How to Save a Life

by Kristin Harmel

  “Logan, you’re not making any sense.”

  “Jill, just do it.” His tone is firm, and because he’s beginning to look upset and I don’t want to be responsible for making his blood pressure rise, I shrug and lean forward, placing my right hand on the tree.

  I’m surprised for a second how smooth the bark feels against my skin.

  “Do it!” Logan urges again.

  I sigh. “One day more,” I say quickly. The tree seems to vibrate for a millisecond, and I pull my hand away, surprised. Several leaves flutter to the ground, and Logan counts them, his face clouding over. “What’s wrong?” I ask him.

  “Nothing,” he says as he looks up at me, but I have the feeling he’s not being honest.

  “What was that all about?” I ask him.

  But he doesn’t reply. He’s staring at the tree with a puzzled frown.

  “Logan?”

  He shakes his head. “Come on, Jill. Let’s go back upstairs, and I’ll explain everything.”

  3

  “THE TREE’S ALWAYS been magical, I think,” Logan says calmly after I’ve settled him back into his hospital bed.

  “Magical?” I repeat, sitting down beside him.

  “I mean, way before I knew about it officially, I just had the feeling that it was something special, you know?”

  “Okay.” I try to figure out where he’s going with this. He has a big imagination. “I agree that it’s a really pretty tree.”

  “Oh, it’s more than that.”

  I shrug. “Okay, I guess you’re right. When I pass by it, I always wind up thinking about life and reaching for the light and all that.”

  “Exactly!” He beams. “See, you felt it too!”

  “Felt what?”

  “The magic of the tree, silly! I mean, it’s really, seriously magic. It keeps letting you live extra days, even when your time is up. Just like you said. Life and light and all that.”

  I blink a few times. His answer is hitting too close to home. “Logan, what are you talking about, buddy?”

  “You think I’m ten, don’t you?”

  His abrupt change in topic throws me for a second. “Of course you are. It says so right on your chart. We celebrated your tenth birthday just a few months ago.”

  “Okay, so on paper, I’m ten. But the truth is, I’ve lived a lot longer than that.”

  “Now you’ve lost me.”

  “Right. It can be confusing.” He doesn’t elaborate.

  “Are you telling me you’re actually older than ten?”

  “Not exactly. Just that I’ve lived way more days than the usual ten-year-old.”

  When I don’t say anything, he continues. “It’s the tree, Jill. You touch the tree, and it gives you more time.”

  I relax a little. “Logan, honey, that’s not possible.”

  “I would have thought that too! You wait and see. You’ll believe me tomorrow. Except it won’t really be tomorrow. It’ll be today all over again.”

  “What?”

  “See, you touched the tree and said, ‘One day more.’ As long as you do that once a day, the tree keeps giving you an extra day. The trick is, it’s the same day over and over again.”

  I stare at him for a minute. His eyes are wide and guileless, and I have the feeling he actually believes what he’s saying to me. “Logan, that kind of thing doesn’t actually happen in real life.” I realize I’m being overly harsh with a sick kid who probably just wants to believe that his story isn’t over, so I soften my words by adding, “But it’s fun to think about, right?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know that I’d call it fun. It’s just . . . a thing. It just happens. I think maybe it’s God’s way of letting you live after all, even after you have an expiration date.”

  “Logan, you don’t have an expiration date. You’re doing chemo. You’re going to get better.”

  He smiles sadly. “No, I’m not, Jill. But that’s okay. I’ll get to live more in ten years than lots of people do in a long lifetime, thanks to the tree.”

  I’m suddenly too tired to argue, and he looks so excited about his idea that I don’t want to burst his bubble. “Well, Logan, that sounds wonderful. I’ll have to thank the tree on my way home today.”

  “I can tell you don’t believe me. But just wait until the morning. Then you’ll get it.”

  I smile at him. “Okay, Logan. Now what do you say you get some rest?”

  He nods and burrows down under his covers. “Remember, it’s all going to be okay.”

