Fireflies: A Father's Classic Tale of Love and Loss

1

“Of course, I feel panicked! Didn’t you listen! My son has cancer! Six months of chemotherapy! I watched him lose his hair! I held him while he vomited!”

“Take it easy,” the resident said.

“I watched him get weaker, watched him stagger, watched him get thinner! They tried every goddamned chemical they thought would work! He lost four ribs… a third of his lung! He had a bone marrow transplant! Three weeks ago, I didn’t even know what a bone marrow transplant was! They…!”

“Try to relax,” the neurologist said.

“If I don’t do something, Matt’s going to die!”

The nurse who’d rushed off with samples of David’s blood pulled open the curtain, entering the room. “His tests came back.”

The neurologist reached for the computer printout and scanned it. The resident peered over her shoulder.

“Look at those numbers,” the resident said, amazed.

“You found it?” David asked. “You know what’s wrong with-”

“These numbers indicate you’ve got-”

The neurologist interrupted. “The healthiest blood I’ve seen tested this year. Cholesterol-one hundred and seventy-nine. Well below the danger level. Creatinine-point nine.”

David had never heard of creatinine. He was sure the term was unfamiliar to him. And yet…

He recalled his seizure on the kitchen floor this morning. A shudder aggravated his tingling.

Creatinine, he understood suddenly, was an element in blood that indicated how well a patient’s kidneys were functioning. The lower the number, the more efficiently the kidneys were filtering poisons from the body.

How do I know this? David thought.

His 0.9 was excellent, David realized, as if he’d been taught it many years before. An average person had a creatinine level between 0.1 and 1.1. Over 1.1 meant the kidneys weren’t working as hard as they should. Over 3.0 meant the kidneys were failing. Over 4.0 meant the kidneys weren’t working at all. Unless emergency procedures were taken, the body’s toxins would accumulate to a fatal level.

In David’s nightmare on his kitchen floor-or in his memory, floating over his deathbed-when Matthew had contracted septic shock, one of the major consequences had been kidney damage. The kidneys had shut down totally (though temporarily, David had been told). Matthew’s urine had stopped completely. He’d been put on dialysis to vent excess fluid and filter toxins from his blood. But despite the dialysis, Matthew’s creatinine had risen to-dear God!-the lethal level of 4.5.

And even that hadn’t been what killed him!

2

Had?

Would?

But none of these disasters had happened! They were only from David’s nightmare! And yet he knew, tomorrow afternoon Matt’s unexpected septic shock would set them in motion!

Have to get up there! Have to save…!

The neurologist kept reading the results of David’s blood tests. “Sodium, potassium, chloride… electrolytes all normal. No sugar problem. Mr. Morrell, I repeat, you’ve had a panic attack.”

She raised her hands. “Yes, I understand you’re worried about your son. You’re afraid for him. But that’s not the kind of fear I’m talking about.”

Sarie spoke quickly, “What do you mean?”

The neurologist continued to stare at David. “For the past six months, you’ve been in a constant state of increasing crisis. Each stage of your son’s treatment has been more prolonged and more extreme.”

“Extreme? Every time the damned phone rings…”

“You jump? Your knees get weak? Of course. You’re afraid you’ll hear more unnerving news about your son’s condition, a worse diagnosis of…”

“His pain, his horrible pain. I don’t know how he bears it. We tell him he’s been through the worst, and then something else goes wrong, and he needs some other kind of treatment, and the worst turns out to be nothing compared to…! I don’t know how he keeps up his strength! How can he be so brave? He never complains! He…!”

The pressure behind David’s eyes broke. Tears streamed down his face. “Matt’s just a kid! How can he be so strong?”

“You’re proving my point,” the neurologist said. “After six months of constant chaos, your body finally told you it reached its limit. Imagine if you’d almost been in a traffic accident. A truck veers toward you, forcing your car off the road. You manage to stop an instant before you hit a tree. What’s your reaction? Your stomach feels on fire. Your heart races. You can’t catch your breath. In effect, you’ve been having that near-accident for the past six months. I could give you a lot of technical words about neurotransmitters in your arteries and the nucleus locus ceruleus in your brain, but basically what it comes down to is, your crisis glands have been working constantly, to the maximum. And you’ve become used to it. You think it’s normal, because for the last six months, it’s all you’ve known. You’re so saturated with adrenaline your body can’t deal with the chemical effects any longer. You’re hyperventilating, and that makes your heart pump faster, and that makes you dizzy. Of course the dizziness makes you more afraid. That in turn makes you hyperventilate more extremely, and that in turn makes your heart pound faster and… you’re trapped in a terrifying, worsening, self-perpetuating circle. The more your crisis glands pump, the more they will pump because they’re reinforced by fear. A panic attack. And if the cycle isn’t stopped, the ultimate consequence is total physical collapse and possible catatonia.”

The neurologist paused. “One more thing. In a panic attack, the patient usually feels tingling only in his hands, but you described tingling in your feet as well, and that makes this one of the most extreme examples of a panic attack I’ve ever diagnosed. You need rest. A lot of it. Now.”

“But my son…”

“Is under constant professional care. In the four hours you’ve been down here…”

What? David thought, pulse rising. Four hours? It seemed as if he’d been in the Emergency Ward for only forty-five minutes.

“In the four hours you’ve been down here,” the neurologist continued, “I’ve asked for several reports on your son’s condition. His physicians tell me he’s doing fine. He’s weak, but that’s to be expected, given what he’s been through. The main thing is, he’s stable, and his treatment seems to be effective.”

“No! He’s going to die!”

“Should I call for help?” the resident asked.

The neurologist studied David.

“Maybe we ought to sedate him,” the resident added.

“No,” David said. “No, please, don’t sedate me. Don’t put me to sleep. My son…”

The neurologist scribbled on a prescription pad. “But sleep’s exactly what you need. Your daughter can have this filled at the hospital pharmacy. I’m prescribing Valium for you.”

“Valium?”

“Whatever you’ve heard about the drug, don’t let the name shock you,” the neurologist said. “Don’t give yourself another attack. These pills won’t knock you out. But they will make you groggy. You’ll feel like taking a nap. You’ll wake up calmer, rested. After your daughter gets this prescription filled, I want her to take you home and put you to bed. And to make sure you take the medication.”

“But my son…!”

“Two days from now, you’ll adjust to the medication. You’ll feel a little slow perhaps, but much less excited, and you’ll be able to function. By then, you can come back and visit your son, as long as you don’t try to drive. In the meantime, your wife will be with your son. The doctors will supervise him constantly. He’s in good hands. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Two days from now? David thought.

Two days from now?

But that’ll be too late!

3

The glass doors hissed open. A nurse pushed David in a wheelchair from the Emergency Ward. Beneath a concrete canopy, in a curve of the driveway where hours earlier David had seen attendants unloading a patient from an ambulance, Sarie was waiting in her yellow Fiesta.

The nurse stopped the wheelchair, opened the Fiesta’s passenger door, and eased David inside.

His every movement remained an effort. His vision continued to swirl. Nonetheless he noticed Sarie move a small white paper bag-a pharmacist’s green bill was stapled to it-off the passenger seat so he could get in.

The nurse shut the door. “Get some rest now, Mr. Morrell.” She added to Sarie, “Make sure he takes those pills. Put him to bed as soon as he gets home.”

“Don’t worry,” Sarie said. “I guarantee my Dad’ll be a model patient.”

Sarie put the Fiesta in gear, then steered around the curved driveway, heading toward the Emergency Ward’s parking lot. The pivot of the car made David’s mind reel. He wanted to clutch his skull, but given what he planned to do, he didn’t dare alarm his daughter.

She turned right, onto a road that passed several university dormitories and a recreation building. Students thronged the sidewalks. The warm June sun was low in the sky, casting shadows. David raised his watch, squinting at its hands. Seven-thirty in the evening, and as near as he could tell, he’d entered the Emergency Ward shortly after two o’clock.

