Like Ashes We Scatter

by Bradon Nave

  Like Ashes We Scatter

  Bradon Nave

  Like Ashes We Scatter

  Copyright © 2017 by Bradon Nave.

  All rights reserved.

  First Print Edition: June 2017

  Limitless Publishing, LLC

  Kailua, HI 96734

  www.limitlesspublishing.com

  Formatting: Limitless Publishing

  ISBN-13: 978-1-64034-109-8

  ISBN-10: 1-64034-109-9

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to the countless heroes making second chances possible through the selfless act of organ and tissue donation.

  I would also like to thank my work family. When I’m not writing, I’m working for an Organ Procurement Organization as an Organ Recovery Coordinator. Without my colleagues, there would be no way to cope with the exhaustive emotional impact this profession can sometimes have.

  Like Ashes We Scatter is a work of fiction; however, many scenarios, both heartbreaking and uplifting, inspired the book. Writing this book was completely therapeutic for me. I hope my respect for the topic shines through in my writing.

  As always, thank you to my editor, Darryl, for setting me up for success.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

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  Chapter One

  Bishop Holloway

  Intrusive as frigid water or even a blatant facial slap—the tune of some TWENTY ØNE PILØTS song not only coaxed him from slumber—it yanked him from it. Wiping his eyes and touching about his bed in a scattered confusion, the vibration near his pillow led his hand to his smartphone, and Nathan’s name on his screen.

  “Hello? Nathan?”

  Silence on the other end had Bishop assuming the call to be a mishap, a butt-dial inconveniently executed by his younger brother while rolling in the sheets with some college girl.

  “Bishop?” Finally, an answer.

  Swallowing hard, Bishop returned his head to the cool pillow, glancing briefly toward the glowing red 1:29 glaring at him from his nightstand.

  “Nathan…you okay, dude?”

  Silence—only soft wind outside the window and softer breath on the other end of the line.

  “Nathan, are you drunk?”

  “Nah.”

  “Um…okay. Did you mean to call?”

  Silence. Thirteen full seconds of near complete silence.

  “You ever think it’s too much, man?”

  Blinking rapidly, Bishop’s attempt to fling the fog off his brain was futile. “Too much? What’s too much, Nate?”

  “I don’t know. It just is.”

  School. School must be too much—overwhelming.

  “Nate…dude…really? Now? I’ve got an interview tomorrow.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  The slight crack in his brother’s voice had Bishop propping himself on his elbow, pressing the phone firmer to his face. “Okay, Nate. What’s up? Talk to me.”

  The sniffling in his ear captured Bishop’s concern completely. Nate rarely cried—ever.

  “It’s too big.”

  Too big? This has to be a drunk-dial joke. Toppling back to his comforter, Bishop gave a forced chuckle. “Ha! You dick. I thought something happened. Don’t you have class tomorrow?”

  “It’s too much.”

  Never one to venture down dramatic trails, the desperation in Nathan’s tone erased any trace of humor from the situation entirely.

  “Nate…dude. You’re being serious? School? School’s too much? What’s too much, Bubs?”

  “Nothin’, B.”

  “Nah, Bro. Is it school? Semester is all but done, Nate. You’ll get there.”

  “Yeah.”

  Short, soft and disengaged—completely atypical of the standard communication between Nathan and Bishop Holloway.

  “Yeah? Nathan…what the hell’s going on, man?”

  Choppy inhalation on the other end had Bishop listening only to his brother’s breath—heavy and whistling slightly around his teeth.

  “It’s been a lot for a while, B…and now it’s too much. I can’t…”

  “Okay. I’m gonna reschedule my interview. I’ll be there around noon tomorrow.”

  “’K.”

  “You need to get some rest, Bro. How many tests do you have this week?”

  Rustling of some sort on the other end was followed by a soft sigh. “I love you, Bishop.”

  Silence—again. At a loss for words, Bishop’s all but tripped from his tongue and fell from his lips. “I…well, I love you too, Nate. Dude. Nathan. You want me to come there now?”

  “Nah. Be still…but stay here.”

  “Like…on the phone?”

  “Please.” High pitched and almost pleading, Nathan’s voice had Bishop rising from his bed, stumbling toward the light switch.

  “Yeah. For sure. Nate, what happened?”

  “I dunno.”

  Flipping the light switch, Bishop’s eyes ached as he forced them open, glancing about the room for his jeans. “Where are you right now, Nate?”

  “Walking somewhere.”

  The response made no sense and even halted Bishop’s attempt to dress himself while pressing the phone to his ear with his shoulder. “Outside? You’re walking outside?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s freezing outside, man. Where the hell are you right now?”

  “I dunno exactly.”