  “Sure.” I can feel tears in my eyes. “See you tomorrow, kiddo.”

  He yawns. “No, I’ll see you the next today.”

  MY MIND IS still whirling with Logan’s strange words as I walk out into the waiting area and find Sheila standing at the nursing station, swiping through patient notes on a notepad. She looks up. “Girl, you look like death warmed over.”

  I manage a smile. If only she knew. “I was actually thinking that I might take the rest of the day off, if you can cover for me. I’m sure I’ll feel up to coming back in tomorrow.”

  Sheila returns to looking at her iPad. “Why, what miracle is going to happen tonight? You finally going to get laid?”

  I don’t say anything, and suddenly, her head jerks up.

  “Jill! The doctor’s appointment! I forgot! How did it go?”

  “It could have gone better.”

  “But you’re okay, right? Tell me you’re going to be okay.”

  I study Sheila for a moment. She can be coarse and pushy sometimes, but I know it’s because she loves me. I love her too, and that’s why I know I have to be honest, although I dread it. “Let’s sit down for a second,” I say gently.

  “Sit down?” Her eyes widen. “No. No, no, no, no. You’re going to tell me bad news.”

  “Sheila—”

  “Out with it, then! Just say it!” Her voice has risen an octave.

  “I’m dying,” I say.

  She stares at me for a moment before her entire face crumples. I see her swat away a few tears before she pulls herself together. “No,” she says firmly. “Absolutely not. I refuse to believe it. You’re fine. You’re standing right here, and you’re fine.”

  “Sheils, you know as well as I do that that means nothing.”

  “Nope. Not true. It has to mean something. You can’t be dying.” She stares me down, like she can silently bully all the cancer out of me. I meet her gaze and hold it until she comes to the realization that she can’t change my fate. “No,” she whispers. “How much time?”

  “A month. Maybe two. I’m past the point that treatment will work.”

  Her mouth falls open. “What? No! That’s just not possible. You can get a second opinion. Jill, you need a second opinion.”

  “I know. I’ll get one. But Dr. Frost is the best. You know that. And he didn’t seem to have any doubt. I have an aggressive glioblastoma, and apparently, it’s already spread.”

  “Dear God,” she whispers. “Jill, I . . .” Her voice trails off.

  “It’s okay,” I soothe as she begins to cry.

  “No, it’s not, Jill,” she says through sniffles. “You’re one of the best people I know. If you’re dying, well, there’s nothing fair left in the world.”

  I want to agree with her. I want to cry and scream and rage about the fact that my own cells are betraying me. But we’re surrounded by unfairness all the time. We work with children whose lives revolve around hospitals rather than classrooms and school yards, whose lives will be over before they have a chance to really begin.

  “This is just a part of life,” I finally say. “Some of us get to live longer than others. It’s just the luck of the draw.”

  Her eyes well again. “Is there anything I can do?”

  I smile. “Just be here for me. Be my friend.�
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  “Always,” she whispers. “And, Jill? Take all the time you need. You don’t have to come back in if you don’t want to. You have plenty of vacation time saved up.”

  I consider this for a moment, but my life is here. I can’t imagine not seeing Logan, Frankie, Katelyn, and the rest of the kids on a regular basis. “Thanks, Sheila. I’ll take today, but I’ll be back in tomorrow. I promise.”

  “You’ll call if you need anything?”

  “I will.”

  AS I HEAD out through the lobby, I glance at the beautiful tree and shake my head. Believing in its power is a nice fantasy, and I’m disappointed in myself for shooting down Logan’s imaginative ideas. We all need something to believe in, and who am I to tell a ten-year-old what he can and can’t hang on to?

  I’m in a fog as I head for the parking garage, but something across the street in front of Atlanta Memorial catches my eye. The old man I talked to this morning is back on the bench. Remembering his handkerchief, which is still stuffed in my pocket, I start toward him, but I come to an abrupt halt when I realize something: the man is slumped over, his chin against his chest, his shoulders bent at an odd angle.

