Dr. Shakir smiled down at Joule as he placed the stethoscope against his tiny chest and listened. Joule squirmed and hacked out a few irritated sobs. Casper gently jostled him in a vain attempt to make him forget how exhausted he was. They had already completed the work-up and EKG, and then had waited another ninety minutes to be seen.
Casper’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He ignored the frantic buzzing in his stomach, telling himself he didn’t care who it was. It would be Mom, of course, probably checking to see how the appointment was going.
He held Joule tighter, resisting the urge to pull out his phone.
After all, he didn’t expect anything. Why should he? He had no reason to even consider the possibility. It was perfectly evident, and she had made it so, leaving a long, cold trail of unanswered texts, calls, and emails.
But it had been a few months. Long months. Days stretching endlessly and seamlessly into one another, a featureless gulf of distance that grew wider and wider, till three hundred miles may as well have been three hundred thousand. It was becoming harder for him to believe they had ever been in the same room. She had disappeared from him so suddenly and completely that it seemed as if she had ceased to exist, or entered another dimension. Or he had.
She was squeezing his hand, her knuckles white and her face pink, groaning and trembling with the effort. He was sick with panic, shaking as he stood next to her bed.
I can’t do it. Her eyes were wild with pain, imploring him to help her. He kissed her forehead. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. He stroked her hair from her face and made promises he had no power to keep. You’re going to be fine. It’s going to be okay. God, please. She shook her head and blew air through her lips, screwing up her face and bracing for the impact of the next wave of agony. I’m so sorry.
The next moment, he heard Joule crying. Oh, God. Thank you. I’m sorry. Thank you. He saw her sigh, a smile of relief flitting across her face. It was the last time she looked at him.
No. I don’t want to hold him. Please. She squeezed her eyes shut and turned away. Please.
It was the last time he saw her. He had made desperate attempts, again and again, everything short of pushing Mark aside and bursting through the door. He wanted to wait outside to catch her as she left. To follow her home and be sure she was all right, cherishing the selfish hope that she would relent and take him back.
Dr. Shakir made a note in his chart.
“All good, Doc?” Casper asked, moving Joule to his shoulder and again offering him the pacifier, which again, he angrily declined.
“I’d like to schedule the surgery next month.”
“Next month?” Casper’s stomach shrank. The pacifier dropped to the floor. “I thought we had till September. You had estimated six months out for the surgery.” He reached to the floor and blindly groped for the pacifier. “His pediatrician back home sent you his chart, didn’t she? Two weeks ago, he was in the 50th percentile for weight, 63rd for length. She said he was doing better. Come on, buddy,” he pleaded with Joule, offering him the soft muslin blanket he had hitherto preferred. Joule burrowed his face into Casper’s shoulder and raised his voice another decibel.
“His growth is better, but still not where it should be. The rate is slowing more than I like.” Dr. Shakir reached down and picked up the pacifier. He took it to the sink and washed it, carefully drying it before handing it back. “You knew this was a possibility, Casper.” Joule took the pacifier, momentarily placid. “The defect is getting worse, not better.”
“Can’t we give him a bit more time? Maybe his heart will get stronger. The hole could close on its own. I read a paper yesterday about—,”
“The University of Michigan paper. Yes, I know what you’re referring to. That’s not regarding AVSD. It’s about a completely different diagnosis.”
“But they cited a case that was really similar to Joule’s, and the paper suggested that younger patients would—,”
“Casper, I would never expect a case like Joule’s to clear up like that. It will not happen without intervention. We need to schedule the surgery. The sooner, the better.” Dr. Shakir stood. “Let me get Jessica. She’s in charge of scheduling. We’ll set it up today.”
“I can’t. Not yet.” Casper stood, rocking Joule against his shoulder. He heard the pacifier fall to the floor. Joule instantly screamed his displeasure. “Please. I don’t — I’m not ready.” Dr. Shakir’s face softened.
“He’s a good candidate for the surgery. You’ve done well keeping him healthy. But I don’t advise waiting.”
“But I—,” Dr. Shakir washed the pacifier again and handed it back.
“Wait just a moment. I’ll get Jessica and we’ll cover all the details before you leave. I know it’s been a long day.”
Casper pulled out his phone and checked the notification, which informed him that the Hawkeyes had poached the quarterbacks coach from the Cornhuskers.
—
Within seconds of exiting the parking garage, Joule had finally conked out. At the red light, Casper pulled Mom’s Ford Fusion to a stop. A cyclist in leather shoes and a tie was waiting next to him in the bike lane, astride a pristine, black Nordic Strider II. Even when he still had the Rimshot, he knew he had never looked that cool.
He leaned over the steering wheel and peered down the city block. A hundred yards down the sidewalk, a queue of Carver employees had formed in front of a shawarma truck.
