Chapter 27

Frightful was still singing her mournful song when I got out of the shower.

“Will you pleeeeease let the chickens out?!” I called to Hannah as I combed through my wet hair. Finn was licking water off the shower basin with a slobbery tongue and I shooed him away with my foot. “Go drink your own water,” I grumbled.

For whatever reason, I woke up irritated and pretty much everything was ticking me off, starting with the lamentations of a backyard chicken. I had promised to relieve Diana by 8:00 a.m. so she could get to work, and I was already late. I was poised to shout at the next person who dared get in my way.

Dr. Burroughs and I met in the hall when I arrived at the hospital.

“He’s still pretty wiped out,” I told her on my way into the room. Andrew was half asleep, picking at something on his lips.

“There’s something in my mouth,” Andrew spat.

“What is it?” Then I saw the tufts of hair stuck to his pillow and face.

“I’m losing my feathers.” Andrew patted at his head.

It was Day 13, and like Dr. Burroughs predicted, Andrew began losing his hair. Although I was expecting it, my heart sank as I thought about shaving off his remaining silky red hair.

“Tell us how you’re feeling,” Dr. Burroughs said.

Andrew poked a finger at his belly button, laid a flat palm across his abdomen and squeezed.

“Can you describe it to me?” Dr. Burroughs asked.

“I want Frightful,” he replied, screwing his eyes shut and rolling over.

“I think that’s all we are going to get today,” I told Dr. Burroughs.

During the next week, we began to see glimmers of improvement. Andrew’s ANC (Absolute Neutrophil Count—the measurement used to gauge immune system functioning) slowly began to rise, and the team felt confident this was an early sign of engraftment.

Then something unusual happened. “Would you come in here, please?” I asked his nurse.

I pointed to a rash that behaved like a constellation of the Northern Lights. While Andrew slept, a pattern of bright red blotches rose up the side of his torso and neck, then disappeared. Reappearing on the other arm and side of his torso, it cascaded down his legs and landed at the top of his foot.

She looked perplexed. “I know the doctor is in the hall,” she said, and hurriedly left the room.

Dr. Burroughs came in and watched as this random constellation continued for another five minutes while Andrew slept. Then, as quickly as it came, it disappeared.

“I’m not sure what to think,” she said. “But I’m not worried about it. This is about the time we see funny things like this. I suspect it’s an early response of his sister’s cells. It’s an indication that Hannah’s cells are assimilating and active. That’s a good thing!”

The next morning, Andrew’s lab results were dropped off in our room. Dr. Burroughs had scribbled in the top corner, “Yes! A good thing!” and drew an arrow to the numbers that indicated Hannah’s cells were doing their job.

By Day 21, Andrew’s ANC had doubled, and the team felt confident this was the beginnings of engraftment.

On Day 26, Andrew asked for a Big Mac.

“What did you say?” I said, certain I hadn’t heard him correctly.

“I have a spot right here. See?” He brought both hands to his belly making an “O” with his fingertips.

“Really?” He’d been on a feeding tube or IV nutrition for the better part of a year, and this was the first mention of food.

“Yes. And the Chick-a-dee would like a vanilla milkshake,” he said, pointing to a picture of Frightful on the iPad.

And that was that. Gone was his infatuation with binge-eating superstars on the Cooking Channel. In came a renewed interest in all things foodie. Soon he was talking about recipes for soup and steak and Mexican chili peppers. The hotter the better.

“Do you know how many Scoville heat units a ghost pepper has? Over 2,199,999! That will melt your brain out!”

When I looked unimpressed, he found articles on the Internet about people who had mistakenly eaten one. “Look! Dead. Deader than a doornail. Your throat seizes up. Where do you think we could buy some? They’re cool.”

I couldn’t keep up with his newest passion, so I just listened and nodded and made all sorts of affirming sounds.

“I’ve decided to become a chef and own my own restaurant someday,” he told me one afternoon. “I’ll even give you a coupon for half price off any entrée you want.”

“Well, that sounds very generous of you,” I said, stifling a laugh. I shook my head wondering what had happened to my kid, wondering if we had transplanted his brain instead.