Once Upon a Wish (32 page)

Now, sixteen years later, love had gotten them through everything, and with the Pacific Ocean as their backdrop, the palm trees spying from above, their two beautiful children by their sides, they decided to renew their vows, barefoot in the sand.

They all dressed in off-white, Alex and Zane in suits, Meera and Nita in flowing dresses, with matching leis of bright, plum-colored flowers. Arms outstretched, hands linked in front of them, Alex and Nita stared at each other and repeated after the preacher.

Alex heard the words his wife was saying, but the true message behind their love, their marriage, was unspoken. The same strength that had gotten him through Meera’s illness poured from Nita’s big brown eyes and into him, and he felt like the luckiest man on earth to have her as his partner through this life.

Alex realized in that moment that some marriages might have fallen apart in the middle of everything they had gone through to save Meera, every difficult moment, every impossible decision, but they had survived.

After the ceremony, the four of them created a single jar of sand together, simultaneously pouring layers of different colors, watching them flow and mix.

Later that day, they walked down the beach as a family, until
Zane ran off to explore and Meera lingered behind, feeling the tickle of the sea between her toes. She watched the waves roll and crash, and while she longed to jump into them, to be part of them, she was just thankful to enjoy them from the shore.

Alex watched as the breeze caught Meera’s dress, her hair, and he knew it was time to let go. Meera was free. It finally felt real that there were no more numbers to watch, no more beeps to interpret, no more stats to worry about. The whole family was free.

Watching Meera walk along the sand, Alex remembered taking her mind to the beach with his words when she was ill, and now, here they were, at the place he believed kept her alive. He had reminded her to breathe, to take in the ocean air, and now he could finally do the same.

They all could.

   1   

“O
NE … TWO
… three … four …” Dakota said, breathing in slow, steady breaths, air crawling gently, obediently, through his mask.

“Five … six … seven … eight …” Riley continued.

Dakota remained calm, focused, as his eyes sent an unspoken message to his younger brother.

Keep counting
, they commanded, his smile, provoking and competitive. Eyes locked, a silent understanding between them, Dakota and Riley continued to count, a fight against the other’s will.

“Nine … ten … eleven …” Dakota continued.

They weren’t on the football field, or racing quads, or preying on the same seven-point deer in the woods. This wasn’t a game of baseball or basketball or “Underwear Olympics” that they played nightly with their father, Henry, in the hallways of their cozy, Cabot, Arkansas, home.

This time, Dakota and Riley were on the same team, fighting the same fight—but it was in their nature, their blood, to keep the competition alive, even during a transplant from one brother to the other.

“Twelve …” Riley nearly whispered into his mask, eyelids pushing down against his mental strength.

Keep counting
, he demanded silently. He couldn’t let his brother win.

Dakota had always been the kid in track and field who pulled ahead of the other runners and stayed that way past the finish line.
He was the star of every team—scoring the most goals, the highest points, the greatest touchdowns. He was a born athlete, a natural leader who was used to winning, addicted to victory.

Not today
, Riley thought, but his words were floating away, leaving him.

“C’mon boys, keep counting,” he heard from one of the doctors, whose voice, encouraging competition, became whispers, clouds in his mind.

Dakota’s face, his stark blue eyes that were once paired with hair as fiery as his spirit—hair now gone—remained still and just as strong as Riley faded into the darkness.

“Thirteen … fourteen …” Dakota continued, but once he knew Riley was completely under, he closed his eyes, sinking heavily beneath the wave of anesthesia flowing through his body, letting it carry him away.

Dakota and Riley lay side by side, in silent peace, as the process began—the process to save Dakota’s life.

   2   

A year and a half earlier, Dakota ran beneath the white glow of towering stadium lights, which pushed against cold, black air, lighting up the small, all-American, football-loving town of Cabot.

Bleachers surrounding the field rumbled beneath pounding feet, shook with excitement, as eleven-year-old Dakota and his team, the Green Bay Packers, took on the undefeated Dallas Cowboys in the last game of the peewee championship.

A cool, November breeze carried the scent of fresh-cut grass and powdery chalk into the stands, where dozens of familiar faces screamed and cheered for their boys, who, for that one night, were NFL players in the Super Bowl.

Dakota was on fire. His cleats tore into the earth, heart pounding with every step, as he made every pass, every tackle, every play with perfection.