“Why would you assume I’ve never had it? As if we don’t have pita bread in Grover,” he muttered, no longer able to ignore his growling stomach. He inhaled deeply, catching the aroma of smoke, spices, and roasting meat. He practically shuddered with desire. “Why is it taking so long? How hard can it possibly be to cut meat off a cone? Look how slowly it’s rotating.”
“Poor baby,” she cooed, rubbing his belly. “You’re so grumpy when you’re hungry.”
“Ha! You’re one to talk.” She grinned and shrugged in an adorable admission of the charge. Unable to help himself, he put his arm around her and held her close. “You look pretty delicious, actually,” he said, kissing her dimpled cheek. She laughed.
He was startled by a horn blast behind him. As he drove past the food truck, he craned his neck back for a moment, but saw nobody he recognized. One more place to see before getting on the highway toward home.
—
It looked exactly the same as the last time he’d seen it. A light was on in the living room. When he rolled the window down, he heard Miss Stacy barking. The mailbox was overflowing. He wondered if she’d gotten any of his checks. He knew she hadn’t cashed them, but it was possible she didn’t even know he’d sent them. Maybe Mark intercepted each one and burned it over that dusty pumpkin spice candle they kept in the bathroom, cackling like a Dickens villain.
Probably not, but the thought comforted him somehow.
—
“So, July 14th? That’s pretty soon. But that’s great, isn’t it?” Nick asked, cutting Mikayla’s chicken parmesan into bite-sized pieces. “What? What’s wrong?”
“He’s got a lot on his mind, Nicklas,” said Mom. “Rosie, is there anymore Caesar dressing?”
“In the fridge, Mom,” Rosa answered, setting a plate in front of Casper. He stared at the steaming food. “Aren’t you hungry, Cass?” He nodded and picked up his fork obediently, but couldn’t make himself eat.
The thick packet Jessica had given him had more information than he could have wanted. Full-color diagrams of what exactly they were planning to do to fix Joule’s heart. Nick was right. It should have been great. He should have been thrilled that the anxious months were ostensibly coming to an end. Joule would be fixed, Casper would learn to look at him without fear.
“You did say the doctor is quite optimistic about the outcome,” Dad coaxed. “Joule is a good candidate for the surgery, isn’t he?” Casper nodded and tried to smile. “Then you just need to keep doing what you’re doing. God knows.” Casper agreed obediently.
“Did they say anything about how much it’s going to cost?” asked Nick. Mom and Rosa shushed him. “What? That’s what he’s thinking about. I can tell. He’s got that crease between his eyes. That’s what I would be thinking about. So, did they give you an estimate?”
“Babe, he’s had a long day,” said Rosa.
“Thirty grand,” Casper answered. Four forks dropped simultaneously. While they recovered, Mikayla sang a rhyming couplet about a dolphin with wings and took a noisy slurp of milk through her silly straw. “Well, thirty grand is the base figure,” he added, as if the qualifier softened the blow. “They’re not really authorized to tell me things like that but I finally got it out of them. It also depends on how long he’ll need to stay in the hospital recovering. Could be a week or more. So, maybe more like forty or fifty at the end of the day.”
“But insurance—,” Mom began, then stopped. Casper shook his head.
“Joule is insured through the government, but it’ll only cover a portion. But it’s okay,” he said, wanting to reassure the faces around the table, “I’ll figure it out. God knows,” he said. The words tasted strange on his tongue. “Don’t,” he begged, smiling feebly, “please don’t look at me like that. I shouldn’t have told you. Not like this. I made it sound worse than it is. It’s going to be fine.” As he continued blathering, he watched the beloved faces grow more and more horrified. “Really. With insurance, I mean — it won’t cover everything, but it might be more like twenty-five thousand. Give or take.”
Nick kneaded his face with his hands. Mom stared at the ceiling. Rosa stared at the table. Dad sat back in his chair and laced his hands behind his head.
How could you let this happen?
The thought was cold. A voiceless chill at the back of his mind. Leering at him with unblinking eyes.
God knows. It was a feeble parry.
Yes, He does know. Colorless, vague, and amorphous, the chill seeped noiselessly into his mind, pitiless and bloodless. God knows more than any of them.
“Let’s not talk about it right now,” Mom soothed. “Rosie made this wonderful meal for us, and it’s been a long day.” Nobody moved.
“It’ll be fine,” he insisted. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you guys. I’ll figure it out. I’m still waiting to hear back from that job application I sent last week. They’re based in Des Moines and they offer remote work.” Mom smiled as if he had just announced that he had used the potty.
“What about that fancy bike of yours?” Nick asked through a mouthful of pasta. “Isn’t it insanely valuable? You could sell that. You paid ten thousand for it, right? Something ridiculous.”