  “Oh my God,” I murmur as I break into a run. There’s something about the way he’s positioned that tells me instinctively that he hasn’t simply dozed off; there’s something terribly wrong.

  I reach him in thirty seconds and bend down, putting two fingers on his neck to search for a pulse. I let out a huge sigh of relief when I find one. It’s weak and thready, but he’s alive.

  “Sir?” I say loudly, shaking his shoulders a little. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he’s just fallen asleep. “Sir?” I repeat, putting a hand on his cheek. His skin is cold and clammy. He doesn’t stir, but he’s breathing shallowly, which is a good sign, at least.

  I turn and scan the lawn. There’s no one close by, but there are people coming in and out of the front doors of both Atlanta Memorial and Atlanta Children’s. I don’t want to leave the man’s side—what if he stops breathing and needs CPR?—so I begin to yell, “Help! Someone, please help me!”

  A few people glance my way, but astonishingly, no one makes a move to head over.

  “Help me!” I yell again, annoyed now as well as worried. “I have an unconscious man here!”

  I look toward the front door of Atlanta Memorial again, and I see that only one person—a nurse in scrubs—has even paused. She looks at me for a moment and then hurries inside. I shake my head in disbelief and am about to cry out again when there’s a deep voice behind me. “What’s wrong? What can I do?”

  I whirl around and find myself face-to-face with the groundskeeper with the green eyes. I blink at him for a second.

  “I heard you yelling from across the street,” he says into the silence. “What’s happened? How can I help?”

  “Um, this man is unconscious. I need to get him into the hospital, but I don’t want to leave him in case he stops breathing and I need to perform CPR.”

  “Of course.” The groundskeeper is already jogging away. “I’ll get help,” he says over his shoulder. I turn back to the old man and feel for his pulse again, grateful that I can still find it. When I look up, the groundskeeper is running toward me, followed by a nurse and an EMT with a rolling gurney.

  “Move aside, ma’am,” the EMT says as he and the nurse lift the man onto the gurney.

  “What happened to him?” the nurse asks, lingering for a second.

  “I don’t know. I just found him this way. I work across the street at Children’s.”

  She nods crisply as she glances at my name tag. “Thanks, Jill. You might have saved his life.”

  I glance at her name tag too. Melissa Peterson. I make a mental note so that I can call the hospital later and ask for her when I check on the patient. “No problem,” I murmur.

  I stare after her as she and the EMT head toward the entrance of Atlanta Memorial, thinking how ironic it is that I might have saved a life on the same day I find out that I’m dying. I shake my head, close my eyes and sink down onto the bench, suddenly exhausted. Beside me, the groundskeeper clears his throat. My eyes fly open. I’d forgotten he was still standing there.

  “I’m so glad you noticed the man.” He smiles at me, and I can’t help but notice his dimples.

  “Oh,” I say, suddenly nervous. “He just didn’t look right, so I came over to check on him.”

  The man looks impressed. “Great instincts.” He sits down next to me on the bench. “I’m Jamie, by the way,” he says, reaching out to shake my hand. “I figured I might as well introduce myself since our paths keep crossing today.”

  I smile. “Right. You’re the groundskeeper across the street. I’m Jill. I work at Children’s too.”

  He laughs. “I figured, given the Dr. Seuss scrubs.”

  I look down and register that I’m wearing a Cat in the Hat print today. “The kids like it.”

  He grins at me again. “Of course they do. But I have to correct you. I’m not a groundskeeper.”

  I can feel my cheeks getting warm. “Sorry, is that not the right term? Horticulturist?”

  His smile widens. “I don’t know what the term is, actually. I’m just a hospital volunteer.”

  “Oh.” I feel like an idiot. “I saw you watering the tree in the lobby, and I guess I just assumed.”

  “I actually donated the tree, so I take its upkeep pretty seriously. At first, the hospital took care of watering and pruning it, but it didn’t seem to be thriving. So I offered to take over.”