He had grown up on the sidelines, mapping out plays in the dirt for Henry, loosening the hillsides playing one-on-one with Riley. He spent years studying his father’s coaching technique, memorizing tactic, internalizing strategy, until Henry, who had played football for Arkansas Tech University and was an assistant coach for the Cabot High School football team for the past fourteen years, determined he was old enough to play.

The night of the last championship game, Dakota was unstoppable. He scored two touchdowns before the ball, leather spinning in a perfect spiral, landed in his arms at the twenty-yard line. He looked up from under his helmet, eyes of a cat before pouncing, and ran with the breeze down the length of the field, zigzagging, dodging, sprinting, until he was safe in the end zone.

He smashed the ball hard onto the ground, letting it fly, while his teammates stormed and the crowd went wild. They had won the game and the championship. At the end of the night, Dakota and his fellow Green Bay Packers smacked high fives into the crisp air and wrapped their arms around their hard-earned trophy.

“You played your heart out, buddy,” Henry said, hugging his son after the game. “Three touchdowns!”

“Yeah, that was an awesome game!” Dakota shouted, and Henry reached for Dakota’s forehead to find it warm, clammy.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Fine, Dad,” Dakota said.

“Are you sure?” Henry asked, concerned.

It was hard to say whether the fire beneath his hand was fever or the game’s intensity. He let it fall from his son’s face, remembering the strep throat diagnosis Dakota’s doctor had given the week before.

Antibiotics she prescribed were not working, and Dakota’s fever was persistent. Until the big game, his body had been weak, lethargic, but that night, Henry and Sharon, Dakota and Riley’s mom, saw the first sign of energy, the real Dakota, that they had seen in several days. They saw his face crease with determination as he sprinted down the field, his spirit as strong as ever.

During the weeks following the game, Dakota’s walk gradually became slower, his skin whiter. Sharon tried to keep things as normal as possible for her boys as Christmas approached—a smile on her face, traditions alive—but her insides ached with every forced smile, every attempt at normalcy.

Why are the antibiotics not working? Why is he so weak?
she questioned, the thoughts heavy on her mind, the answers unknown.

They baked cookies together and delivered them to retirement homes as they had every year, watched the town’s annual Christmas parade, attended their church’s cantata, and participated in their schools’ holiday programs. They put up their Christmas tree, hung ornaments, decorated their home, enjoyed the peace of freshly fallen snow, and counted the days until Santa arrived—but rather than a jolly heart, Sharon’s was heavy.

Her mother’s intuition, an internal knowing, grabbed at her stomach, made her ache with worry.

His bruises are probably from playing football
, Sharon told herself as she stayed up late at night researching the symptoms her son had shown for weeks, but she couldn’t convince even herself. The symptoms were too close, too familiar.

She read: “Leukemia—headaches, lethargy, bruising
.”

A few hours after Christmas Eve dinner, Sharon stood in the kitchen with her older sister, Regina.

“Oh, my goodness, what will I do if my Dakota has leukemia?” she sobbed into her sister’s arms.

The rest of their family was on the other side of the kitchen doors, laughing, celebrating, opening gifts, while Sharon remained in Regina’s embrace, their tears flowing together, dripping down linked arms.

“Oh, Sharon,” Regina managed. “I’m so sorry, I just don’t know what to say.”

She didn’t want to give Sharon false assurance with “It’s going to be okay” or “I know everything will be just fine” because, the truth was, she didn’t know. Instead, Regina hugged her tightly, feeling her sister’s pain deep within her own gut—a feeling of absolute desperation.

“I just don’t know what to say,” she cried, almost whispered, into her little sister’s ear.

   3   

The next night, at their church’s Christmas program, Dakota’s pediatrician, Dr. Ruth Ann Blair, stood beside Sharon in the choir loft, getting ready to sing their first song. Dakota walked down the aisle, toward the front of the church where he always sat, and as he took his seat, Sharon leaned over and whispered to Dr. Blair, “Does Dakota look pale to you?”

Friends and family agreed that, over the past few weeks, his skin had turned the color of gray sheep’s wool, but when Dr. Blair’s eyes studied him from a distance, squinting with concentration and then with concern, Sharon had her answer. That dark answer, lurking behind every thought, creeping through every part of her mind, was stepping into the light, standing directly before her.

“Yes, he looks pale to me,” Dr. Blair confirmed gently. She had diagnosed him just a few weeks before with strep throat and could
see that the antibiotics were not working. “Have him come see me after Christmas.”

The music started, the soft, sweet sound of praise and rejoice. Sharon stared at her songbook and then blankly into the eyes of the congregation, and she knew hers were empty and deeply sad.