Goodnight, Brian

by Steven Manchester

  “K,” he said and snuggled right up next to her. He smiled and, within seconds, he was sleeping.

  “Okay then,” Mama said. She grabbed the crucifix that hung around her neck and kissed it. “Goodnight, Brian.”

  About the Author

  Steven Manchester is the author of Twelve Months and Pressed Pennies, The Unexpected Storm: The Gulf War Legacy and Jacob Evans, as well as several books under the pseudonym, Steven Herberts. His work has appeared on NBC’s Today Show, CBS’s The Early Show, CNN’s American Morning and BET’s Nightly News. Recently, three of Steven’s short stories were selected “101 Best” for the Chicken Soup for the Soul series. When not spending time with his beautiful wife, Paula, or his four children, this Massachusetts author is promoting his works or writing. Visit: www.StevenManchester.com

  More from the Author

  Twelve Months

  Don DiMarco has a very good life – a family he loves, a comfortable lifestyle, passions and interests that keep him amused. He also thought he had time, but that turned out not to be the case. Faced with news that might have immediately felled most, Don now wonders if he has time enough. Time enough to show his wife the romance he didn’t always lavish on her. Time enough to live out his most ambitious fantasies. Time enough to close the circle on some of his most aching unresolved relationships. Summoning an inner strength he barely realized he possessed, Don sets off to prove that twelve months is time enough to live a life in full.

  A glorious celebration of each and every moment that we’re given here on Earth, as well as the eternal bonds that we all share, Twelve Months is a stirring testament to the power of the human spirit.

  A Note from the Author

  I had just finished the first draft of a novel, entitled, The Rockin’ Chair and was happy to take some time off. Two days later, I was in the shower thinking, There’s never enough time to do everything we want to do. Then another thought hit me. What if I only had twelve months left? And the decision was made right then and there. I need to write this book!

  So I created Don DiMarco; an ordinary man faced with extraordinary circumstances—having to face his death long before he thought he would have to. He is madly in love with his wife, adores his daughter and spoils his two grandchildren. Don is a good man; the salt of the earth, but he must find the courage to truly live.

  The cliché is true: We can only write about who we know and what we know. Although I consider Twelve Months a fictional work, the content all felt very real to me—so the emotions were also very real.

  In the end, the novel’s message is simple but very powerful: As far as we know, we only get one shot at this thing called life—so we each need to make it a great one. Stop wasting time drifting along. Take complete responsibility for your life and live each moment with real intention. In essence, have a love affair with your own life.

  The novel’s excerpt depicts Don in the final days of his battle with cancer. Something comes over him—an unexpected surge of will power—and he suddenly feels compelled to volunteer some of the time he has left with people who are even worse off than him. By giving something back and lending a helping hand, he knows he will enrich his life and maybe even make a difference in someone else’s. Although he never needed his wife’s permission for anything, this is different. There are so few moments left. He asks Bella what she thinks.

  “I think it’s a terrible idea,” she says, her smile threatening to crack her face in half.

  “Good,” he says. “I thought you would.”

  And the adventure begins.

  An excerpt from Twelve Months

  The state’s premier pediatric facility was designed in collaboration with doctors, nurses and other health care professionals, as well as parents and children. Earning worldwide recognition for its family-centered environment and expert staff, it also had the area’s only pediatric oncology program. They provided diagnosis and treatment to kids, ranging in age from newborn to eighteen years old.

  Comprehensive treatment was provided for infants, children and adolescents with cancer and blood disorders. Special expertise and programs existed for children with leukemia, brain tumors, lymphoma, hemophilia and sickle cell disease.

  Volunteers had to submit an application with references, provide an updated immunization record, agree to a tuberculosis test, complete an orientation to hospital policies and procedures, and commit to a minimum of four hours each week for at least four months. I wasn’t sure about the last requirement, but decided, if I don’t meet it, I’m not real worried about being sued.

  It was a cold morning when I arrived for my orientation. Though I expected to be joined by others, it was just me and Carissa Kennedy, my bubbly guide. “On behalf of volunteer services, welcome,” she said, with a brilliant smile. “We appreciate the time you’re taking from your personal life. I hope you gain as much from the experience as the patients do.”

  “I have no doubt.”

  “Our volunteers are a talented group of people who make a huge difference in the kids’ lives and there are lots of opportunities to make that difference. You could greet visitors and patients, be a liaison for patients and families, or even assist in the emergency room. Some volunteers like to deliver flowers and mail.”

  “I was hoping to do something more directly with the kids.”

  “We have many volunteers who visit with patients or hold the hand of a chronically ill child. Some read to the kids and others assist those with disabilities.”

  “I’ll take it,” I said.

  Carissa looked at me. “Which one?” she asked.

  “All of the above.”

  It was a child-friendly atmosphere, including a life-sized playhouse. We were at the end of a corridor when I spotted a plaque on the wall. It read “Everybody can be great because anybody can serve. You don’t have to have a college degree to serve. You don’t have to make your subject and your verb agree to serve. You only need a heart full of grace. A soul generated by love.” – Martin Luther King, Jr.

  “I like that.”