“It was four grand. And I don’t have it anymore.” It hadn’t been his most brilliant financial decision. He wondered if she ever rode it. Probably not. It was most likely moldering in the basement. Or Mark had run it over with the Honda Civic. Then set it on fire.
“Mom,” Nick appealed again, “aren’t there any ancient, distant relatives who really like Casper and are ready to call it? There’s got to be someone in this family sitting on a stack.”
“Sure — a small stack, mostly ones,” said Dad. “No magic money in this family, Cass. I’m sorry.” Casper grinned.
“The Nigerian princess I’ve been chatting with is going to be really disappointed.” Dad laughed and asked him to pass the parmesan cheese.
“Who have you been chatting with?” Mom asked.
“A fundraiser!” Rosa suddenly shrieked.
“What, like caramel corn?” asked Nick.
“No, at church! Don’t you remember when we held that spaghetti dinner for Miss Lily’s cancer treatment? We raised a lot of money.”
“I couldn’t take their money like that, Rosa. I’m not even a member at Mercy,” said Casper. “I mean, not yet.”
“But it’s only a matter of time. Right, Cass?” said Dad.
“Yeah, sure. I mean, I think—,”
“That’s a technicality, isn’t it, Dad?” Rosa cut in. “Anyway, nobody cares about that. God says we’re supposed to help the poor. Cass, you’re poor and —,” Rosa paused, then her eyes widened with obvious delight. “And you’re living with your parents temporarily, which makes you poor and a sojourner!” Rosa held up her palm to Nick.
“Ouch,” Nick grimaced, high-fiving her. Casper couldn’t help but smile at Rosa’s irrepressible glee at the prospect of rescuing him from his pathetic circumstances.
“I guess I do make a pretty compelling charity case.”
“You really do,” said Rosa artlessly, pulling out her phone. “I’m texting Chelsea and the girls right now. What do you guys think? Spaghetti or chicken barbecue? Never mind. It’s summer. Chicken barbecue, obviously.”
“Honey, make sure you loop me in on that text thread,” Mom said to Rosa. “And tell them I’ll be in charge of the pie auction.” Casper’s face reddened. This thing was going to get out of control fast. He thought quickly.
“Mom, you shouldn’t be organizing anything! It’s unethical to ask your friends to give money to your own kid.”
“What do you call a graduation party?” she shot back, undaunted. It was a fair point.
“But this is church. It’s different, isn’t it? Dad?”
“The church hosts community events all the time. Anyway, it’s for Joule, too.”
“Yeah,” he conceded, settling back in his chair. It was for Joule. He didn’t begrudge anyone showing kindness to his son. It wasn’t for him. It was for Joule. “But please,” he looked at Rosa beseechingly, “make sure people know it’s for his surgery. I wouldn’t be asking if —,”
“You’re not asking. Has he asked anyone for money?” Rosa glanced around the table, inquiring. Everyone shook their heads. “Whether you like it or not, we’re helping you, Cass.”
“Joule. You’re helping Joule.”
Nick put his arm around his wife and grinned at Casper.
“Prepare yourself. When it comes to fundraisers, Mercy goes all out.”
He knew that. That’s what he was afraid of.
—
Whether he was ready or not, Rosa’s fundraiser had forced his hand. He had no choice but to start attending again.
He didn’t make it past the front doors without being stopped. Randy Gephardt jogged out into the rain to meet him, holding up an umbrella. Bob Strom held the door, slapped him on the back and shook his hand. They offered to take his jacket, backpack-turned-diaper bag, and Joule’s carseat, called him stranger, and told him at least four times how good it was to see him again. They were looking forward to the barbecue.
At the coat rack, Tracy Bruce intercepted him with a bear hug of shocking force, helped him out of his wet jacket, and dabbed the rain off Joule’s cheeks with a Kleenex from her purse. She called him sweetie and told him how good it was to see him again. She was looking forward to the barbecue.
As he entered the foyer, the two Rice sisters, each with a child on her hip, strode toward him and demanded a full accounting for his absence. They called him Jorgenson, just like their dad had during ultimate frisbee, and told him how good it was to see him again. They were looking forward to the barbecue.
He smiled and looked at his feet, unable to do anything else, enduring their kind inquiries and attention.
—
He had been jostling Joule against his shoulder for twenty minutes, but for some unknown reason, Joule had determined that this was no longer sufficient to keep him suitably entertained during the sermon. He began to sputter and mewl.
“Shh, Bud,” Casper pled under this breath. He turned Joule around to face him and cradled him.
“What is Paul saying?” Pastor Bruce continued. “For I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want to do I keep on doing. What can he mean? Here’s what I think he means—,”
“Honey, I can take him to the nursery,” Mom whispered. She held out her hands.