He couldn’t understand how the time had passed so quickly.

Time! He didn’t have much time!

“I’m sorry I took so long coming back,” Sarie said. “The hospital pharmacy closes at six, but I managed to get them to stay open long enough to fill the prescription. Then I wanted to go back upstairs and see Matt.”

“I hope you didn’t tell him what happened to me.” When David had collapsed, he’d been in a conference room with two doctors. In theory, Matthew didn’t know about the panic attack.

“No. Mom didn’t tell him either.”

“Good. I wouldn’t want to upset him.”

“But I took Mom aside and told her what the neurologist said was wrong with you. Mom’s worried. She says you have to take care of yourself.”

David nodded, the effort painful.

“Mom says she can stay with Matthew. I’m supposed to ask a neighbor to bring up a change of clothes for her. When we get a chance, Mom and I will trade places. She’ll come home and see if you’re okay.”

“Oh, I’m okay,” David said with effort. “You heard the neurologist. I’m in perfect physical shape.” He stifled the bitterness in his voice. “Except I’m terrified.”

“But Matthew’s doing fine.”

“No! He going to-!”

Stop! David thought. You can’t alarm her! You need her help!

“Matt’s going to what?” Sarie asked.

“He’s sicker than he’s ever been before.”

“But that’s because the chemotherapy this time was stronger than he’s ever received.”

David pressed her hand. “Of course. He’s bound to be sicker this time. Forgive me. I’m just a little confused.”

Fireflies.

Power chords.

4

Sarie turned right again (more swirling in David’s head), proceeding down a main road toward an intersection, where if they turned left they’d be heading home.

But if they turned right, they’d go back to the hospital, not to the Emergency entrance in the rear but to one of the entrances along the front that David always used when he went up to stay with Matthew.

“Sarie, don’t ask questions. Turn right.”

“But…”

“Don’t ask questions, I said. I know it’s the wrong direction. It’ll take us back to the hospital. Just turn right.”

“But I’m supposed to… What about the pills you were ordered to…?”

“I’ll swallow them. I promise. I’ve got something I have to do first. If it works, I promise I’ll take the pills. I’ll go to bed.”

“But what do you want to do?”

“I can’t explain it now. Just do what I say. Listen to me. I’m begging. Turn to the right.”

Sarie stared at him. “You’re sure you know what you’re doing?”

“So sure you can’t imagine.”

Devotion made her acquiesce. “Okay, Dad. I don’t want to get you more upset, but I don’t want to be irresponsible.”

“Trust me.”

“Didn’t you tell me never to trust anyone who says that?”

“This is different.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m your father.”

Sarie had almost passed through the intersection. “And I’m your puzzled daughter. I hope I’m not making a mistake. Trust you? Okay, then, Dad, hang on. Here we go.” She jerked the steering wheel toward the right (David’s skull came close to exploding) and drove down the lane that would take them to…

5

The ramp, where David had parked early in the afternoon. Now the family had three cars at the hospital: David’s Porsche, Donna’s Voyager, and Sarie’s Fiesta. The gang’s all here, David thought bleakly.

“Dad, that neurologist is going to be pissed at me.”

“But I’m going to love you more. That’s a wonderful trade-off, don’t you think? And believe me, no matter if you think I’m going crazy, just keep trusting me. I’ve never been more sure of anything. I know I’m right.”

David staggered from the Fiesta, Sarie holding him up as he wavered from the parking ramp. Strangers frowned at them.

“But what are we doing?” Sarie asked. “Where are we going? Tell me. Explain.”

“I can’t. You wouldn’t believe me. It’s too complicated. But maybe forty years from now we’ll talk about it.”

“Forty years from now? You’re scaring me, Dad.”

“With a lot of help from you”-or God, or I don’t know what, David thought-“we’re going to save Matt.”

Sarie frowned.

Again David went through the entrance he always used. Again he went down the corridor that early this afternoon had seemed so familiar and yet so distant in time. With Sarie holding his arm, he did his best to keep from wavering, to keep from attracting attention.

They reached the large mirrored room that contained the chairs and the grand piano. Sarie guided him toward elevator E.

“No.” David recalled the terrible pressure he’d felt descending the elevator toward the Emergency Ward. “I can’t take elevators anymore. We have to use the stairs.”

Sarie opened a door beside the elevator.

David’s footsteps echoed as he staggered into a stairwell. He peered up toward seemingly neverending stairs that made him think of a mountain.

“Keep holding my arm. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll manage this.” He gripped the railing. They started up.

At each landing, David wanted to sit and rest, but breathless, he fought harder upward.

“Dad, you’ll make yourself sicker.”

“I don’t matter.”

“You’re not making sense.”

“Keep holding me.”

The higher David climbed, the weaker his legs felt. He had a sudden recollection of his nightmare about his death forty years from now and a thought he’d had of life being like a steep flight of stairs that got harder and harder to climb as he got older.

That memory from his nightmare made him stop in distress. Everything he’d done since waking on his kitchen floor had been motivated by his frantic conviction that the nightmare was more than just a fainting spell. The scenes from his nightmare depicting how his life would be for the next forty years had been so vivid, so real that he’d believed in them.

But now he realized that in none of those nightmarish memories had he suffered a panic attack the day before Matt contracted septic shock. In none of those memories had he been rushed to the Emergency Ward. In none of them had he and Sarie struggled up these stairs.

Was his nightmare really only that? Just a nightmare, the consequence of nothing more than a fainting spell? Were his premonitions about Matthew only the consequence of a vivid dream and too much tension for too damned long?

“What is it, Dad? You stopped. What’s wrong? Do you need to sit down?”

“I just thought of something.”

Maybe the neurologist was right. Maybe I should go home. Maybe I’m being hysterical.

Fireflies.

Power chords.

Wavering on the stairwell, he seemed to float above his deathbed and drift through a brilliant doorway.

No! It’s too real!

With tingling certainty, he understood now why the panic attack and the Emergency Ward hadn’t been in his nightmarish memory, why he couldn’t recall Sarie helping him stagger up these stairs.

Because they’d never happened. Forty years from now, how could he remember what had never occurred?

What he did remember was that after he regained consciousness on the kitchen floor, he’d been so shaky, so disoriented he’d been forced to stay in bed till tomorrow afternoon; and when he’d finally felt steady enough to return to the hospital, Matthew had contracted septic shock.

That day in bed was what had happened in his memory. Not any of the events of this afternoon and this evening. But now the neurologist wanted David to spend the next two days away from Matt.

No! I’ve been given a second chance!

An alternative to the past. Somehow, for God knows what reason, I’ve been allowed the chance to come back and change the past.

The more he thought about it, the more irrational the notion became, and yet he’d never felt saner in his life. Faith. He had to believe. Because if he did go home and spend the next two days in bed, if Matthew did die from septic shock, in that case David would certainly go insane.

“Dad, are you sure you’re okay?” Sarie looked pale. “You’re shaking.”

“I just needed to rest for a second. Come on. We’ve got a job to do.”

David struggled higher. They reached the third level.

Sarie started to guide him upward toward the fourth.

“No,” David said. “We’re here. Open this door.”

“But the Bone Marrow Ward’s on the seventh floor.”

“We’re not going to the Bone Marrow Ward.”

“Then where are we going? There’s only one place I remember going to on the third floor.”

6

The Pediatrics Ward, where Matthew had received his conventional and then investigational chemotherapy, where David had mistakenly gone instead of to the Bone Marrow Ward at the start of the afternoon.

The blond nurse was still on duty, evidently working a double shift. “You’re back again.” She looked surprised. “Has something happened? Have you got good news about Matt?”

“Doctor…” David gave a name, the physician they’d first met when Matt was diagnosed. “Is he on the ward?” The effort to ask the question increased his dizziness. “I know he makes his rounds this time of the evening. Is he”-David’s heart raced, the start of another panic attack-“is he here?”