  “Me, too,” she said, “but my favorite quote is, ‘We cannot always return an act of kindness to the person who bestowed it, but we can pay back the debt by helping others.’”

  “Nice.”

  As we marched up one corridor and down the next, Carissa filled me in on my rights as a volunteer. “Just so you know, you have certain rights when you’re giving your time here.” She began counting on her fingers. “The hospital promises you a clear volunteer assignment, fulfilling work, training, informed involvement, supervision, respect, your time put to best use, safe and healthy working conditions and recognition of your service.”

  “Wow, good for you. That’s a lot to remember,” I teased.

  She giggled.

  “Recognition?” I asked. “Are people really concerned with that when they volunteer?”

  She shrugged. “Nobody that I’ve met yet.”

  Upon completing my week of training and orientation, I started spending time with the kids. At first, I read to two of the older ones – sixteen and seventeen, respectively – who were near their end. Both were sedated and submerged in hospital-induced comas. After each page I finished, I looked up for a reaction. There was none. Through my own ungodly suffering, I kept right on reading, hoping that on some level my presence brought them some comfort.

  I went whenever I could physically make it, which wasn’t nearly as often as I would have liked. For the first time since being diagnosed with this evil and greedy disease, my will was no longer as strong as the bad cells that multiplied inside me.

  It’s difficult to explain the symptoms. I’d suffered from the flu a few times in my life; times when body aches, cold sweats, fever and chills made me want to lay down right where I was and curl up into the fetal position. With cancer, this would have been a good day. Cell by dying cell, my body was shutting down.

  Two weeks had passed before I was introduced to some of the younger children by the nursing
staff I’d grown to care for. These honest, little people asked me some of the strangest questions. “Why is your nose so big?” one small lad inquired.

  “It was a gift from my father.”

  “Do you like candy canes better than candy corn?”

  “I’ve never met a candy I couldn’t get along with.”

  “Why are you really here?”

  Even though I knew the answer, this was a tough one. “To make you smile,” I said, but the truth was a bit more selfish than that. Deep down, I knew I was there to face my paralyzing fear of death and to make peace with it. It seemed reasonable enough. These children had just come from heaven and were already returning home. Who could be closer to God than that?

  Each time I stepped into the hospital, I nourished my soul, all the while wondering why I hadn’t been walking through that same door for years. And each day was different.

  I met a ten-year-old girl suffering from an inoperable brain tumor who wore a rainbow-colored clown’s wig given to her by one of the Shriner’s. “If people are going to stare, then let’s give them something to look at,” she told me.

  I’d never felt so much pride in the strength of another person’s spirit.

  The very next day, I passed a small boy who was crying. “Please, Mommy,” he begged, “don’t let me die.”

  I felt my knees start to give and caught myself.

  Nurse Pynaker came out of the room and looked at me. “He’s not ready,” she whispered.

  “I guess not. I’m fifty-seven and I’m not even ready.”

  “Age doesn’t matter,” she said, “The soul knows when it’s time.”

  It was a random Thursday morning when I stepped into a little girl’s radiant smile. She was sitting at the end of the day room, playing with a doll. When she saw me, her big blue eyes lit up. I could feel my heart melt. The shading on her scalp told me she’d once had dark hair. The paleness of her skin told me her life was fading too. I approached and extended my hand. “I’m Don,” I said. “And what’s your name, beautiful?”

  “Sophia,” she said and put down her doll to shake my hand. We sat for a few moments when she turned to me. “I have cancer,” she said.

  “Me, too.”

  “Mine is called Lymphoma.”

  I nodded.

  “Are you scared?” she asked.

  I hesitated, unsure of how I should answer; whether or not I should be honest. But she saved me by putting her hand in mine.

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” she promised. Her eyes were penetrating and wise beyond their years. “We’re not alone, ever…none of us.” She had a sense of her own power and shared it selflessly.

  I had no choice but to believe and fall in love with my new friend, Sophia.

  As knowledge is power, I conducted my usual research and discovered that Sophia was fighting a vicious monster. Lymphoma – sometimes referred to as blood cancer – was either categorized as Hodgkins or non-Hodgkins. In Sophia’s case, the cancer cells were most prominent in her marrow before spilling over into her blood where it quickly spread to the lymph nodes. Though non-Hodgkins Lymphoma was the sixth most common cancer in the United States, at Sophia’s age, she’d had a one in one hundred thousand chance of getting it. And she’d hit the lottery. What luck.

  After a few visits, Sophia confided in me. “The only thing that bothers me is that I’ve lost my hair,” she said, the sorrow in her voice apparent. “It used to be curly, you know.”

  I nodded, feeling a pang of guilt. I’d never received chemo or radiation treatments, so my brown locks were still intact. I made my decision right then and there. I haven’t been bald since serving in Vietnam, so it might even feel good, I figured.

  Just as I finished the job and unplugged the clippers, Bella and Riley stepped into the bathroom. Riley shook her head. “You really are a beautiful man, Dad,” she said, her eyes misting over.

  I shook my head. “I’m not sure about that, but I do have a beautiful daughter.”

  Bella stepped up, rubbed my head a few times and then kissed it.

  “And a beautiful wife,” I added.