  “You donated the tree?”

  He nods and looks away. “In memory of my daughter. Caroline. She died at Atlanta Children’s six years ago.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  “Thanks. She actually received great care there. It was a heart defect that they just couldn’t fix. But they tried. And she was happy. I gave the hospital the tree in her memory a few months after she died. It makes me happy to see it growing in a place where she once lived.”

  I can feel tears in my eyes. “How old was she?”

  He grimaces. “Just six. That’s way too young to go, don’t you think?”

  I nod. “I work in pediatric oncology. I see too many kids go way too soon. It breaks my heart every time.”

  “Time is never a guarantee, is it?”

  I look away as I shake my head. “No.”

  “I guess that’s why we have to live each day the best way we know how.”

  I look back at him. I’m sure he’s noticed the tears in my eyes, because he looks suddenly concerned, but he doesn’t say anything. “One of my patients really loves that tree,” I tell him. Of course I’d sound like a lunatic if I repeated what Logan had told me, so I settle for saying, “He visits it every day.”

  “Really?” He smiles. “You know, I think that would make Caroline very happy.”

  “I’m very sorry you lost her.” I pause and glance at his unadorned ring finger. “It must have been very hard on you and your wife.” I resist the urge to roll my eyes at myself. I’m dying, and I’m fishing for information about whether this attractive man is married. Clearly, there is something wrong with my brain.

  “I’m not married anymore,” he says immediately. “My ex, well, she had trouble handling what was going on with Caroline. The second time Caroline was admitted to the hospital, Jen moved back to California, where she’d grown up.”

  I stare at him. “She left?”

  He nods. “Right in the middle of Caroline’s treatments. I couldn’t convince her to come back.” He pauses, and something in his face twitches. I recognize it as pain. “She came back for the funeral, though.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Me too. Caroline deserved more.”

  We’re silent for a moment. “She had you,” I say eventually. “And I bet that really helped.”
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  He holds my gaze for a long moment. “Thank you,” he says. “I hope that was the case. It always felt like I couldn’t quite do enough. There’s nothing worse than watching your child slip away and knowing there isn’t a thing you can do to save her.” He doesn’t wait for me to reply before asking, “Do you have kids?”

  I shake my head, a pang of pain shooting through me. “I always thought I would, but . . .”

  He places a hand on my shoulder when I don’t continue. “Maybe you will one day.”

  I bite my lip and look away as the reality of my situation—that I’ll never know the joy of being a parent—crashes back in.

  “I’m sorry,” Jamie says after a minute. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  I swipe tears away and smile at him. “No, you didn’t. I just—I don’t know that being a mother is in the cards for me.”

  He squeezes my shoulder gently. “There are lots of ways to make a family, Jill.”

  I almost laugh. Still, he’s being kind, and as he offers a hand and helps me up from the bench, I look once more into his clear green eyes and feel a warmth spreading through me that has nothing to do with my malfunctioning brain cells and everything to do with a different kind of chemistry.

  JAMIE WALKS ME to my car, and after I’ve watched him walk away, I bang my head against the steering wheel and let the tears come. “Seriously, universe?” I demand aloud. “I’m dying, and that’s when I meet the perfect guy?”

  I drive home, and when I walk in the front door of my condo, I’m struck by how terribly alone I am. The place is silent; I don’t even have a cat or a dog. I work such long hours that it would be unfair to have a pet relying on me. I’ve always thought, I’ll get a puppy someday, when things have calmed down a little. But my somedays are almost up, and I’m acutely aware, all of a sudden, of how terribly unfair that is.

  I heat up a frozen burrito and sit down at the kitchen table with my cell phone in hand, debating whether to try my father again or not. Finally, I put the phone down. I can barely handle my own shock and grief right now. Maybe today’s not the day to take on someone else’s. Or worse, what if my father doesn’t have much of a reaction at all? What if my impending death is just an inconvenient blip on the screen of his perfect life with Sharon?