The nurse frowned at Sarie supporting her father. “He was. I’m not sure if he went home.”

“Please,” David breathed, “find out.”

“Sit down over here,” the nurse said.

“No, I’m not sure I’d have the strength to stand again. Just find him. Get him.” David leaned against a wall.

The nurse left quickly.

“Dad, you ought to be at home.”

“Matt’s all that matters. We have to save him.”

“But he’s not in any danger.”

“Danger? You don’t have the faintest notion. It’s a second chance. We can…!”

“Yes?” The physician David had been hoping to find was suddenly before him. “What do you mean, Mr. Morrell? Save Matt? Second chance?”

“Thank God, you’re still here.”

“One of my patients had a complication. Otherwise I’d have been home for dinner now. What’s wrong? You’re out of breath.”

“Three questions.”

The physician looked tired. But because he’d diagnosed Matthew and seen him more than any other doctor, he had a special interest, indeed a special relationship with Matthew. This physician, more than any other David had encountered, had sacrificed his medical objectivity, had allowed his compassion to surface and to threaten his peace of mind.

“Three questions.” The physician leaned next to David against the wall. “Okay, why not?”

“Suppose you knew that Matt, tomorrow afternoon, at four-thirty-six-”

“What are you saying? How can you be so specific?”

“Let me finish. Suppose you knew that precisely at that time Matt would contract septic shock?”

“That’s the first question? I hate to hear the next one.”

“And the septic shock would be caused by streptococcus mitis and staphylococcus epidermidis?”

“Where did you learn those terms?” The physician studied David’s anxious gaze and sighed. “Okay, strep in his body and staph on his skin. Normal bacteria we always have in and on our bodies, and our bodies normally keep them in check.”

“Except Matt’s got a zero white-blood count, so he can’t combat them.”

“You’ve asked your second question. What’s the third?”

“How would you stop the septic shock from happening?”

The physician stared at David. “You’re serious?”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

“The obvious answer is antibiotics.”

“Then do it. Go upstairs and give Matt antibiotics.”

“This is all hypothetical.”

“Please!”

“Even if it wasn’t hypothetical, the Bone Marrow Ward isn’t my department. I don’t have authority there.”

“Then go up and ask someone who does have the authority to do it.”

“You really are serious?”

David trembled.

“Have you got some reason to be worried? Has Matt got a fever?”

“Not the last time I heard.” The pressure behind David’s ears increased. “But he will have. At three o’clock tomorrow afternoon. And they’ll give him antibiotics then. But it won’t be soon enough. Ninety minutes later he’ll go into shock.”

The physician pushed himself from the wall. “I don’t understand why you’re so sure he’ll go into shock. The way you look, this entire conversation, I’m quite concerned about you.”

Sarie couldn’t stop herself. “Dad, tell him you just got out of the Emergency Ward.”

“What?”

“My Dad had a panic attack. He’s supposed to go home, stay in bed, take Valium, and…”

“Sarie, keep out of this.”

“Is your daughter telling the truth?”

David nodded.

“Then go home and do what you’ve been told.”

“I’m begging you to humor me. Why can’t Matt have the antibiotics now?”

“Because we don’t give antibiotics unless a patient has symptoms. At the very least, a fever.”

“But suppose you knew Matt would get a fever, and after he got the antibiotics, they wouldn’t have time to work before the shock set in and killed him?”

“We don’t know anything of the sort. You’re upset-that’s obvious. So I’m trying to set your mind at ease, but-”

“What’s wrong with giving the antibiotics ahead of time, just in case?”

“What’s wrong with that?” the physician asked, an edge of impatience in his voice. “Because antibiotics are toxic to the body and could make your son sicker than he already is. That’s one. And two, if antibiotics are given before an infection starts, the bacteria get used to them, so if an infection does start, the antibiotics are less effective. Now, please, Mr. Morrell, it’s late. I’ve tried to be cooperative, but I’ve been here since six o’clock this morning.”

“My son’s going to die! Why won’t anybody listen to me?”

The nurses in the ward stared in David’s direction. Sarie looked distraught.

The physician cleared his throat. His tone became more authoritative. At the same time, it was strained with a greater effort toward tolerance. “For what this is worth, if it helps any, I’ve been monitoring your son’s progress in the Bone Marrow Ward. Everything’s proceeding on schedule. And if an infection does develop, the antibiotics have already been ordered from the hospital’s pharmacy. They’re in his room, ready to be administered. Of course, we can never be sure what infection might develop, but the types of broad-spectrum antibiotics they’ve got ready for Matt are especially effective against strep and staph. In that respect at least, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

David struggled to keep from sinking. Breathing deeply between bursts of words, he forced himself to say, “Unless the strep and staph have already started multiplying, and by the time his fever starts, his infection will already be out of control.” He straightened, trying to prove he was functional, ignoring the pounding in his chest. “If Matthew did die from septic shock, by hindsight would you think the only way to prevent his death would have been to give the antibiotics ahead of time-before his fever started?”

“It’s all hypothetical!”

“But what I just described to you… giving the antibiotics ahead of time… that’s the only other way he could have been saved?”

“Could have? We can’t predict the future. We deal with facts.”

David had learned what he wanted. “My daughter’s right. I ought to be at home. To take my pills and go to bed.”

Sarie relaxed.

“I apologize for getting upset,” David said, suddenly anxious to leave.

“No need. What pills were prescribed?” the physician asked.

“Valium.”

“In a few days, you’ll feel better, more at ease.”

“I certainly hope so. In fact, I’m convinced of it.”

“Come on, Dad.” Sarie tugged his arm.

“I confess I feel worn out,” David said.

“Well, after six months of what your son and you and your family have been through, of course you feel worn out,” the physician said.

“But Matthew more than all of us. Come on, Sarie. I guess I’ve been a pain in the ass. It’s just that I feel so helpless.”

“Cancer’s a roller coaster,” the doctor said. “Up and down, then up and down. Exhausting. Nerve-wracking. At the moment, your son’s doing fine. Now it’s your job to take care of yourself.”

“I intend to. Thanks again.”

David wavered, escorted by Sarie.

“Wait a minute,” the doctor said. “I’m finished for the evening. I’ll walk down to the parking ramp with you.”

No! David thought. Don’t come down with us! If you do, I’ll have to-! He glanced at the blurred hands of his watch. Almost 9:00 P.M. Time. He was-Matt was-running out of time.

7

In the parking ramp, the doctor walked with Sarie and David toward the Fiesta. The doctor waited till they got inside before he moved toward his own car, almost as if he’d been making sure that David would indeed go home.

David glanced back toward the hospital. No, I have to get up to the Bone Marrow Ward! As Sarie drove from the ramp, he felt trapped, but he knew he’d never be able to convince her to stop and let him out of the car.

The sun was setting; shadows thickened.

Sarie parked in the gravel driveway of David’s house. She helped him inside, took him upstairs, made him lie in bed, then brought him a glass of water and one of the Valium. David put the pill in his mouth and raised the glass of water to his lips.

“I feel a little hungry,” David said.

“What would you like?” Sarie responded eagerly.

“Maybe a sandwich.”

“Tuna?”

“Fine.”

Sarie hurried toward the kitchen.

David ate the sandwich, drank a glass of milk, and went to sleep.

Or pretended to, because he’d never swallowed the pill. Instead he’d tucked it along a cheek, and when Sarie went to the kitchen, he’d removed the pill and hidden it.

He lay in the murky bedroom, kept his eyes closed when Sarie came in to check on him, and struggled to control the swirling in his mind.

Can’t go to sleep.

Mustn’t let myself.

Don’t dare to.

He heard dim voices, indistinct music, the television set downstairs. He glanced at the glowing numbers of the digital clock on the bedroom bureau. Ten-fifty-five.

