Breathless Read Free Page B

kisses me. “Just get better, Prince Charming.”
    I pull her into my hospital bed—strictly forbidden—and we heat up the sheets before a nurse can find us.
    Between CT scans and MRIs and lab-tech bloodlettings, visitors start to hit my room. Coach Davis, my swim coach; guys from the team who aren’t away on vacation; adults and kids from church; two pastors; mere acquaintances; friends of my parents; even a few more reporters pop in. Seeing Coach and the guys is the hardest, and it makes me miss my life even more. “The team needs you,” Coach tells me, “so get better.”
    “Diving’s my whole life. I’ll be back.”
    He squeezes my shoulder. “It takes a bone around six weeks to knit. Plenty of time for you to heal and get back in the gym and rebuild the muscle before school starts.”
    Weight lifting is good conditioning, so Coachrequires his team to spend so many hours a week working out. “I’ll be ready when school starts,” I say.
    “You’re the best we have,” he says seriously. “Probably the best in Alabama. Stay healthy.”
    My head swells with his praise. “I won’t let you down, Coach. I swear.”

Emily
    “I
t’s osteosarcoma. Bone cancer.”
    Mom’s words hit me like stones. I can’t say a word.
    “The tumor just starts growing. Boys are more likely to get it than girls because their bones grow so fast. Random error from DNA gone amok.” Her voice cracks. “No way to predict who’ll get it. It just happens.”
    We’re at home in the family room on a sunny summer morning. Light floods through the windows, and the ceiling fan whaps the air with long blades. The smell of bacon from breakfast hangs in the air. She and Dad are on the sofa and I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of them. A
House and Garden
picture of a perfect family. “But …but Travis isn’t sick.” My feeble protest as the picture begins to shatter.
    “The bone in his leg is sick.”
    “What are they going to do?”
    “Chemo and radiation. And surgery.”
    “To cut out the tumor?”
    “To cut off his leg.”
    I think I’m going to throw up. “But they can’t!”
    Dad’s eyes are bloodshot and Mom’s barely holding herself together. “They must.”
    “Does he know? Have you told him?”
    “We’re meeting his doctor at noon and we’ll tell him together.”
    “Me too?”
    “No. You’re staying here.”
    “But…”
    Mom drills me with a look. In truth, I don’t want to be there. I don’t want to see the light go out of my brother’s eyes.

C OOPER
    E mily called crying and told me the news. Once we hung up, I went out on the cement pad in back of our trailer and began wailing on my punching bag. Sweat is pouring into my eyes. My arms are heavy and my knuckles sore inside the gloves. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. The doctors are going to cut off Travis’s leg.
    A neighbor’s dog is barking, and someone yells, “Shut up!” The dog yelps in pain and I slump to the ground and hang my head. I can’t help the dog. I can’t help Travis. I can’t help Emily. I’m good for nothing.
    I get up, turn on the hose, and take a long drink. I douse my head and neck to cool off. I go inside the trailer, where it’s dark and the AC wallunit and two tabletop fans are barely keeping the place cool. The air stinks. Dishes are piled in the sink and the garbage can is overflowing. I should clean it up. If I don’t, no one else will.
    I’m hungry, and I glance at the clock. It’s after two and I haven’t had anything to eat since last night. My summer job at the burger joint starts tomorrow. Until then, I’m on my own. I hear Ma snoring in the back above the racket from the AC. I walk to the bedroom and crack open the door. She’s lying half on, half off the rumpled bed. I go inside, scoop up her feet, and position her better on the bed. She grunts but doesn’t wake. On the nightstand I see a half-empty vodka bottle. She hasn’t worked in weeks, but she still manages to buy her