,” I said, that feeling of guilt and self-revulsion bubbling up
in my chest like some sort of bile. “You really don’t have to—um, Drew did it all.
I was just along for moral support.”
    Jeannie
stepped away and patted Drew on his lower back. “Well, I know Drew’s a
sweetheart. Always has been, since Jack getting diagnosed seven months ago.”
    Seven
months? That was it? Seven short months since the dude had been diagnosed and
already he was sick enough to want to die? And here I was, clinging to the
parapet of life, not quite ready to let go, but not quite ready to clamber on
and live it, either.
    “So
where is the big guy?” Drew asked. I had a hard time imagining any man Drew
would consider “big,” let alone a sick and dying one. “In his room?”
    “Resting,”
Jeannie said, the smile slipping off her face. “He’s been resting a lot lately.
He’s just so tired.”
    By
the look on Drew’s face, I could tell this wasn’t good news. Not that I
couldn’t guess that on my own.
    We
made our way down a narrow hallway into a bedroom that wasn’t any more than ten
feet by ten feet. It was dominated by a hospital bed that was bordered on the
side closest to me by a chair for visitors, and on the others by a wheelchair, a
giant tank of oxygen, and some other IV drips and machines that I had no idea
what to make of.
    The
boy lying in the bed was easily as tall as Drew, if not taller, but he couldn’t
have weighed more than me—about one hundred and thirty pounds. His skin was the
color and consistency of wax, and his bald head reminded me of that kid Carson
I’d met at TIDD. I couldn’t see much of his face because it was dominated by
what must’ve been an oxygen mask, though it looked different from the ones I’d
seen on TV. I had a vague recollection of it being some sort of medicine
dispenser, one I’d seen in a medical catalog once.
    Jeannie
stepped up to him and caressed his cheek. “Hey, Jackie. Look who’s here to see
you, son.”
    His
pale, veined eyelids fluttered open and he looked at his mother’s face blandly.
Then his eyes roved over to Drew and I saw a small spark of happiness. He
motioned weakly to his face mask, and Jeannie pulled it off, swiftly replacing
it in a series of magician-like coordinated moves with a nasal cannula. Once
the little buds of the tube were in his nostrils, Jack fumbled for the switch
by his bed that’d raise him up to a better level for conversing.
    But
Drew held up his hand. “Don’t worry about that, man,” he said. “I can talk to
you just fine how you are.”
    Jack
dropped his hand down, apparently grateful. Every movement of his reeked of
deep, deep exhaustion, the kind I was keenly aware that I’d never experienced.
    “How’s
it going?” he asked, his voice raspy.
    Drew
sank into the chair next to Jack’s bed. At first I was confused about what the chair
leg was touching. It looked like a yellow plastic bag. Then, with a whoosh of
realization, it came to me. It was a plastic bladder. Jack was catheterized, and
his urine was collected in this bag. I looked away.
    “Look
what I got,” Drew said, handing the petition to Jack. “It’s not much yet, but
we’ll have a lot more signatures soon, man. I guarantee you.”
    With
some effort, Jack held the papers up and looked at them. “Thanks,” he said.
Then, looking at me, “Who’s the hot