Sarie, get tired! Go to bed!

Waiting was agony. Groggy, he felt himself drifting.

Hovering?

No! He concentrated on Matthew, on his son’s scarred shrinking body, on the septic shock that would start at four-thirty-six tomorrow afternoon.

At midnight, he said a prayer of relief, hearing Sarie turn off the television. She came upstairs, tiptoed into his bedroom to check on him again, then went to her own room.

He heard her door snick shut.

At 1:00 A.M., he took his chance. Off-balance, he staggered from bed, managed to dress, and peered from his room down the hallway toward Sarie’s door. No light gleamed beneath it. He crept in the opposite direction down the shadowy hallway. Carpeted stairs muffled his footsteps. He slowly unbolted the front door, inched it open, stepped into the dark, and eased the door shut.

8

The night was unusually warm for June, heavy with humidity. Streetlights glistened off dew in the grass. Except for a distant car, the only sound David heard was the screech of crickets.

Sarie’s Fiesta was parked beneath her window in the driveway. He couldn’t risk using his spare key to start it, for fear of waking her. He had no choice. He had to walk. Under normal circumstances, the ten blocks to the hospital would have been effortless, an easy jog for a man with a twenty-year habit of running four miles each day. But at the moment, those ten blocks might as well have been ten miles through knee-deep snow.

Nonetheless he had to do it.

Get started, he told himself. You lazy bastard.

He stumbled across the lawn, across the street, and past the grade school his son had attended. Despite the swirling in his brain, his thoughts were lucid. At least, he hoped so.

Staggering the way I am, a police car might stop me, he thought. I look like I’m drunk or on drugs. I have to use sidestreets, the darker the better.

So what should have been ten blocks turned out to be farther as he took a zigzag route from one murky street to the next. He felt lonely, helpless, and desperate, but terribly determined. His chest heaved from the pounding of his heart.

At last, he saw a glow in the sky. Not the morning sun. Even with his plodding gait, it was far too early for sunrise. No, what he saw was the gleam, reflected off clouds, of the sprawling complex of the hospital. Here, streetlights were unavoidable. He paused beneath a lamppost to study the blur of his watch.

Twenty minutes to three. Normally, he could run a mile in nine minutes, and now it had taken him an hour and forty minutes just to walk it. On the verge of collapse, he leaned against the chain-link fence of a university tennis court and studied the hospital, narrowing his vision toward the seventh floor of a brightly lit section to his right. The Bone Marrow Ward. Matthew. And if his nightmare was correct, a second chance.

For salvation.

To reverse the greatest loss of his life.

Suddenly bolstered, he released his grip on the fence and walked stolidly forward.

Matthew.

Fireflies.

Power chords. He marched to their rhythm.

9

He studied the parking ramp. Few cars. Insects swarmed around arc lights surrounding the hospital. No one was in the area.

David’s six months of coming and going here had taught him how deserted the hospital could be at night, with the patients asleep, their visitors gone home, and the staff reduced. It was possible to walk down corridor after corridor and never see anyone.

That happened now. Inside the complex, the grand-piano room was deserted. Smothered by silence, David considered taking elevator E, but the pressure behind his eyes warned him not to. He opened the stairwell door beside the elevator. Continuing to respond to the rhythm of the power chords, he proceeded step after relentless step up the stairwell, no longer needing his daughter’s support. Driven by his nightmare, he climbed higher. Third floor. Fourth floor. The numbers were fuzzy, but he kept climbing. Sixth floor.

Seventh floor.

10

At last he stopped and took a deep breath. Had to. From exhaustion. He wanted to slump on the stairs. And sleep.

How much he wanted to sleep!

Not yet. Time enough for sleep when his duty had been completed. Forty years from now. Tonight.

He opened the stairwell door and entered a corridor. Ten paces farther, turning right, he proceeded toward the Bone Marrow Ward.

Passing through one door, then along a corridor and through a second door, he entered it.

Softly. Silently. Seeing no one.

In most wards, a nurses’ station would have been the first thing a visitor saw. But in the Bone Marrow Ward, the nurses’ station was out of view, around the corner to the left. That corner was ten feet farther ahead than the corner to the right. And Matthew’s room was just around the nearer right corner.

That made it possible-

David had calculated, had depended on this-

made it possible-

if a nurse didn’t happen to prowl-

for him to shift unseen around that right corner and ease into Matthew’s room.

It was after 3:00 A.M. Often at this hour, Matthew woke from nightmares and needed to talk to whichever parent was sleeping in the room with him, to express his fears and ease his apprehensions. Some of David’s most intimate and heartbreaking conversations with Matt had occurred at this time of night.

But this afternoon, when David had last seen his son, Matt had been so weak it was doubtful he’d waken from his stupor tonight. David had depended on that as well. So much depended on faith.

The room was dark. Matt lay motionless in bed. Donna slept on a cot in the corner, breathing restlessly, enduring her own nightmares.

David shut the door till only a crack allowed light to enter from the outside corridor. Responding to habit, he almost went to the sink to wash his hands, but he froze, realizing he couldn’t make a sound.

When his eyes adjusted to the dark, he stepped toward Matthew’s bed. Two IV stands supported bottles from which a dark liquid (probably platelet concentrate to give Matt’s impaired blood the ability to clot) and a clear colorless liquid (probably saline solution to keep him from dehydrating) were pumped through tubes into IV connections implanted in his chest. Beside the bed was a cart upon which full syringes lay in a row: medications that Matt would need in case of an emergency.

David took the syringes one by one to the light that came through the crack in the door and studied their labels. Though he knew he shouldn’t have been able to recognize their arcane names and understand the effect of each drug, he could do so now, and that made him more convinced that he was right, that his nightmare was more than just a fainting spell.

The first syringe he examined was labeled “carbenecillin.” The term, so close to “penicillin,” obviously named an antibiotic, but intuition controlled him, for somehow he knew it wasn’t the particular antibiotic that Matthew needed.

He examined another syringe. Gentamicin. That too was an antibiotic, he realized, but again he had the certain knowledge that it wouldn’t be effective against strep and staph.

Vancomycin. He’d found it. Though why he was sure, he didn’t know, except for the memory of his nightmare.

Instead of a needle, the syringe had a blunt point capped with a rubber stopper. He removed the stopper, held the syringe upright, and squeezed its plunger until liquid trickled out, guarding against an air bubble entering Matthew’s system.

He stepped toward Matthew.

And stiffened, heart pounding, as a shadow blocked the crack of light at the door.

A nurse! It must have been time for her to make rounds, to check on the patients assigned to her, to administer whatever medications were scheduled.

Donna sighed, as if waking up.

David’s chest heaved, panic swelling.

Hide! I’ve got to-!

The nurse spoke softly to someone else in the corridor. The shadow moved from the crack in the doorway.

David hurried. Despite the absence of a needle on the syringe, he knew he’d have no problem injecting the antibiotic. Too often, he’d watched the nurses add medications to his son’s IVs. The tubes leading into Matthew’s chest had access vents. All David had to do was unplug a vent, insert the blunt end of the syringe into the port, and squeeze the syringe’s plunger-slowly, struggling to control his shaking hands-until all the liquid had entered the tube and drained toward Matthew’s chest.

Twenty seconds later, his task was accomplished. For better or for worse, he’d done what he believed in his soul was the reason he was here after forty years. His thought was irrational, he admitted. But so was faith. His lingering doubt no longer mattered. He’d done everything in his power to save his son.

He shoved the empty syringe into his pocket, peered down at Matthew, wanted to kiss his forehead, but stopped the impulse for fear of waking him. The resultant conversation would wake up Donna, and the further conversation would surely attract the nurse, whose shadow again blocked the crack of light at the doorway. David leaned against the sink, his heartbeat thunderous.

Better to confront than be confronted, he thought.

