Kellen pushed his plate to the side and folded his arms in front of him. “Nope. I told you, I’m not eating them. If you like them so much, you eat them.”
Fuck me. Like I said, I had no fucking clue what I was doing.
“Yeah, Kellen, you are eating them. Every last bit. Now get a move on.” That’s when, did I say fuck me yet, the chanting started.
His voice rose with each word until I wasn’t sure if I would throttle him, or duct tape his mouth, tying him to the chair instead.
“No, no, no, no, No, No, No, NO, NO, NO!”
Each “no” was punctuated by a bang of his little fist on the table beside his cutlery making them clang together.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Kellen. Just eat the fucking food and shut it with the No’s.” It may have come out a little harsher than I intended, but damn was I getting a headache listening to this shit.
Then, the kid blew my mind.
Picking him up from school the second week he was officially staying with me, Kellen’s teacher, Ms. Nicholls, asked to speak to me after class. Worry coursed through my veins at the thought my boy might be in trouble or worse, was causing it. She assured me it was nothing bad, and that it would only take a minute when she saw the expression I wore. Reluctantly, I followed her into the too bright, overly colourfully, decorated with kid scribbled drawings classroom. I took a seat on one of those manufactured for midget chairs that I thought would immediately collapse under my weight and tried to get comfortable. Which mind you is fucking impossible, so I just made do.
I left Kellen playing on the playground outside his classroom window, still in my direct line of sight. Ms. Nicholls proceeded to lay a shit ton of papers in front of me, urging me to take a look. To sum it up, my kid was fucking gifted.
He tested off the fucking charts in everything from, math to science, in English, especially creative writing which was one of his highest scores. His ability to read a situation, and interpret the meaning and importance was phenomenal. It was decided by the principal and his teacher, that Kellen would benefit from accelerated work that would continue to improve his academic results. Ms. Nicholls assured me he would still be treated the same as any other eight-year-old boy, and fully participate in all class activities, regardless of the extended work he’d be given.
I get that shit like that is essential for Kellen to get into a good college later, but him making friends is more important to me than the standard of his work at the age of eight. Kellen needs to socially interact and learn how to open up to kids his own age, not just Lexi that he’s taken a shining to or adults. I have no doubt with time he will make friends his own age. I’m quite as confident about this happening if they segregate him, though.
With her promise that she would keep an eye on his social progress, Ms. Nicholls sent me on my way with brochures about a gifted summer camp she thought would be good for Kellen. It was about half an hour away from Denver and specialises in providing opportunities for kids like Kellen to shine. Whatever the fuck that means.
I made a mental note to talk to Verity to see if she was okay with him going to a summer camp like that and find out if she knew of Kellen’s gifted status, before now. In my opinion she probably wouldn’t give a fuck, as long as I paid for it, took him, picked him up, and she didn’t have to hear about it. I was right about that, too. Talking to Verity ended up being a waste of time. No fucking shock there. She swore it was either a fluke, or Kellen cheated to get results like that. That there is no way Kellen had that kind of ability. Pretty much the bitch belittled my son. She might as well have called him fucking stupid to his face.
Like I said, waste of fucking time. So knowing all of this, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that, albeit we were fighting over fucking vegetables, Kellen had the capability to blow my fucking mind.
His fists stilled on the tabletop, and he looked directly into my eyes, “You know, Dad, girls don’t like boys to tell them what to do. It makes them angry. Is that why Ronnie is angry with you?” Say. Fucking. What? My jaw must have been hanging open because Kellen gave me an evil fucking smirk. I was kind of proud and kind of scared, he could do it so well at the same time. He went on to say, “You should start practicing not telling people what to do on me. Don’t worry, I’ll help you by reminding you when you’re being an asshole.”
Mind. Blown.
Getting up Kellen calmly pushed his chair in, collected his homework, and went to his room closing the door softly behind him. I must’ve sat there for a good hour after he left, going over what he’d said. By the time I did get up, the sky was almost completely dark, and my food was stone cold.