“He’ll be fine. He’s just tired.” Casper plugged a pacifier in Joule’s mouth, but it was instantly spat on to the carpet. Joule cried louder and rubbed his eyes fiercely. Casper offered him the corner of his orca blanket, which Joule snatched and crammed against his face.
“This passage has been somewhat controversial for many years. Some scholars believe Paul is describing his sinful nature before coming to Christ, while others believe he is referring to his frustration as a regenerate believer who is increasingly, painfully aware of the residual sinfulness within him. Now the view I take—,”
Casper didn’t hear which view Pastor Bruce took, as Joule arched his back and grew more irate.
“Let me take him, Honey.”
“No, Mom. He’ll stop.” Joule did not stop. Most of the congregation kindly pretended not to notice, with only a few teenagers gawping back at them.
“Paul exclaims, ‘O, wretched man that I am!’”
Joule leaned his head back and screamed. Casper leapt out of the pew and fled out of the sanctuary with Joule. The door slowly closed behind them and he stood in the empty foyer, craning his ear to hear the conclusion of Pastor Bruce’s point. Mom appeared, holding out her arms again.
“Let me take him, honey.”
“I don’t want him in there. Not yet.” Too many runny noses, too many well-meaning youth group kids who didn’t know what they were doing. “He’s going to get sick. There’s a hundred kids in there.” Mom rolled her eyes. He knew as well as she did that there were exactly five kids in there, including Mikayla. But he didn’t trust her either. She was always trying to feed Joule with her baby doll bottles, and Casper shuddered to think where they had been.
“Then let me sit out here and hold him, and you can stay in the service.”
“Are you sure? You won’t bring him in there?” He pointed to the nursery door. “Not even to show him to Mikayla?”
“I promise.” He looked at her doubtfully, knowing her compulsion to be near her grandchildren at all times. “I promise,” she insisted. Cleaned out of excuses and truly wanting to go back and hear the rest of the sermon, he agreed. He handed Mom his backpack and reminded her where everything was. “I’m sure I’ll manage. Now go ahead.”
He obeyed. He took his seat in the pew next to Dad and tried to focus.
“I think even apart from the contextual clues, the fact that Paul continues to use the present tense is a strong hint for this point of view. So this is a good news and bad news situation. Here’s what I mean—,”
He thought he heard faint crying on the other side of the door. He glanced behind him and craned his head to see through the narrow side lite. No luck. He jostled his knee. Mom promised. She promised not to take him in the nursery. But she didn’t promise not to bring him to the nursery door so Mikayla could see him. Then one of the well-meaning youth group kids would let her out to see Grandma. And she would try to feed Cheerios to Joule, and he would choke to death, but not before first contracting some kind of viral pestilence from her sticky paws.
He got up again. In the foyer, Mom was swaying Joule back and forth, humming a hymn. Casper sighed with relief. He went back into the sanctuary.
—
He eased Joule back into his crib, wincing as the tiny limbs stirred, then settled against the mattress. He placed his palm on Joule’s chest. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
He crept back into bed and checked the time on his phone. 2:33 a.m.
His eyes were heavy, but his mind was awake. One month till the surgery. Nothing to do but wait. Seven pending job applications. Nothing to do but wait. Tens of thousands of dollars dangling over his head. Nothing to do but wait.
Wretched. How could you let this happen?
The voiceless chill grated on him, icy splinters slicing through his weak, undefended mind.
I’m sorry.
Wretched. Wretched. Wretched.
There’s nothing I can do but wait.
Of course there is something. There is always something. You know nothing is free. You must not allow them to convince you. You know what is expected. They do not understand. They cannot be expected to understand. But you do. You know better.
I’m very tired.
He squeezed his eyes shut. He saw her. She looked at him with cool indifference, then turned away. Then he saw their faces, all of them who had been so kind to him, fix him with the same glare. It was only for a moment, then they too turned away, disgusted. The tiny heartbeat suddenly tripped and raced, furiously throbbing as blood flushed through the gaping hole. The panicked beating grew more and more frenetic even as its efforts availed less and less. The heart began to shrivel, its walls collapsing, leaking dark blood through its closing valves.
Casper clambered out of bed and knelt by the crib, desperately placing his fingertips over the tiny heart. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
What can I do?
There was no answer.
What can I do?
“What’s going to happen to him?” he whispered into the velvet sky behind the window, his voice trembling. “What can I do? You know. Please. Please, tell me.” There was no answer. Casper looked at the sleeping face in the dark, the tiny fists raised above his head, defenseless and unaware. “Buddy, I’m so sorry.” I’m sorry. What can I do?
There was no answer.
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Katie Bertola 