Dad skulks about my tiny kitchen, frustrated and impatient. “Chris, you heard what Doctor Jacobs said. The treatment could kill you!” He’s right of course. But with two young mouths to feed and a body too broken down to sustain steady employment, I’m desperate for a cure—and fast—before the next attack kills me.
I feel for Dad. In the past sixteen months he’s lost Ma and my wife, Michelle, and now his son faces a terrible choice regarding his own rapidly deteriorating health. I pull out a chair next to me as a peace offering, hoping to ratchet down the tension. “Why don’t we talk this through?” Déjà vu washes over me. Michelle sat here many a night and spoke those same words to me. Now she is gone, gunned down in front of me during an FBI sting operation gone terribly wrong. And no amount of self-loathing, guilt, or regret on my part can bring her back.
Like fingernails on a blackboard, the screech of Dad’s chair jars me from my thoughts. Arms folded in front of him, Dad settles in the chair as his lecture continues. “Son, with all this family’s been through, you can’t just sign up to be Doctor Hyslop’s next guinea pig, no matter how promising the treatment. We need to take a step back, consider our options.”
I raise a weary hand, then rest it on his shoulder. “Dad, you heard Jacobs. There really aren’t other treatment options.” I bow my head and take a moment, then steady my eyes on my father. “I thought quitting the police force and heading up to the Vineyard would clear my head, buy me some time to get better. We both know how that worked out,” I say with a derisive laugh.
He nods with resignation.
“I need something to believe in, some kinda hope to cling to.” A faint smile emerges from my frown. “I’m going to call Jacobs now, tell him I’m moving forward with the treatment.”
Dad starts to protest but reconsiders as the realization sinks in: united and hopeful may not be enough, but it’s all we have right now.