He opened the door, held his breath to control his hyperventilation, and stepped from the room.

The nurse was surprised. Before she could speak, David closed the door behind him.

“Mr. Morrell,” she whispered. “I didn’t know you were up here.”

David took several steps along the corridor, gesturing for her to follow, guiding her away from the door. She hadn’t been on duty when he’d collapsed this afternoon. He hoped she hadn’t been told.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “So I figured I’d come over to the hospital and look in on Matt.”

“He’s resting comfortably.”

“I noticed. When I saw him this afternoon, he said he felt sick and weak. I was worried.”

“He still feels sick.” The nurse seemed puzzled. “But the thing is, he doesn’t have a fever.”

He will have, David thought. Tomorrow, at 3:00 P.M.

“We’ve been giving him Maalox to help settle his stomach.”

“Good.”

But Maalox won’t stop him from getting septic shock, David thought. I pray to God the Vancomycin will.

“I heard you weren’t feeling so well yourself when you came to see him this afternoon,” the nurse said.

David shrugged, an embarrassed grin. “I got a little wobbly. Too much strain, I guess.”

“It’s understandable. This has been a long ordeal. But as soon as Matt’s blood counts start to rise, it’ll all be over.”

It might be over sooner than you expect, David thought, if the Vancomycin doesn’t work.

“I guess I’d better get going. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.

The corridor seemed to tilt. He needed all his strength to stay upright.

“Try to rest,” she said.

“Believe me, now I will.”

Because there’s nothing more I can do, he thought, and somehow he walked steadily along the corridor, passing through a door.

A minute later, he reached the stairwell beside the elevator, only to realize he didn’t have the strength to descend the stairs and walk back home. He staggered along a deserted corridor, found a plastic-covered sofa, and slumped on it.

Even with his eyes closed, he saw wavering lights. He clutched his stomach, hoping he wouldn’t vomit. The sofa spun. At once, the wavering lights exploded into a million gleaming specks. He hovered in a radiant doorway, seeing fireflies.

And sank.

11

“You son of a bitch…!” Hands shook him. “You meddling…!”

David was pushed and shoved awake.

“You’ve been up here so long you think you’ve got a doctor’s degree? A license to practice medicine?”

David squinted toward sunlight glaring through a corridor window.

“What?”

“Maybe you’ll try surgery next?”

David rubbed his beard stubble and managed to focus on the physician he’d spoken to last night on the Pediatrics Ward.

The physician was livid. “I tried to humor you. I did my best to treat your hysteria with respect. And what do you do? How do you repay my patience? You come up here in the middle of the night and decide you’re a candidate for the Nobel Prize in medicine! Look at this!”

David saw the blur of an empty syringe.

“I found this in your pocket! When the nurse on duty realized the Vancomycin was gone, she phoned her supervisor. The staff looked everywhere! Then your daughter woke up and discovered you weren’t at home. She phoned your son’s room. Your wife’s so upset she might have a panic attack of her own. And here I find you sleeping with the damned empty syringe in your pocket!”

“What else could I do? I had to save him.”

“Save him? You might have killed him! I told you antibiotics are toxic if they don’t have an infection to fight!”

David jerked upright. “Matt’s worse?”

“No! No thanks to you! But Doctor Morrell, since that’s who you seem to think you are, now that you’ve given him the Vancomycin, you’ve forced us to keep giving it at regular intervals. Otherwise an infection might not respond if we wait till Matt possibly does get a fever and then start giving the antibiotic. You’ve forced us into a preventive procedure we hadn’t planned to try!”

David sank back onto the couch and exhaled wearily. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“You had a choice. To let us do our job. Practicing medicine without a license. Do you know how serious that is? Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in? You might end up in jail.”

“Do you think I care? If what I did saves my son, do you think I care if I do time? That’s what I’m trying to buy! For Matt! Time!”

“Well, buddy, if he dies because of what you did…”

David surged to his feet. “If he dies, how much worse can I be punished?”

Startled, the doctor stepped back.

“How late is it?” David asked.

“Almost noon.”

“Give me till three o’clock. No, make it later. Till four-thirty-six.”

“What difference does-?”

“If Matt doesn’t have a fever by three and septic shock by four-thirty-six-”

“How can you be so specific?”

“Then call the police, press charges, and put me away.”

“Never mind three o’clock. I’m about to pick up the phone right now.”

“But if I’m right, if the fever hits at three and Matt’s blood pressure drops at four-thirty-six-”

“How can you be so specific?”

“Then forget the police and hope I saved Matt’s life.”

“I’ll ask you one more time.”

“How can I be so specific? Because I’ve suffered through it before! I know what’s going to happen. And if it doesn’t, thank God I’m wrong. But I’m not wrong. And everything I described is going to happen. Matt died once. I won’t let it happen again.”

“My God, you’re crazy.”

David wavered. “Just give me till four-thirty-six. After that, do anything you want against me.”

“But don’t you see the flaw in your logic? If Matt was about to develop an infection, since you gave him the Vancomycin the infection won’t occur. He won’t have a fever. He won’t go into shock.”

David shook his head. “Without the antibiotic, the infection would have hit him like a fire storm. But believe me, don’t ask how I know this, call it a nightmare, the infection will still be strong. I’m praying the drug I gave him will keep the bacteria from raging out of control.”

“I’ve never heard anything like this.”

“I’ve never experienced anything like this. You think I didn’t realize I could go to jail if I gave him the Vancomycin?”

“You’re that sure of what you did?”

“I could have given him the Gentamicin and carbenicillin, too. But I knew they wouldn’t work on the staph and strep that’ll cause Matt’s infection.”

“How in God’s name did you know they wouldn’t work against staph and strep? You’ve been spending all your time reading medical texts?”

“No. I can’t explain it. I just knew. There’s one way to prove it, isn’t there? Wait till three o’clock-when Matt’s fever’s going to start.”

The doctor looked startled by David’s certainty. “I’m appalled by the risk you took. Disgusted by your irresponsibility.” He shook his head. “Why on earth am I starting to…? Don’t test my patience anymore. Get lost. I don’t want to see you till three o’clock. But listen carefully. If what you’re so sure about doesn’t happen, it’ll be my pleasure to testify against you.”

“Fair enough.”

“More than fair. If I didn’t like Matt so much…”

“That’s the point, though, isn’t it? Matt. He has to be saved.”

“And you don’t think we’ve been trying?”

“You and everyone else, you’ve acted perfectly. What you don’t understand is, something you never expected is about to happen.”

“What you don’t understand is, till three o’clock I want you out of my sight so I can pretend I didn’t find this syringe.”

“You don’t know how much I thank you.”

“Thanks? What you need now are prayers.”

“I’m praying, too, believe me.”

David staggered toward an exit.

12

David’s impulse was to rest in the rear of Donna’s mini-van in the parking ramp. But he feared he’d fall asleep and fail to wake up before three. He also worried that if the authorities started searching for him, a logical place to look would be his wife’s car. So he spent the interval pacing through the parking lot at the university’s football stadium two blocks away, pausing often to lean against cars and bolster his strength. He’d expected the hours to drag, but they passed with astonishing speed.

He returned to the Bone Marrow Ward five minutes before three. A crowd had gathered-the physician in charge of the ward, several associates and nurses, the doctor he’d argued with at noon, and Sarie and Donna. The medical personnel frowned as he approached.

David held his head up.

The physician in charge of the ward stepped forward. He kept his voice low to avoid disturbing the parents of the other patients. But his whisper might as well have been a shout. “What I’d like to do to you, you don’t want to hear.”

“In your place, I’d feel the same. Please, you’ve got to trust me.”

“Got to? The only thing I’ve got to do”-the doctor glared at his watch-“is phone the hospital attorney in a couple of minutes. We checked your son’s temperature just before you arrived. It’s perfectly normal.”

“It’s not three o’clock yet.”

“One minute to,” the doctor said.