  “Nathan! What happened? You’re scaring me.”

  “Nothing…it…it’s too much. It’s everything now. It’s just too much, B.”

  Pressing into his forehead, Bishop’s thumb and index finger ached as he contemplated reaching for his car keys and driving to his brother in boxers and a jacket. “Bubs…please…why are you walking right now? It’s too cold.”

  “I didn’t wanna wake anyone up.”

  “Okay. But you need to go back to the dorms. It’s a deathtrap out there.”

  “I’m not going back inside.”

  Solemn and s
olid, Nathan’s words entered Bishop’s ear as a foreign substance rather than the mumbling of his baby brother—his best friend. “What…what are you doing, Nathan? What are you going to do?”

  Silence.

  “Nathan. This doesn’t make any sense, just go inside and I’ll come get you—”

  “I love you, Bishop. It’s just too much.”

  Chapter Two

  Alex Ayers

  Darting from the kitchen and across the living room like a seasoned waitress, Alex toted a plate of fruit and toast in one hand and notecards with equations and questions in the other. Making her way down the hall and mumbling aloud, she entered her brother’s bedroom to find him happily reading atop his bed.

  “’Sup, Sis.”

  “It smells in here, Ty. Leave the door open.”

  Setting the plate on his nightstand, she made her way to his closet, fetching a thick sweatshirt from a flimsy hanger.

  “Eat, Ty. I don’t have much time.”

  Leaning forward, coughing as he did so, Tyson reached for the plate. “Oh shit. Your test is today, right? Isn’t today your test, Alex?”

  “Yep. Last one and I’ll be registered.”

  “Aren’t you registered already? Oh yeah…different list all together.”

  She shot her brother a smirk and walked to him, brushing his sandy blond hair behind his ear. “You’re hilarious, Tyson. Eat. We’re doing manual this morning.”

  “Noooo.” Whining, Tyson plopped a strawberry into his mouth while adjusting the oxygen cannula in his nose.

  “Please, Ty. Don’t argue. We did the vest three times yesterday. Manual percussion with proper positioning.”

  Cystic fibrosis—every morning twenty-three-year-old Alex usually began her day by beating the hell out of her younger brother in an effort to keep his lungs clear. Cupping her hands, she would position Tyson about the bed while she pounded on his back and chest. After the chest physiotherapy, Tyson would typically cough and spit mucous for a solid five minutes.

  Despite the oxygen tubing and the dark circles residing under either eye, Tyson Ayers appeared in reasonable shape and typically in good spirits. A natural on the pitcher’s mound, the seventeen-year-old had made a reputation for himself—one that didn’t include “that sick boy.”

  “What time do you have to leave, Alex?”

  “My test is at eleven. I’m leaving here at nine.”

  Always quick to claim the hours spent in the gym were an extension of physical therapy, Tyson had spent the majority of his high school days concentrating on his health, grades, and baseball. The perfect patient in many senses, Tyson’s pediatric pulmonologist often used him and his situation as a “what to do,” example.

  And then it happened…the big one. The act of maintaining may seem so boring and even leave one complacent—that is until maintaining is no longer an option without extensive intervention. What started as a week in bed with pneumonia, escalated into something much more sinister. Tyson’s health as a whole declined rapidly.

  Dean’s Honor Role, Gifted and Talented Club and the Varsity Baseball roster were all lists that Alex’s little brother had strived to attach his name to…the waiting list for a miracle was something he’d hoped to escape—out of sight type of thing. He wasn’t so lucky. His name now sat among several others waiting for new lungs…several others counting days and praying for miracles.

  Alex was pained not only with the task of ensuring proper therapy was applied in a rigorous and stringent manner, but she was also seated front row to her baby brother’s decline.

  “Tyson…your oxygen saturation is eighty-seven percent.”

  Instantly diverting eye contact, Tyson swallowed what he’d been chewing. Staring at his bed sheets, he inhaled deeply and smiled at his sister. “I’m okay, Alex. It’s going to be okay. And you…are going to be okay.”

  His tone…his soft demeanor and tired, passive proclamation left Alex’s mouth agape as she sat next to him on his bed. Taking her brother’s hand, cool and clammy, she raised it to her mouth and kissed the back of it. Her brother’s skin was salty as she pressed his flaccid hand to her face.

  “I love you, Baby-Ty. I’d take your place this second if I could.” Cracking and soft, her voice nearly gave out on her as tears pooled in either eye.

  “Hey…no crying, not today. Today’s your day, Ms. Respiratory Therapist.” His smile always charmed his sister from sadness—she too smiled through her few tears. “Now…kick my ass so you can kick ass on that test.”

  “I love you, Ty.”

  “Love you too, Sis.”

