Miracles and Mischief (2 page)

“I understand. But there are other options. We’ll add him to the BMT registry immediately—as a priority candidate.”

Shayna dabbed her eyes with a tissue.

“I really hoped it wouldn’t come to this.” Dr. Garrison scribbled a note on Zac’s chart, and then leveled his gaze to meet Shayna’s. “But at least it provides a measure of hope.”

“And what are the chances of finding a suitable match in time?”

“One in ten-to-twenty-thousand that a viable match for an allogeneic BMT will be found in time. Unfortunately, the transplantation of stem cells from someone other than Zac himself is a long shot, but if we want to bring Zac’s leukemia into remission, it’s our best option at this point.”

“No.” Shayna gasped, and the tears flooded over. Her voice was thick, and the words came with great difficulty. She glanced into the hospital room where Zac lay curled in the bed, clutching a teddy bear dressed in a signature blue Tennessee Titans jersey. His smooth head peeked above the starched, white sheet, and a Titan’s ball cap tumbled to the side of the pillow, exposing a dusting of spiky-red curls that were just beginning to grow back to cover his pale scalp. “Is there anything we can do to improve the odds?”

“Pray, Shayna…just pray.”

“I
have
been praying. I just…”

“There’s someone here to see you.” Dr. Garrison took her by the elbow and led her toward a row of vending machines at the end of the hall. Off to the side was a small, sunlit room where families could gather to share a quick meal or a respite from the stark hospital rooms. “She’s a volunteer from the Moments for Miracles Foundation.”

“Oh, yes. I took your advice and contacted her a few weeks ago.” Shayna’s stomach growled, and she realized it had been a full day since her last meal. She felt a bit lightheaded as she continued. She’d need to get something into her belly soon. “She’s probably here to follow up.”

“They don’t just grant children’s wishes, Shayna. Perhaps there’s something you’d like to have, as well.” It was more of a question than a statement.

“My wish—and prayer—is to see Zac get better and be fully healed.” She crossed her arms over her rumbling belly to calm the hunger-storm that surged. “Can this foundation find a donor for him?”

“Unfortunately, no. That’s not their purpose.” Dr. Garrison shook his head. “But what they c
an
do is give Zac a little dose of happiness—grant a wish for something he’d truly like…something tangible. Laura Evans, the volunteer, will explain.”

Shayna glanced into the room to see a dark-haired woman seated at a small, round table. She sipped from a foam cup as she sorted through a file of papers.

“I’m so glad she came, but this will have to be quick. I need to get back to Zac. He’s sure to wake soon, and he’ll be frightened if I’m not there.” Shayna fished in her jeans pocket for a handful of coins. She counted out seventy-five cents and slipped it into a vending machine, jabbing the buttons until a bag of pretzels dropped into the dispenser.

“I’ll be back to check on Zac this evening.” Dr. Garrison squeezed her shoulder gently. “Promise you’ll eat more than those pretzels, Shayna. You need to keep up your strength.”

“I’ll try.” Shayna grabbed the pretzel bag from the dispenser, thankful to know a pediatric oncologist who cared about so much more than vital signs and prescriptions. She nodded slightly and offered a half-hearted grin before turning away to enter the sunlit room. As she approached the table, Laura Evans glanced up and smiled.

“Mrs. Grady?”

“Shayna.”

“It’s so nice to meet you.” She extended a hand, her bright blue eyes full of compassion. “I’m Laura. May we talk for a bit?”

“That would be fine…but not for too long.” Shayna slipped into a chair and stretched the kinks from her back. Outside, sunlight danced across the river beyond the hospital parking lot. Shayna was thankful she lived so close to one of the best children’s hospitals in the nation—one that specialized in cancer treatments. Mill’s Landing was as good as it got, and with her house only a few miles away, at least she and Zac were afforded some sense of comfort and familiarity, despite his illness. “I have to get back to my son soon.”

“Of course.” Laura nodded and flipped open a file folder, then took a pen from her purse. “Go ahead and eat your pretzels while we talk. I’m just here to fill you in on the steps we’re taking to grant Zac’s request to meet Nate Saylor.”

2

“Nate, did you receive the package I forwarded?” Stan’s voice carried over the cell line. “It should have arrived by now.”