“Then I guess it’s almost time you checked his temperature again.”

“My pleasure. So I can pick up that phone.” The physician spun and entered Matthew’s room.

David took two more steps, stopped before Sarie, and hugged her. “I’m sorry I tricked you.”

“Dad, I…” Tears trickled down her cheeks. “Why did…?”

“The simplest reason I can give, is I had to.” He turned to Donna. “Sweetheart, I know you must think I’m…”

Donna touched his arm. David felt as if a spark leaped through him. Her eyes had a depth that he’d never seen in them, except yesterday afternoon when he’d hugged her, after what felt like years instead of hours. Again he had the dismaying sense that she truly understood.

But how was that possible? If she’d come back, why hadn’t she given Matt the antibiotic? Doubt surged through him.

“Okay, it’s three o’clock,” the physician from the Pediatrics Ward said. “It’s time to prove I wasn’t a fool to listen to you.”

“Let’s go.”

13

They entered Matt’s room.

Matt’s flaccid pallid face was appalling. It took enormous effort for him to whisper, “Dad, what’s going on?”

“Don’t be afraid.”

“But they say you gave me…”

“All you have to know is I love you.”

The nurse slipped a plastic sleeve onto a metal tube. The tube was attached to a box that showed digital temperature readings. She slipped the sleeved tube into Matthew’s mouth. David sensed the anger and skepticism around him.

The box was timed to beep in three minutes.

The silence lengthened. The red numbers on the box kept changing, starting at zero and climbing toward…

The timer beeped.

“Absolutely normal,” a physician said, his tone a mixture of relief and indignation.

Normal? David thought. Matt should have started a temperature!

The doctor in charge of the ward braced his shoulders. “I’ve got a phone call to make.”

The physician from the Pediatrics Ward shook his head at David. “Looks like you’re not the medical expert you thought you were.” He didn’t add what David guessed he was thinking-And I was foolish to think you might impossibly be right.

“For what it’s worth,” David said, “you can’t know how glad I am to be wrong.”

“Dad, wrong about what?”

“My imagination got the better of me. Don’t worry. At least, no harm was done. You’re safe.”

“No harm?” the doctor in charge of the ward said. “Your imagination might have jeopardized his treatment. Your amateur medical practice is about to put you in-”

“Just wait a few more minutes.” David’s momentary doubt was suddenly replaced by a certainty that made him quiver.

“Wait for what? You’ve had all the time you deserve.”

“I just thought of something. If the antibiotics I gave him started to work, if they started to subdue the staph and strep-”

“Which we have absolutely no reason to assume will-”

“Matt’s temperature wouldn’t start to rise when I expected.”

“It won’t rise at all!”

“You don’t understand how strong the infection was.”

“Was? You mean how strong you think the infection might be.”

“Will be. The schedule’s been delayed,” David said. “Give me fifteen minutes more. Just to put me at ease before-”

“You’ve had all the leeway you’ll get!”

“I just took his temperature again,” a nurse said.

The doctor stared toward the numbers on the box.

“His temperature’s up.”

14

The ensuing events were so rapid the doctor didn’t have time to call the authorities. He and his staff were too busy working.

“My stomach,” Matt said. “It feels worse. I’m going to-”

Matt vomited. Not just vomited. Spewed.

The contents of his stomach shot to the end of the bed.

“My God,” Sarie said.

A nurse scrambled for a plastic basin. Another nurse grabbed for towels to clean away the vomit. Donna rushed to help her.

A doctor lunged for the cart beside the bed. Grabbing the syringes marked Gentamicin and carbenicillin, he injected them through Matt’s IV line.

“He’s already getting the Vancomycin,” the doctor in charge of the ward said. “With these others, we ought to be able to attack whatever infection he’s got.” He frowned toward David. “How the hell you knew this would happen…”

“The Vancomycin’s the important one. Keep giving it to him.”

“We have been! You forced us to inject it on a regular schedule since you gave it to him last night! How did you know…?”

Matthew vomited again.

Explosively. A white fluid streaked with red.

The nurse holding the plastic basin didn’t catch all of it. Donna and the other nurse kept wiping the vomit from Matthew’s sheets. Sarie rushed to help.

“Blood cultures,” the doctor in charge of the ward said. “The lab. Find out what kind of infection he’s got.”

An assistant was already in motion. Inserting an IV needle into Matthew’s left arm, he filled several vials with blood.

“Staph and strep,” David said. “That’s what the lab’ll tell you.”

The doctor frowned again toward David. “Not likely, since he’s already covered for that. It could be any number of other bacteria. We don’t know what the lab’ll tell us. This is all a coincidence. The fever just happened to start when you said it would.”

“Believe what you want. Just save my son!”

Matt vomited again.

“Another basin! Get another basin!” a nurse yelled.

David grabbed for one off a shelf.

The color of Matthew’s skin was alarming, no longer pale but red, speckled with crimson spots: tiny hemorrhages beneath his skin.

With dull swollen eyes, Matt squinted toward the contents of the basin the nurse held. “White?” He groaned. “Why am I vomiting white?”

“That’s the medication we’ve been giving you to coat your stomach.” A doctor tried to sound reassuring but wasn’t successful. “To help prevent ulcers from the chemotherapy.”

“But it’s streaked with… red.” Matt gasped. “Am I throwing up blood?”

No one dared to answer.

David handed the nurse the empty basin, hurrying to remove the one Matt had filled. The exchange occurred just in time. Matt vomited again.

A doctor pivoted toward one of Matthew’s IV stands, pressing buttons on a pump, increasing the flow of saline solution into Matt’s body. “He’s losing too much fluid. We’ve got to keep him hydrated.”

Urgent voices overlapped.

“Blood pressure.”

“Check it again.”

“What’s his temp now?”

The nurse who was helping Donna and Sarie clean the vomit from the sheets quickly reached for the computerized thermometer. At once she realized she couldn’t put anything into Matthew’s mouth. She groped into a pocket of her uniform, pulled out a standard thermometer, shook it, and wedged it under Matthew’s right armpit.

Just then, the smell and sound unmistakable, Matthew’s bowels let go.

David’s arms and legs rippled with hot and cold rushes. His lungs heaved, making his mind spin. No, please. Not now. I can’t have another attack. Matt needs me.

Added to his symptoms was a dizzying sense of déjà vu. In theory, he was witnessing these terrifying events for the first time, and yet he saw the chaos around him in double focus, as if this was the second time he’d been here. Each horror was occurring after he sensed it would. He’d seen it all before, endured it all before. From an impossible perspective, forty years from now on his deathbed, he relived hell.

15

Even before Matthew’s bowels lost control, David reacted as if they already had. He grabbed towels off a shelf and raised Matthew’s sheets. When what he expected to happen did happen, he experienced another eerie shift in time, not from the future into the present, but from the present into the past. For while he used a towel to wipe the excrement from Matthew, he couldn’t ignore that what he did now for his fifteen-year-old son was exactly what he’d been accustomed to doing when his son was newly born. David’s soul almost burst with love as he performed without disgust this most intimate of acts.

“I’m sorry, Dad.”

“You don’t need to apologize. You’ve no idea how glad I am to help you. I’ll do anything to get you through this, to make you feel better. In fact, if there’s a God, I started to do that, to help you, last night.”

Matt’s red face dotted with crimson formed a weak smile, almost the boyish grin David had seen on Matt in better times.

“I love you, son.” David’s throat ached so much it strangled him. He threw a soiled towel into a trash container and used another to continue wiping excrement from Matthew’s hips.

“His temperature’s up again.” The nurse read a Celsius number, which David knew from experience was the Fahrenheit equivalent of a hundred and five.

More overlapping voices.

“Get that temp down.”

“Ice. Wet towels.”

“Compazine. Settle his nausea.”

“Increase his saline IV. More fluid.”

“Blood pressure?”