  Chapter Three

  Bustling, the halls of the hospital were teaming with young adults sporting tear-soaked faces—eyes all asking; what could I have done? Why didn’t I see this coming?

  Bishop’s eyes were barely pried—swollen, aching, and showcasing an agony that left many around him speechless and hesitant to approach.

  Cramped and confined were the white walls all around him—the numerous monitors alarming oppressively as he sat bedside to a scene he longed to awaken from.

  His hand trembling as he held Nathan’s, his misery was stirred slightly when a slender woman stepped into the dark room. Nathan’s head was dressed and wrapped and he boasted a black left eye. He looked like he’d been in a fight with a school mate—not a handgun.

  “Hello…are you, Bishop?” Her kind smile and soft words weren’t enough to elicit an immediate response. Stepping into the room, the brunette woman closed the curtain to the hallway behind her, shielding the room from the on-looking crowd of young adults. “Bishop? My name is Pam. Is it okay if I come in the room?”

  “Are you here to do it right now? Like right now?” Bishop’s anxiety had him rising from his seat, squeezing his brother’s hand.

  “Do what, Bishop?”

  “Are you here to withdraw life support from my brother right now?” Nearly inaudible, Bishop’s voice all but failed him as the thought of the Nathan’s pulse flat lining on the monitor nearly took his breath.

  “No, sweetheart. Please, Bishop…sit. I’m not here to do that. I’m here to talk to you. I’m only here to talk, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Pulling a small stool from the opposite side of the bed, Pam sat across from Bishop. Bishop’s initial relief was quickly fleeting. Cherishing every second that his brother’s heart was beating, Bishop only wanted time alone with Nathan and cared not to be interrupted by this Pam woman.

  “Bishop…I’m assuming the physician has been in to speak with you?”

  Pam’s calm tone had a motherly quality to it that eased Bishop’s irritation. Looking to the older woman, he felt his bottom lip quiver and his innards swirl.

  “Yeah.”

  “Bishop…I don’t work for the hospital. If you have any questions that you feel haven’t been answered, please feel free to ask—”

  “They said his brain…they said he was brain dead. There’s nothing left to do.” The words were a vile poison seeping from his mouth—a poison he never imagined he’d taste. Overcome by his emotions, Bishop rested his head on Nathan’s hospital bed next to his thigh. Within seconds he felt a hand on his shoulder.

  His desire to let go—to breakdown—was overtaken by his longing for knowledge. He had to know more. Reaching into his core, he secured what strength he had left and composed himself.

  “What if…what if there’s some chance he can recover? What if they take him off life support when there’s still a chance?”

  Smiling, Pam returned to the opposing side of the bed, seating herself. “Bishop, may I explain, from a clinical standpoint, the concept of brain death?”

  Bishop prodded her to continue.

  “When a person suffers an injury to the brain that is so significant that it leads to brain death…there is no recovery. When we hear of those miraculous stories of people awakening after being comatose for years, they were actually in a vegetative state. Their brain always had oxygen and blood flowing to it. In bra
in death, the brain is actually dead. In your brother’s case, test results show definitively that brain death has in fact occurred.”

  “So that’s it then…that’s really it. They’re going to take that breathing tube out and I’ll never see my brother again.” Bishop stood. Staring out the window, he felt isolated and completely depleted. As his tears poured, Pam was soon at his side, offering him a much needed embrace.

  “That’s why I’m here, Bishop. I’m here to talk to you about a decision your brother made before this.”

  Gently pulling away, Bishop looked to Pam. “Decision? Who are you with again?”

  “I’m with Gifting Life and Days.”

  “What does that mean? What does that have to do with my brother?”

  “Bishop, it is my job to discuss with you what the next steps are, and enlighten you on advanced directives and decisions your brother made prior to this incident.”

  “Decisions?”

  “Yes. Bishop, your brother made the decision to be an organ donor.”

  Confusion complied as Bishop stood and stepped backward. “So you’re going to do that right now too?”

  “No, sweetheart. No, right now I’m here to talk to you, to educate you on your brother’s decision, and to make sure you are okay.”

  “I don’t understand. Are they taking the tube out tonight or not? The doctor said they were taking his breathing tube out tonight.”

  “No. That’s not happening tonight. I understand your parents are flying in?”

  “Yeah…from Cape Town. They’ll be here in the morning but I told them they weren’t going to make it in time but they both insist on speaking with the neurologist.”

  “They’ll be here in time, Bishop.”

  “I’m so confused.”

  “I understand. Your brother made a selfless decision before—”

  “My brother shot himself…he shot himself in the head.” Turning from Pam, Bishop approached a lifeless Nathan. “I just want to punch him. I’m so angry right now.”