Not to self: make sure I come up with fucking foolproof arguments when getting into it with my son. He’s a crafty little shit, and he’d beaten me at my own game. If this is what he’s like now, I’m sort of dreading when he gets to be a teenager. I can only hope and pray he uses his powers for good and not evil, hopefully, NOT against me, either.
Bringing me back to the present, a wail rises up from the bed, and I reach down to stroke the hair off Kellen’s forehead. All those emotions that were starting to fade slightly, while I was lost in my thoughts, have come back to the forefront with a vengeance.
I’m fucking furious at Verity. She’s not here where she should be with her son. There is nothing, and I mean nothing that could keep me away if I was in her shoes. What I find even more infuriating is Kellen hasn’t asked for her, cried out her name, nothing. It makes me wonder whether he’s smart enough to know not to bother, because she wouldn’t come anyway.
I feel anger misplaced or not, towards the doctors and nurses treating my boy. It’s secondary to the anger I feel for Verity, but still very much at the forefront. They’ve run countless tests, doing ultrasounds and x-rays, but still don’t have any answers for me. Each minute they make me wait feels more like an hour of tortured silence in my mind. Every time one of them comes in to check on Kellen, I ask what’s going on. All I get a sad smile, or a headshake filled with pity, and sometimes the occasional, “The doctor will be with you shortly,” but no fucking answers. I want to put my fist through their clinically white, sterile fucking hospital walls to release some of my frustration. I’m going out of my mind here; can’t they fucking see that?
Kellen’s screams and cries are reduced to moans and whimpers now, with the occasional wail mixed in. Poor kid is so fucking exhausted; he can’t even lift his head anymore. He’s restless, constantly trying to roll to make himself more comfortable. It breaks my fucking heart that I can’t pick him up and hold him. I want so much to climb into bed and wrap him in my arms; make him promises I know I can’t keep, just to give him a second’s peace. I want to soothe his, obviously tormented, little body that’s being wracked with shudders of agony. I can’t do any of that, and it is most definitely adding to my torment.
After calling Verity, I contacted Tank telling him where I was headed, and asking him to meet me here. There was no question my brother would drop everything when I called, and he proved me right. He was at the ER doors before I was and had already alerted the nurses, so they were on standby for our arrival. He’s been by my side ever since. Well, until twenty minutes ago when he left to do some shit he didn’t explain. I can’t say I didn’t panicked at the thought of being left alone to deal with whatever news the doctor delivered. I’d need someone to restrain me if the outcome of those tests wasn’t good, purely because I didn’t doubt my capacity to harm someone that told me I’m losing my boy.
On leaving, Tank let me know Dagger and Glock were outside on watch or for anything else I needed, until he got back. Tank said he’d be half an hour max. I wasn’t dumb enough to believe for one second that the two brothers outside were on watch for trouble or visitors. They were here to watch me. I also can’t say, I hadn’t been checking the clock every fucking minute he was gone, because that’d be a lie, too.
Brothers watched out for brothers, no matter what that entailed, and Tank has my back in a way no
other did. He seems to instinctively know what I need. I am fucking grateful he is the one I’m able to call my best friend. There’s also no doubt the waiting room will soon be filled with brothers, Ol ladies, family, and friends. That’s what we do. We support each other in any way we can, no matter the situation.
Adjusting in the blue plastic, too fucking small chair provided by the nurse that settled us into the room, I lean forward and rest my head on the bed beside Kellen’s thigh. His hand is still gripping mine squeezing tighter some times more than others. I assume that’s in reaction to the amount of pain he’s suffering.
Startling me, I feel a cool hand rest on the back of my neck bringing respite to my overheated skin. Then, HER smell invades my senses. My nostrils flare to take in her scent, locking it inside. Hopefully, adding to my memories that bring me solace when I desperately need it, cocoa butter and lavender. There’s only one person in the world that smells like this. The scent is so unique I’d know it anywhere.