“A hundred and thirty over ninety.”

“A little high.”

“But not alarming. Easily explained.”

“Yes, the trauma of his vomiting.”

David threw a second soiled towel into a waste container. “You’re right,” he told the doctors. “A hundred and thirty over ninety isn’t a problem. His blood pressure won’t go any higher. But it’ll go lower.”

“What?”

David glanced toward a swirling clock on the wall. Somehow, more than an hour had passed. It was now 4:12.

“It’ll go lower,” David said. “I predicted the septic shock would hit at four-thirty-six. But the Vancomycin I gave him changed the schedule. His temperature rose five minutes later than I expected. So the shock will hit-”

“Five minutes later?” the doctor David had argued with at noon asked. “God help me, I almost believe you.”

“Four-forty-one? Less than a half an hour from now? Is that what you’re saying?” The doctor in charge of the ward stepped close. “For the record, I want to hear this. How low will his blood pressure drop?”

“Forty over twenty.”

“Down from a hundred and thirty over ninety? In less than thirty minutes! Improbable!”

“How I pray you’re right.”

The doctor studied Matthew. “His vomiting’s under control. His bowels have stopped voiding. I think we’ve checked whatever’s wrong with him.”

David leaned against the wall. “With due respect, you’re mistaken. But just in case, will you phone Intensive Care? Tell them you might have to send down-”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“They’d want a reason, and I can’t give them one! They don’t just jump into action because an anxious father has hunches!”

“Then I’ll phone them myself.”

“You don’t have authority.”

“But what if I’m right?”

“Intensive Care is always ready!”

David stroked Matthew’s feverish forehead. “So. With no other options, I guess we have to wait. Son, I know this is all confusing. Trust me?”

“You, Dad?” Matt grinned sickly. “When didn’t I trust you?”

“When I told you not to ride your skateboard down a hill toward traffic.”

Matthew breathed. “I could stop that skateboard on a dime.”

“You listened, though. We never had to find out. So listen again. If something bad happens to you in the next half hour, don’t be afraid.”

“I won’t need to?”

“You’ll want to. But I’ll be here to hold your hand. Depend on it. I’ll do everything I can to help.”

“Of course. You’re my dad.”

“Just don’t be afraid. That’s your job, the most important way you can help.”

“Hang tough, right?”

“Yeah. Hang tough.” David turned so Matthew wouldn’t see him crying.

16

“It’s four-thirty-six.” A doctor turned toward David.

“Temp?” another doctor asked.

“Slightly down. A point above normal,” a nurse said.

“Blood pressure?”

“Down. A hundred and twenty over eighty.”

“Perfect.”

“Not for him. He tends to run a little lower,” the nurse said.

“The difference is too slight to be bothered about.”

“Oh, there’ll be a difference,” David said.

“But your deadline’s come and gone,” another doctor said. “I told you, the first time was just a coincidence. He just happened to spike a fever when you said he would.”

“And I told you, the Vancomycin I gave him delayed the schedule.”

“I’ve had enough of this. We controlled his infection.”

“No!”

“Everything’s back to normal,” the doctor said. “Now I’ve got rounds to make.”

“Well, maybe we ought to…” The doctor from the Pediatrics Ward cleared his throat. “It wouldn’t hurt. Just wait a few more minutes.”

“And reinforce this man’s delusion?”

“He’s been right so far.”

“Coincidence!”

“Just in case, though.”

“Something’s happening,” a nurse said.

“What?”

“His pressure’s down to a hundred.”

“Now will you believe me?” David asked.

“Check it again,” a doctor said.

“Down to ninety.”

“No.”

“I told you,” David said.

“Eighty.”

Matt vomited again.

“No!”

“Don’t wait,” David said. “Give him the dopamine.”

“Dopamine? How did you know that’s the drug we’d use to-”

“Raise his pressure? You wouldn’t believe me! Give him the-!”

“Seventy.”

“Do it!” David yelled.

“Can’t you see we already are?”

Matt’s body shuddered, convulsing.

“Sixty.”

An intern injected the contents of a syringe into one of Matt’s IV lines.

David exhaled. Panicked, he slumped against a wall.

“And now we wait,” he said. “And pray.”

17

In David’s nightmare, Matthew’s plummeting blood pressure had not responded to the dopamine. The pressure had bottomed at forty over twenty, almost as low as it can get and still allow the body to maintain vital functions. Repeated injections of dopamine hadn’t raised the pressure.

David had watched a frantic nurse crank up the end of Matthew’s bed, raising his feet, helping his blood to circulate, trying to compensate for the devastating decrease in arterial pressure.

David had watched the doctor in charge of the ward phone Intensive Care. David, Donna, Sarie, a nurse, and a doctor had rushed Matthew’s bed down hallways, into an elevator. Two floors below, they’d scurried with the bed down other hallways, into the ward that made the Emergency Ward seem primitive. As the document David had signed when Matt went into the Bone Marrow Ward so vividly put it, You have a life-threatening disease. Within a year, you will surely die unless you receive exceptional treatment. A bone marrow transplant has serious risks, including infection.

And, David mentally added, they don’t rush you down to Intensive Care just to try out the machines.

In David’s nightmare, higher doses of dopamine finally raised Matthew’s blood pressure to a barely acceptable level of eighty over sixty. A team of trauma specialists waited in Intensive Care, and as soon as he arrived, the team snapped instantly into motion. David recalled no fewer than eight IV stands with two pumps on each injecting fluids and medications into his son.

But dopamine has plus and minus effects. It raises critically low blood pressure. However, to do so, it must stem the flow of blood to such crucial organs as the kidneys.

Matthew’s kidneys shut down, stopped filtering poisons into the bladder. He needed a hole cut into his abdomen. A tube was inserted, through which fluid was poured in and an hour later drained out-to vent the poisons.

But now he was also on oxygen. If given long enough, oxygen poisons the lungs. Fluid accumulates. That fluid puts pressure on the heart.

Three organs in trouble. And that’s not counting the remnant of the tumor in his chest, four missing ribs, and…

In David’s nightmare, Matthew struggled against an oxygen tube crammed down his throat. Finally morphine had to be given, to put him to sleep, so he wouldn’t yank the tube from his mouth.

Just before the tube was inserted and the morphine injected, the director of Intensive Care told David, Donna, and Sarie, “If you need to tell him something, now’s the time. He might not come off the respirator.”

Next to David, Sarie paled. “What does he mean, Matt might not come off the respirator?”

“It means”-David couldn’t believe he was saying this-“Matt might die.”

“Jesus.”

18

What do you say to your son when the ultimate reality kicks him and you in the teeth? You’ve got five minutes to tell him the last words he might ever hear. Then, whether you said the right thing or not, you don’t get another chance.

Your character, your upbringing, your self take charge.

Sarie chose to say, “I love you, Matt.”

David chose to be practical. “Don’t get panicked. Fear will increase your shock. Trust the system. I’ll push these doctors to their limit. I promise, they’ll do everything they possibly can.”

Donna said… wise Donna… “Matt, you’re a perfect boy.”

A priest in the background said, “No, a perfect man.”

Donna kissed her son.

The tube was inserted, the morphine given.

And that was the final communication.

Except… before drifting into a morphine stupor, Matt (unable to speak because of the oxygen tube crammed down his throat) pointed with determination toward letters on an alphabet board. His trembling finger wavered, spelling. The gist was clear.

Take this tube out. Need a root beer.

And then… Die? he spelled.

“We’re doing our best,” a doctor said.

Matt nodded. His eyelids fluttered. He slept.

The final communication.

Five days later, his injured lung collapsed.

But it reinflated, giving cause for hope.

Three days later, his heart became infected. His blood pressure plummeted, and this time nothing on earth or in heaven, no medicine, no prayers, would help.

19

In David’s nightmare. But now, heartbroken, desperate for a second chance, David stared at the nurse taking Matthew’s temperature.

