CandleScent - Category #1 - Prose - Light Up
~Based on Snow Patrol - Run~
My mom, Thomas, and I sit in the waiting room. My mom looks distraught--no, more than just that. I know she's trying to hold her tears in, for her children's sake, but she's not faring too well. She's just stressed because she thinks Thomas, my brother, might be dying. About a month ago, we visited this hospital to check up on Thomas after he spat out phlegm with hints of blood. The hospital
finally got back to us today--and they wanted us to come here, so that they could tell us the results in person.
"Don't worry," I say to her for the hundredth time "Come on, Thomas, tell her you're perfectly fine. I mean really, Mom--we haven't gotten the results back and you're already so depressed."
Someone finally calls our name, and Mom motions for me to stay. She's taking Thomas, of course--she thinks I'm too immature to handle facts. Honestly, though, I'm not the one obsessing over Thomas's spit. I wish Dad were here, since he'd make sure I was included. He's at work, though, so I'll just have to wait.
I read a couple of magazines in the waiting room, now that my mom's moody face isn't right in front of me. Most of the magazines are way outdated, and the ones that aren't are about parenting. While none of them are even remotely entertaining, they're better than just sitting and waiting. I'm not sure what's taking Thomas and Mom so long, but I continue skimming through the magazines.
"Alison."
I look up, hearing my name. It's my mom, her face distorted by tears. So much for hiding her tears in front of her kids. Thomas stands next to her, and he doesn't look so happy, either. Does he have some major disease, after all? But that's impossible! He never, ever complained about pain. The only thing that hinted us of injury was that phlegm of his, and that wasn't so big of a deal.
"What happened? Did the blood turn out to be ketchup?" I ask before I can stop myself. My inquiry has totally torn my mom apart. Before I can apologize, though, Thomas yanks me up. My worries have been replaced by a feeling of frustration. I grumble in complaint, but immediately stop as Thomas whispers into my ear.
"I have lung cancer. I'm going to die, Ali."
That alone is enough to bombard me, but what shocks me more is how calm he sounds. He sounds like someone who doesn't necessarily
want to die, but has accepted it. I stand for a while, not knowing what to do or say. Normally, I'd have thought he was kidding. The only problem is that he doesn't have a hint of laughter in his face, and he sucks at lying to begin with.
"Guys, let's go," my mom says. Her voice is so quiet, and it shakes like crazy. As we pace out and head to the car, a thought pops into my head.
"Isn't lung cancer curable? At the earliest stages, at least. And then it can definitely be delayed after treatment. Why isn't he getting treatment? He should be getting treatment." I begin what started as an innocent statement, only to realize I'm blabbing. Thomas glares at me before getting into the car. I do notice that his pending death hasn't changed his placement at all--he's sitting shotgun, like he always does.
My mom doesn't speak, and it takes me a while to realize that she
can't talk. She knows that she'll break down again if she does. My brother is the one to answer my questions, although it's obvious how reluctant he is to talk about it. Death isn't a joke, after all.
"It's too late," he replies. "The doctor decided that it would be better for me to spend the rest of my life at home, since there's no hope for me. Kind of like in that one movie, you know? He did give me a couple pills, though..."
I
don't know, but I'm not about to tell him. Frankly, I think the doctor made an extremely dumb decision. What if, by some miracle, one radiation--or whatever they use to treat cancer--is enough to completely cure him? It's always better to have tried and failed than to have not tried at all.
Thomas and I have never had the best relationship, but I can't imagine a life without him. I turn to him for everything, and he's the first person I go to when I'm in trouble. He knows all my secrets, and I know most of his. He has blackmailed me way too often, threatening to spill all my secrets to everyone I know--but he's never actually acted upon those words.
The rest of the car ride is in utter silence.
The car screeches to a stop as soon as we have arrived home, and Mom dashes out. She practically runs into the old building, leaving Thomas and me alone. I follow Thomas in, matching his steps. It's all I can do not to cling on to him.
"What do you need?" Thomas asks calmly. It's not like him to be so polite, and his new attitude creeps me out. I shrug, expecting him to say something else. He doesn't. He walks into his room and sits on his bed. I'm not sure if he wants to be alone, but I don't want to leave him. I want to comfort him, whether he needs it or not.
And, honestly, I need the comfort too. I can barely look at him, but I try. Every time I succeed, I feel even sadder. I walk over to him and seat myself next to him. I open my mouth to reassure him that his life wasn't over, despite the fact that it probably was.
"I just wanted to tell you that you're going to be fine," I say. My face feels warm, and it takes me a while to realize that I'm crying. I can't stop the tears, and soon I'm sobbing my eyes out. Thomas pats my head like he would to a dog that has done its tricks. Normally, I'd be screaming at him--but today's not a normal day.
I don't see how he can be so calm. He's going to die soon, after all. How soon is that, anyway? A day? A month? A year? How I hope that "soon" was just another word for "century"--even a decade would be great.
"It seems you need more reassurance than I do," Thomas mumbles, and I can't deny his statement. "Light up, Ali. Even if you can't hear my voice, I'll be right beside you."
While he probably doesn't mean it the way I perceive it, I can't help but imagine a ghost, stalking me until the world ends. As creepy as the thought is, I do feel the tiniest bit better. What he says sounds a bit familiar, like the lyrics to a song, but I can't put my finger to it.
"Have heart," he continues, "because it won't be as bad as you think."
I know he's lying, because it
will be bad. It will be terrible, for both me and our parents. But right now, I desperately want to believe those lies--so I will.
"Promise?" I ask, holding out my pinky finger.
"Yeah, I promise," Thomas replies as he curls his pinky around mine.
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