Lifting my suddenly leaden feeling head, I twist in my seat to prove to myself that I was right; that it’s definitely Ronnie standing behind me. Words cannot describe the relief I feel seeing her here. Here in this hospital room with machines beeping, pagers going off, and hushed voices just outside the walls; I should feel anything but peace, but I don’t. That’s what this woman does for me. That’s why I know she’s meant to be mine. The peace she brings washes over me like a balm to my soul. It lulls my heart rate into a steady thump-thump; instead of the erratic race it was competing in before. Time freezes, and everything fades away as I take her in. She’s fucking beautiful and she’s here.
Dressed in faded jeans that are almost white in places because they’re so worn, her boots poke out the bottom, and she’s wearing a simple black tank top with her hair loose down her back. She’s perfect. Ronnie doesn’t need makeup, or hours of primping. Her naturally clear complexion, smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and thick dark eyelashes make her more beautiful to me than all those other women are after spending hours putting themselves together.
Looking down at me, sympathy and worry fill her gorgeous emerald eyes. The sheen of unshed tears is evident. I would love nothing more than to take her in my arms and reassure her, as I wish I could Kellen. I can’t though. I’m barely handling this shit myself, and watching her break down in my arms will send me over the edge.
Without a second thought, Ronnie makes her way around the other side of the bed, removing her hand from my neck. In doing so, I feel its loss like a kick to the chest. It leaves me feeling bereft. I almost beg her to come back and touch me again.
Immediately and completely, I understand what Ronnie means when she says she’s floating: the lack of an anchor to anything tying you to the present. The connection to something or someone is what she’s been missing all these years. The mere thought, that this is the kind of torment she feels when she says she is simply existing, cracks the last piece of my resolve.
That’s when I break down and cry. Freely, openly, and without reservation, I cry. I cry for everything that’s so fucked up, right now. For my son. For Ronnie, and lastly for myself. Tears run rivers down my face, soaking the neck of my shirt, splashing onto my jeans, and I couldn’t give the first fuck. Most men might believe real men don’t cry, that they don’t show weakness, and until now, I thought the same way. This isn’t weakness however, this is a release of all the pent up emotions that have nowhere else to go.
Ronnie’s movement causes me to lift my head and attempt to wipe the wetness from my face. Her moving gives me a temporary reprieve from my outburst and allows me a precious second to try to compose myself. Carefully positioning her body behind Kellen’s wrapping him loosely in her arms she murmurs something in his ear. Something too quiet for me to hear, but it seems to comfort Kellen instantly.
It’s not long before she meets my eyes giving me a sad smile. One I should be used to from the nurses, but one that’s infinitely more sincere coming from her. It makes me feel like I have someone else that is sharing my anguish. In a voice close to a whisper she asks, “Have you heard anything, Nate?” Using her free hand to stroke my son’s forehead and kiss his temple, she settles in behind him fully, using her body to restrict Kellen’s jerky movements. In that moment, I’m more than fucking grateful that it looks like she’s not going anywhere.
As I’m about to say, “No,” the doctor walks in with an armful of what looks like scans or X-rays. Hooking them to the light box centred on the far wall, he flicks the switch, and the pictures of my son’s insides are illuminated. Making his way to the foot of the bed he looks between Ronnie and me and decides on addressing us both.
“My name is Doctor Bellingfield. Kellen is a lucky young man Mr. and Mrs. Burke.” I won’t interrupt him to tell him Ronnie isn’t my wife. Not only doesn’t it matter, I like the way it sounds. “After extensive testing, it has been determined Kellen has PKD. It stands for Polycystic Kidney Disease.”
Ronnie gasps, but doesn’t say a word, I on the other hand….
“What the fuck does that mean? Doc, is my boy going to be okay?”