“Yeah.” Nate leaned against the kitchen counter and yawned. Outside an expansive bay window, sunlight sparkled off a dusting of snow that had fallen overnight. The foothills of the Smoky Mountains beyond were haloed by a cap of mist that feathered like tendrils of wispy-gray hair, and low clouds threatened to dump another round of flakes. The pasture rolled still and quiet, flanked along the far side by a row of frosted pines. A gentle breeze whispered along the surface of a large, stocked pond, causing dappled water to kiss the pebble-strewn bank. “The courier dropped it by last night.”

“Well?” Stan urged. “What did you think?”

“I haven’t had a chance to open it yet.” Nate ran a hand through sleep-spiked hair and reached for the coffee pot. “You woke me from a dead sleep—the first good rest I’ve had in a week, by the way. It’s barely eight o’clock.” He always slept well at the homestead, even after his mom and stepdad, Harry, moved to a condo in Fernandina Beach, leaving the house and property to him to maintain. Something about the solitude of the mountains and the open, clean air cleared his head and calmed his nerves.

“Don’t delay any longer.” Stan’s voice broke into his thoughts. “The director of Moments for Miracles is expecting a call from you. She wants you for a spokesperson, Nate. And with the way things are going, you’re lucky they’ll have you.”

Nate’s temper spiked. One minor slip-up—OK, two not-so-minor slip-ups—and suddenly he was a pariah. Great, just great.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Nate turned on the kitchen faucet and filled the glass carafe with cold water. He dumped the water into the coffeemaker reservoir before adding four giant scoops of Brazilian blend to an unbleached cone filter.

“Of course I’m sure—positive.” Stan paused, and through the phone line, Nate heard the wheels of Stan’s rolling desk chair squeak under his ample weight as he leaned back and sighed. “You know, Nate, maybe there was a reason you dropped that pass.”

“This week’s fodder for the press?” Nate grunted and jabbed the power button on the coffeemaker. It sputtered and spat before hot water began to filter into the carafe. Steam wafted as the aroma of rich, dark coffee filled the air, chasing the cobwebs from Nate’s head. “They’ve had a field day.”

“It’s more than that.”

“I don’t get your meaning.” Nate reached into the cabinet for a mug. He checked for dust, rinsing it beneath the faucet before adding a heaping teaspoon of powdered creamer.

“Just read what I sent you, OK?”

“Sure.”

“And call the director today—by lunch.”

“Stan—”

“By lunch, Nate.”

He groaned, dumping a second spoonful of creamer into the coffee mug. “OK. I’m on it.”

“Good. I’ll check back with you later.”

When they disconnected, Nate filled his mug with the first round of brew and settled in at the table as snowflakes drifted outside the window. He eyed the oversized envelope the courier had brought…a gaping beast smack-dab in the center of the polished wood. He could just toss it in the trash and call it a day; Stan would get over it, and Nate’s bruised career would heal itself—eventually.

Who was he kidding? Nate snatched the envelope and turned it over in his hands before ripping open the flap. A photo slipped out and skidded across the table, and he grabbed it before it fluttered to the floor.

The kid was cute, no doubt about it. Nate pegged him for seven years old. Freckles smattered his cheeks and hair the color of a new penny spilled across his forehead, framing mischievous golden eyes. His grin exposed a double gap—both of his top front teeth were missing. He wore a Titan’s jersey, about a million sizes too big, bearing the number thirty-two—Nate’s number. It drooped across his shoulders as he hugged a football. Nate wondered what the kid’s deal was…he certainly didn’t look sick.

Nate set the photo aside and upturned the envelope so the rest of its contents spilled out. A piece of yellow stationary was folded into thirds. He flicked it open and scanned the handwritten print.

Dear Mr. Saylor,

The volunteer at Moments for Miracles said I didn’t need to write to you, but I wanted to express to you personally the importance of this request.

My son, Zac, is a huge Titan’s fan, and you are his all-time favorite player. It’s his wish to meet you. Zac may not have much time. You see, he’s battling leukemia and needs a bone marrow transplant. We’re waiting for a donor.

I know you’re busy, and I don’t expect you to see him because he’s sick. But I’d like you to grant his wish because you are my son’s hero. So, please prayerfully consider Zac’s request.

