Dear John(85)

I didn’t hear any more than that for the next couple of minutes. Instead I stood in the hallway, absorbing the same sterile, impersonal surroundings I’d noticed while visiting with my father. The air reeked of a nameless disinfectant, and I watched as an orderly wheeled a cart of food into a room down the hall. Halfway up the corridor, I saw a group of nurses clustered in the station. Behind the door across the hallway, I could hear someone retching.

“Okay,” Savannah said, poking her head out. Beneath her brave appearance, I could still see her sadness. “You can come in. He’s ready for you.”

I followed her in, bracing myself for the worst. Tim sat propped up in the bed with an IV connected to his arm. He looked exhausted, and his skin was so pale that it was almost translucent. He’d lost even more weight than my father had, and as I stared at him, all I could think was that he was dying. Only the kindness in his eyes was unaffected. On the other side of the room was a young man—late teens or early twenties, maybe—rolling his head from side to side, and I knew immediately it was Alan. The room was crowded with flowers: dozens of bouquets and greeting cards stacked on every available tabletop and ledge. Savannah sat on the bed beside her husband and reached for his hand.

“Hey, Tim,” I said.

He looked too tired to smile, but he managed. “Hey, John. Good to see you again.”

“You too,” I said. “How are you?”

As soon as I said it, I knew how ridiculous it sounded. Tim must have been used to it, for he didn’t flinch.

“I’m okay,” he said. “I’m feeling better now.”

I nodded. Alan continued to roll his head, and I found myself watching him, feeling like an intruder in events I wished I could have avoided.

“This is my brother, Alan,” he said.

“Hi, Alan.”

When Alan didn’t respond, I heard Tim whisper to him, “Hey, Alan? It’s okay. He’s not a doctor. He’s a friend. Go say hello.”

It took a few seconds, but Alan finally rose from his seat. He walked stiffly across the room, and though he wouldn’t meet my eyes, he extended his hand. “Hi, I’m Alan,” he said in a surprisingly deep monotone.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, taking his hand. It was limp; he pumped once, then let go and went back to his seat.

“There’s a chair if you’d like to sit,” Tim said.

I wandered farther into the room and took a seat. Before I could even ask, I heard Tim already answering the question on my mind.

“Melanoma,” he said. “In case you’re wondering.”

“But you’ll be okay, right?”

Alan’s head rolled even faster, and he began to slap his thighs. Savannah turned away. I already knew I shouldn’t have asked.

“That’s what the doctors are for,” Tim replied. “I’m in good hands.” I knew the answer was more for Alan than me, and Alan began to calm down.

Tim closed his eyes, then opened them again, as if trying to concentrate his strength. “I’m glad to see you made it back in one piece,” he said. “I prayed for you the whole time you were in Iraq.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“What have you been up to? Still in the army, I guess.”

He nodded toward my crew cut, and I ran my hand over it. “Yeah. Seems like I’m becoming a lifer.”

“Good,” he said. “The army needs people like you.”

I said nothing. The scene struck me as surreal, like watching yourself in a dream. Tim turned to Savannah. “Sweetheart—would you walk with Alan and get him a soda? He hasn’t had anything to drink since earlier this morning. And if you can, maybe you can talk him into eating.”

“Sure,” she said. She kissed him on the forehead and rose from the bed. She stopped in the doorway. “Come on, Alan. Let’s get something to drink, okay?”

To me, it seemed as if Alan were slowly processing the words. Finally, he got up and followed Savannah; she placed a gentle hand on his back on the way out the door. When they were gone, Tim faced me again.

“This whole thing is really hard on Alan. He’s not taking it well.”

“How can he?”

“Don’t let the rolling of his head fool you, though. It’s got nothing to do with autism or his intelligence. It’s more like a tic he gets when he’s nervous. The same thing when he started slapping his thighs. He knows what’s going on, but it affects him in ways that usually make other people uncomfortable.”

I clasped my hands. “It didn’t make me uncomfortable,” I said. “My dad had his things, too. He’s your brother, and it’s obvious that he’s worried. It makes sense.”