Clearing his throat the doctor goes on to explain. “That’s a complex question, Mr Burke, and I will answer as best I can. Give me a minute to explain his condition and outline the treatment. If you have anything to ask after that, you can feel free to do so then.” Tank growls from the doorway alerting me to the fact he’s still here. Not that I thought he’d be anywhere else. It’s just good knowing he’s got my back again.
Nodding at the doctor and waving my hand for him to continue, he does, “PKD is a condition that affects the kidneys causing cysts to grow and multiply, impairing the kidney’s ability to function. In Kellen’s case, the cysts have grown to a size where they are not only impeding the normal workings of the kidneys, they are causing severe pain.”
I grunt a muttered, “No, fucking shit,” but say nothing else, for now.
“Unfortunately, it is not only one kidney that is suffering from PKD. Both of Kellen’s kidneys are at various stages of the disease, in turn, we need to treat immediately. Reduced function of the kidneys for an elongated period of time can have severe consequences, so we must act swiftly to mitigate the damage, as best we can.”
Again, I don’t get a chance to speak before Ronnie pipes up and asks, “In Kellen’s case, what is the treatment you’re recommending, and how quickly can you start?”
Her eyes have misted over as we let the doctor’s words sink in. They begin clear as Kellen turns more fully into her embrace, tears being replaced by resolve.
“Mrs. Burke, in cases that are less severe and usually only involving one kidney, the recommendation is dietary changes and possibly medication at the outset. In patients with significant involvement of only one kidney dialysis is considered the appropriate course of action. However, in this patient…”
Ronnie stops him mid-sentence. “His name is Kellen, Doctor Bellingfield. He’s eight-years-old, and goes to school at Blackwater Elementary. He loves dogs, Spiderman comics, hates vegetables, drinks too much soda, and sleeps like a log. His name is Kellen, not the patient.”
My mouth tips up in an involuntary smile, it’s brittle and feels strange, but it’s there nevertheless. I didn’t expect to be able to smile while my boy is laid up in a hospital bed, but I suppose if anyone can make that happen, it’s Ronnie. Ronnie standing up for my son, knowing those details about him, and making the doc see he’s not just a number or a file, causes warmth to fill my veins, and the sun to peek from behind the heavy layer of clouds.
Clearing his throat, the doc tips his head to Ronnie in understanding, and what looks to be remorse. “I apologise Mrs. Burke. Kellen’s case is different from the other scenarios, I just explained. In his case, both kidneys are compromised to the degree that the only viable option is for us to do a transplant.”
From behind me I hear Tank, “Jesus fucking Christ.” Ronnie is stroking Kellen’s forehead again, whispering into his
ear. I’m fucking shell shocked. There’s no other way to describe it. A fucking kidney transplant? My boy is eight fucking years old.
The doc shuffles some papers between his hands, and appears to be the reading notes in Kellen’s chart. “I have contacted the donor registry and have been assured Kellen’s name has been placed as a priority one recipient. That means as soon as a kidney is available, we will be able to perform the surgery immediately.”
My hands form fists, and I’m barely able to control my rising temper. “And how fucking long does that take? Does he have that kind of time?”
He manages to keep his cool throughout the rest of the explanation. I suppose he has to tell parents shitty news daily. “Mr. Burke, unfortunately the timeline on these things is almost impossible to predict. However, in the mean time we would like to test you, your wife, and any other family members or friends, that may have the same blood type in case we can find a localised match. That would make the process significantly faster.”
Tank claps a hand on my shoulder and leans down, “I’ll go make some calls, yeah? Get everyone here. We’ll line them up and get them tested ASAP, Brother.” Turning to the doc, he straightens and adds, “Pathology, yeah?” At the doc’s nod he says, “Right, you tell whoever the fuck you’ve gotta tell, thirty odd bikers, plus their women and families, will be outside that fuckin lab within the hour. Work out a way to process those kind of numbers doc, cause you’re about to be overrun by fuckin volunteers.” With that, Tank leaves to make the calls that will bring an army of support for my son.
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