  The following day, Sophia watched me walk into the day room, but didn’t say a word. I approached her and smiled. “You didn’t know it was me?” I asked.

  She nodded. “I’d recognize you anywhere,” she squealed, her eyes sparkling. “But what did you do?”

  I winked. “It’s only hair, right? Who needs it?”

  She jumped into my arms for a hug.

  “Looks like we’ll both save money on shampoo,” I told her, trying not to cry.

  While still at the mercy of my own death sentence, for some of the finest days of my life, I visited with Sophia whenever I could. Most of the time, we didn’t talk. We just held hands. Though I hoped I was helping her, I knew better. The healing power of her touch was unlike anything I’d ever experienced.

  I contacted my lady friend at the Make a Wish Foundation and told her Sophia’s story. I had no idea I’d called too late.

  It was a Wednesday evening, just past dusk, and though I didn’t realize it, Sophia and I were about to speak for the very last time.

  “If you had one wish that could come true, what would it be?” she asked.

  The hair on my arms stood erect. I’d just contacted Make a Wish for her and I never did believe in coincidences. I thought for a second and said, “On the day I stand before God…that He’ll smile at me,” I answered. “What if you had one wish that could come true, what would it be?” I reciprocated.

  She looked into my eyes and without hesitation said, “That your wish will come true.”

  I almost chuckled until I saw she was serious. We sat there holding hands for a long time – or at least a long time for us.

  Finally, she asked, “Do you doubt that God will smile at you?”

  “I’ve done some things in my life I’m not proud of,” I admitted.

  “But God forgives everything, right?”

  “I guess that depends on which path you take in life.”

  She shrugged. “But how can there be a wrong path…as long as you’re trying to get home to Him?”

  I looked at her, but had no answer. Such wisdom for a little girl…

  She yawned twice and I summoned the nurse to help her back to her room.

  “Sweet dreams,” she told me, as I left for the night.

  “Sweet dreams, beautiful. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said and kissed her tiny forehead. I’ll never forget the miracle in her smile.

  In all my fifty-seven years, Sophia’s funeral was the cruelest experience I’d ever endured – and from the pain in Bella’s eyes, she clearly felt the same.

  The Rockin’ Chair

  Memories are the ultimate contradiction. They can warm us on our coldest days – or they can freeze a loved one out of our lives forever. The McCarthy family has a trove of warm memories. Of innocent first kisses. Of sumptuous family meals. Of wondrous lessons learned at the foot of a rocking chair. But they also have had their share of icy ones. Of words that can never be unsaid. Of choices that can never be unmade. Of actions that can never be undone.

  Following the death of his beloved wife, John McCarthy – Grandpa John – calls his family back home. It is time for them to face the memories they have made, both warm and cold. Only then can they move beyond them and into the future.

  A rich portrait of a family at a crossroad, The Rockin’ Chair is Steven Manchester’s most heartfelt and emotionally engaging novel to date. If family matters to you, it is a story you must read.

  A Note from the Author

  When my first son, Evan, was born, it amazed me how he and my father hit it off. Unlike my dad’s tough approach with me and my brothers, he was gentle with my son. And to Evan, the old man walked on water. The entire thing got me thinking about the responsibilities and expectations of a father versus a grandfather, and how the roles can be at such polar opposites.

  In The Rockin’ Chair—arguably one of
my favorite tear jerkers—I created Grampa John, a compassionate farmer in the spirit of my late grandfather. I then created Hank, his estranged son, whose memories are not as rose-colored as his father’s. The rest—bitter feelings and things said that shouldn’t have been said—play out in a sequence of scenes that most fathers and sons can relate to.

  Grampa John decides that before he can join his wife, Alice, in eternal rest, he must tend to a few final chores and heal his family. One by one, he guides his grandchildren through their healing process with the strength of his wisdom and unconditional love. And then he gets to Hank. As the clock ticks fast, John wonders if there’s enough time to prove that love has always existed when it has been masked for an entire lifetime.

  The Rockin’ Chair—like our attitudes, either good or bad—is a legacy to be passed down from one generation to the next.

  The novel’s excerpt brings the reader into the family’s great pain—the funeral of their beloved wife and mother, Alice. John is beside himself with grief until he feels a familiar nudge in the back. When he looks up, he sees his family—in all their brokenness—for the first time since his wife’s death.

  The preacher had just finished his sermon when John drops to both knees and speaks to his wife. “I see now, squaw. Seems I still got some chores that need tendin’ to.” He places his lips to the frozen casket and kisses her. “You’re right, as usual. There’s some mendin’ to be done. So leave the porch light on for me and I’ll be along when I’m through.” Standing slowly, he straightens out his back and steels himself for the chores ahead of him. I still got a few more miles to go, he decides. And it looks like I’ll be travelin’ all the way to hell to reclaim these kids. It’s time to take them back from the evils of society.

  An excerpt from The Rockin’ Chair

  It was a bitterly cold Saturday morning when friends from far and wide came to pay their respects. Everyone who knew Alice adored her and equally loved her grieving husband. The McCarthy’s tiny field of granite was filled with mourners. As the preacher spoke, an eerie silence filled the frozen air.