I hoped she was doing okay, that she’d found some way to deal with her own worry and stress. During my phone call with Brian this morning, he’d actually encouraged me to use her as a crutch if the tests came back with bad news. Told me that her humor and her teasing would be good distractions in the face of a CTE diagnosis.
I just…
I still didn’t know if I could do that to her.
He’d been the only one to witness my lowest points. I didn’t want to drag her down with me. She should be free and happy and unencumbered by an attachment to a man that might one day develop an explosive temper. Or lose his way while driving and terrify her when a search party had to be called out. I’d seen those silver alerts for seniors with Alzheimer’s. CTE could have the same effect.
“All done, Ben,” Dr. Souza said over the speakers.
Shit. So soon? Once we finished here, they were going to go over all of my results and then sit me down for a consultation. I wasn’t fucking ready for that yet. Wasn’t there another test they could do? Some way to delay this a little longer?
“You okay, Ben? Your vitals are spiking,” Dr. Souza said.
“Get me out of this fucking coffin,” I growled.
My breaths were ragged, a familiar weight settling on my chest that I couldn’t seem to push off. A panic attack threatened.
“Get him out!” Mom yelled.
The table beneath me whirred to life and began to slide out of the tube. My arms trembled from the effort to keep still. As soon as I had enough room, I started pulling sensors off of my arms. A lab tech hurried in and undid my restraints.
“Thank you,” I told him, sitting up.
“No problem. I get it.”
Do you?I wanted to shout in his face. How could he possibly get it?
Mom shoved through the door and rushed over to me. She wore open fear on her face. What had she heard the doctors saying?
“Just give me a minute,” I told her.
I jumped off the table. I needed out of this room. Out of this place. But I couldn’t leave, because the fucking paparazzi were probably parked outside. Instead, I escaped to a back hallway with windows that faced the Charles River. The city of Boston spread out before me, the roofs of the low buildings covered in snow, the skyscrapers glittering like jewels in the sunshine.
Dad followed after me, leaning a shoulder against the wall as I paced. He didn’t say anything, just stood there, offering me the steady strength of his presence and turning away anyone else that tried to join us. Including Mom.
“I’ll pay for that one later,” he said.
I paused to look at him. He was tall, still broad like me, though his middle had softened in his retirement. Three years ago, his hair was as long as mine, but it was thinning some around his face, and he’d decided to cut it. It was hard to look at him now. Because Zach had kept his hair short. His skin had been almost as dark as Dad’s. He’d had the same nose, nearly black eyes, rounded cheeks, and slight indentation in his chin. If you compared pictures of them from the same ages, they looked like twins. Seeing Dad now was like seeing the ghost of my brother. Of what he might have looked like if CTE hadn’t stolen him from us.
Dad’s eyes were pinched, brow creased in worry. What was this like for him and Mom? Waiting to find out if your surviving son mightshare the same fate as the one you’d already buried seemed like cruel and unusual punishment.
I walked over and hugged him, hard. He squeezed me back. When I pulled away, there were tears in his eyes.
“Whatever happens, Benny, your mom and I are here for you,” he said, clasping my shoulders.
“I know Dad, thank you.”
“And we -” His eyes snapped to something over my shoulder. “Shit,” he said. He never swore. I started to follow his gaze, but he used his grip to keep me facing him. “Don’t look. Keep your head turned and walk back down the hall through the doors.”
“Is someone outside with a camera?” I asked, a slow, steady rage beginning to build within me. We were on the first floor, and with these huge windows, it would be easy for them to film us. They might have caught that whole exchange. They might have been close enough to see my dad crying.
He knew better than to lie to me. “Yes.”
“Still frame or a video recorder?”
“Big TV style camera.”
I stiffened in his grip. “I’ll fucking kill them.”