“It’s back to normal.”

“Blood pressure?” a doctor asked.

“Up. Ninety over sixty-five.”

“He’s coming around,” another doctor said.

“There.” The doctor in charge of the ward turned to David. “A false alarm.”

“Pressure-a hundred over seventy.”

“I repeat,” the doctor said.

“A false alarm? I watched you,” David said. “You were afraid. But believe me, you couldn’t have been as terrified as I was. What I did last night when I gave him the Vancomycin…”

“Was irresponsible.”

“I saved my son’s life!”

20

In David’s nightmare, one of the bitterest ironies had been that as Matthew had worsened in Intensive Care, his recently transplanted bone marrow had started to multiply, producing healthy blood. Four days after the onset of his septic shock, Matt’s white-blood count rose from zero to eight hundred. Not strong enough to fight infection but, under other circumstances, encouraging. As a rule, a white count of one thousand is considered the minimum safety level. The next time Matt’s white count was tested, it had risen to sixteen hundred. And the next time, thirty-two hundred. When he died from heart arrest, his white count was over six thousand. If he hadn’t contracted septic shock, his healthy blood would have permitted him to be released from the hospital the day of his death.

To be sure, there would still have been dangers. The devastating chemotherapy had temporarily destroyed his immune system. For several months, he’d have been susceptible to such normally nonlethal diseases as chicken pox, which he’d already had and acquired an immunity to, but which in his present weakened, nonimmune condition could have killed him. To guard against that danger, he’d have been forced to stay at home, his visitors restricted to those who had no illness and hadn’t been exposed to any illness. Even then, his visitors would have been required to put on hospital face masks, just in case. When school started in the fall, Matt couldn’t have attended but instead would have studied through correspondence courses.

But eventually, by Christmas, say, his immune system would have reestablished itself, and he could have gone out in public, resuming a normal life. In time, a brace would have been implanted in his chest to compensate for his missing ribs. Because he’d lost a third of his right lung, he’d have been short of breath on occasion but not enough to incapacitate him. A small price to pay for having survived.

Of course, he’d always have suffered the fear that his cancer had not been cured, that one day the tumor and its excruciating pain would return, but as the autopsy of David’s nightmare indicated, no trace of malignancy was discovered. The devastating chemotherapy-possible only because of the bone marrow transplant-had been effective. The alien that Matt so loathed and wanted killed had been defeated.

Now, because Matt’s septic shock had been averted, David’s eerie déjà vu was restricted only to the no longer ironic increase of Matt’s white blood count. Matt’s vital signs remained at a normal level. His appetite increased. His only complaint was that he couldn’t wait to go home.

“We’d like that, too,” a doctor said, “but after what happened on Friday, we want to be cautious. It’s been a week now, Matt. You’re doing fine. I think by Sunday, if you can be patient two more days, you’ll be on your way.”

Matthew raised his thumb in a victory signal.

David felt so elated he didn’t care about the indignant looks a few doctors still directed toward him and the legal problems he’d be facing for having interfered with medical procedure. Yes, the hospital attorney had been called, but David didn’t object. After all, parents can’t be allowed to behave as if they’re licensed to practice medicine.

Under normal circumstances anyhow. But since his nightmare, since David had awakened on his kitchen floor, nothing in his experience had been normal. His dizziness remained, though his heartbeat and breath rate were under control. His dizziness was more like floating, and periodically, when he closed his eyes, he still saw fireflies. At unusual moments, he’d turn toward Matthew’s radio to reduce its volume, only to realize the switch was off, and yet he heard power chords. He and Donna continued to exchange what he felt were uncanny knowing glances, as if she understood the miracle that had happened and didn’t dare break a spell by referring to it.

A spell. Precisely. David felt he was under a spell. None of what had happened-his panic attack, his struggle to convince the doctors, his 3:00 A.M. injection of Vancomycin, Matthew’s recovery-none of it seemed real. He couldn’t believe his luck. But he kept seeing fireflies. He kept hearing power chords. The need to stay close to Matthew became an obsession.

“Your son’s doing fine,” a doctor said. “Go home for a couple of hours. Get some rest.”

“I’ll go home when my son does.”

The doctor frowned at David’s haggard features.

“Hey, I’m okay,” David said. “I’m just so glad he’s alive I want to be near him. To… it’s hard to explain… enjoy him.”

“You explained it perfectly.”

“Once he’s home, I’ll sleep for two days.”

“You deserve it.”

“So do my wife and daughter. None of us could have survived this without each other.”

“All of us give you credit.”

“No, Matthew deserves the credit. I don’t know how he stayed so brave.”

Then Saturday came.

21

Saturday. The day, in David’s nightmare, when Matthew died in Intensive Care. David’s dizziness made him feel that his feet floated off the floor. The fireflies brightened. The power chords intensified.

I’m losing my mind, David thought. That has to be it. I can’t imagine another explanation. I’m cracking up from relief after six months of hell. But if David was cracking up, why, despite his sense of floating, did his thoughts seem so clear?

Something was wrong. From all appearances, not with Matthew. But logically. Something was wrong.

Okay, let’s assume I fainted from running when I shouldn’t have, when the temperature was too high, David thought. So I fell on the kitchen floor, had a nightmare that Matt would die, and woke up with the certainty I could save him because I knew exactly when and what would kill him. Does that make sense? Do you believe in precognition?

I’ve never believed… No, put it another way. I’ve never experienced it before.

A phone call you felt would come, and then it did?

On occasion. Coincidence.

But you did save Matthew’s life. When the lab tests came back, they said his infection was due to strep and staph, and only Vancomycin-not the other two antibiotics you could have given-would have been effective against those bacteria.

Coincidence.

You don’t believe that.

No, you’re right. I don’t believe that. I knew more than I could have.

Then what’s your explanation?

As David’s sense of floating increased, and the fireflies brightened, and the power chords nearly deafened him, he repeated, I’m going crazy! Or…

Yes, or?

Or I really am…!

Think it!

Dying forty years from now! And if I believe that, I belong in the Psychiatric Ward!

But if you did come back?

I won’t consider it.

But if…? There’s a logical problem, right?

Yeah, a massive logical problem. I can’t be in two places at the same time. If somehow I came back to change the past, then the future has to be changed as well. And I can’t be dying forty years from now.

Then you either had a nightmare.

Or I’m dying in the…

Future? You mean the present, remembering the past, wishing with all your heart you could…

Change it?

But the past can’t be changed. And on schedule, at 9:25 P.M. on Saturday, June 27, 1987…

A chunk of debris from the dead staph and strep collected in Matthew’s heart, plugged a major artery, and caused cardiac arrest.

It happened in an instant. The monitors attached to Matthew wailed. Sudden straight lines and zero readings.

And David’s heart succumbed to its minor imperfection, the electrical blockage that had never bothered him. Till now. In the future. Which is to say, the present.

How long is an instant in eternity? Could it last ten earthly days?

David, who’d been hovering in the brilliant doorway, abruptly shot forward, at last released, finally at peace, no longer tortured by the greatest grief of his life.

His wife’s fatal stroke in late age he could understand, though he missed her fiercely.

But his son’s death at fifteen, his dear unlucky wonderful son, who embodied optimism, who exuded good nature, who believed in being useful and could have contributed so much to a troubled world…

That death David had never adjusted to.

Until now. After forty years. At the instant of David’s own death. With a vague sense of his beloved daughter weeping over his corpse, David rocketed through the radiant doorway. It seemed he’d been held in suspension, not for a microsecond but for agonizing days, until whatever held him back suddenly snapped and long-accumulating thrust him toward the mystery.

Toward fireflies and power chords.

Toward one of the fireflies rushing to greet him.

“Dad!”

The word was soundless.

Just as their loving embrace-so long postponed-was bodiless.

But David had no doubt…

“Son, I love you.”

This was heaven.