Thank you,

Shayna Grady

Nate drew a gulp of coffee as he scanned the letter once more. A few of the words were blurred, the blue ink smudged. Was Shayna crying when she wrote it? Nate rolled a kink from his neck and rubbed a hand across one beard-stubbled cheek. He wasn’t sure why the thought of this stranger—a woman he didn’t even know—so engrossed in a crying jag bothered him.

Please, prayerfully consider Zac’s request…

The words echoed through Nate’s mind like a rolling wave. He glanced at the devotional Stan had given him yesterday. He really should shake off the dust and open it. Maybe later…

He set Shayna’s note aside and peeked into the envelope once more. He found a form letter from the director of Moments for Miracles, as well as a contract that Stan had drawn up. Nate scanned the contract, expecting Stan’s trademark, loquacious verbiage. But the agreement was short and sweet for once. Thankful, Nate set both the letter and the contract aside. His gaze drifted to the photo of Zac once again.

“I can’t do this, Stan,” he murmured, smoothing a finger over the image. “Someone else will have to carry the kid this time.” Nate drained his mug and leaned back in the chair, his gaze drifting to the sprawling field beyond the window. Mill’s Landing was home—the place where he’d grown and explored as a child. The warmth of memories pervaded despite the kiss of snow. He could almost hear Josh’s squeals of delight as he tugged his younger brother, nestled carefully on a sled, across the ice-capped pasture. Bright eyes peeked from his scarf-swaddled face and the scent of pine, crisp and clean, clung to the air like a promise.

Born with a disease the doctors struggled to define, Josh’s immune system was easily compromised. His frailty altered the structure of their family. Not long after Josh was born, their dad took off, and Nate hadn’t seen him in years. But his mom was always there, even if Josh’s needs consumed the majority of her time.

As Josh loped toward adolescence, Nate stepped into the role of protector. Kids around town learned early on that a jab at Josh was a jab at him. When it came to protecting Josh, no one was tougher than Nate Saylor. He conquered everything—except the illness that systematically and heartlessly stole Josh’s life.

The loss left a gaping hole that Nate’s mom struggled to fill. But she was consumed by her own grief, and it didn’t take long for Nate to get mixed up with the wrong crowd. If Harry hadn’t stepped into his life, who knows what might have happened? Nate owed his love of football—his career and his faith in God—to the man he thought of as his dad. Harry had made their lives whole again.

The furnace kicked on, sending a blast of warmth through the room. The envelope was swept into the air. It sailed a bit before skittering across the floor to disappear beneath the table.

Nate set down his mug. Chair legs scraped as he dropped to his knees and scooted across the polished tile. Pinned beneath a table leg, a square of shiny paper peeked at him—a photo.

Nate gathered the picture and leaned back against wall, folding his legs as he drank in the images. He did a doubletake as the kid—Zac—stared back at him once again with a hint of the same mischievous gleam. Only now, his golden eyes had lost their shine and his scalp was covered by thin wisps of burnished curls. He was pale and scrawny, enfolded in the sheets of a hospital bed and hugging a small teddy bear wearing a Titan’s jersey. A woman had climbed into the bed beside him, and she had one arm draped protectively across his shoulders. His mom—Shayna?

Her mahogany hair and dark-chocolate eyes haloed by flecks of gold were a stark contrast to Zac’s pale complexion. Yet, he saw an undeniable resemblance in the Mona Lisa grin, punctuated by a dimple at each corner of her upturned mouth. A spatter of freckles danced across the bridge of her nose, and her gaze held his.

Nate imagined her voice would match the smooth, warm glow of her complexion. For a moment he stared, captivated as he imagined her thoughts at the very moment the photo was snapped…a mixture of worry, love, and fierce protectiveness.

For a reason he couldn’t explain, Nate was drawn to her. Guilt whispered to him, beckoning him to take action.

Please, prayerfully consider Zac’s request…

Nate shook his head, rebuffing the feeling. But the imploring words clung to his heart like a burr. He sighed and reached for his cell phone.

****

Shayna set the paperback aside and rubbed her eyes. Weariness gripped her shoulders and snaked down into the muscles of her lower back. She checked the digital clock above Zac’s hospital bed—already lunchtime and she hadn’t even managed to down breakfast yet.

She reached for her coffee cup, sipped, and then gagged. The brew was cold and bitter. Maybe she could sneak down to the cafeteria long enough to refuel before the nurse bustled in to wake Zac for his vitals.