Part 2
Carey was awake and scowling when Eve returned to his room. “The Braves lost again,” he said, pointing the remote control at the television mounted in a corner. “And I missed all of it...again!”
Eve dug her netbook from her overnight bag and handed it to him. “I knew you'd be upset if you had to miss another game, so I subscribed to that MLB site so you can watch them whenever you want. Go on. It's bookmarked.”
Carey cradled the device on his lap and stared at her. She walked over to the window and peeked out of the blinds, knowing what was coming.
“I'm sorry, Sis. I thought last time was...well, the last time.”
“It's not your fault,” she told him, just like last time. “You know that. I know that. Mom and Dad know that. It's not your fault the cancer keeps coming back. I just hope that this time is the last time.”
He grinned at her. “I got to keep my pitching arm, at least.”
She returned his smile. “Yeah, too bad I can't punch you in it for scaring the crap out of all of us again.”
He stuck his tongue out at her, looking more like a twelve year old than his twenty five years. And Eve relaxed. Carey's disposition was what pushed him to recover from his relapses and surgeries. Always so positive and kid-like. With his blond curls falling over his forehead and the same blue eyes that Eve inherited, he would never lack for female companionship...if they stuck around long enough. Most girls his age didn't want to be burdened with a man with cancer.
Hell, most women as old as me wouldn't either, she thought. Not that thirty-three was old. But after going through one horrible engagement, the last thing on Eve's mind was companionship of the opposite sex.
The sounds of a baseball game emitted from the small netbook and Carey's cheering and grousing merged with the noise. Glad that he was happy and enjoying his game, she left him again to walk the hallways.
Chondrosarcoma. The ugliest word on the planet. By all statistics, Carey shouldn't even have the disease. Less than one percent of cancer patients. And after all these years, it keeps coming back. When the first five-year recession mark passed, her whole family seemed to exhale together. But six months after that... Now Carey was recovering from his fourth surgery, and the radiation therapy wasn't going as well as planned.
Her life was turbulent enough without spending her free time by her brother’s side. Managing a bar and grill in the downtown area gave her the flexibility to set her own work schedule, but lately she seemed to be either there or here, and nowhere in between.
Going home at night was lonely. With her long time good friend and roommate, Emma, moving in with the man of her dreams, Eve was without the friendly support she needed.
Damn, she was so tired. Her heels dragged the linoleum floor as she paced the length of the corridor and back again. Eating was a chore. She couldn’t stomach more than a container of yogurt or a banana without feeling sick to her stomach from worry and exhaustion. And sleep…
Ha! Sleep was a joke. Running on three hours of rest everyday, she knew she needed a break, but who else could stay with Carey in the evenings? Eve’s brother would never admit that he enjoyed the company, but he did. He was scared. Terrified beyond rational thought, hiding it behind his jovial smiles and baseball games.
Groaning because she didn’t want to go back to the room and face Dr. Wrinkled and Scruffy, and she didn’t want to ignore her brother’s needs, she headed in that direction slowly and grudgingly. Carey and his new doctor, perched on the side of the hospital bed, watched the Braves battle it out diamond-style, cheering and high-fiving at a home run.
Eve went to her chair and slumped into it. She took a moment to study Clint LeBoeuf. Dark blond hair that fell over his eyes and stuck up in odd directions complimented his toned, tanned skin, and his dancing brown eyes were the objects of fantasies. But he had not changed, only added a starch white lab coat and one of those stethoscope thingies that hung loosely around his neck.
He still didn’t look like a doctor. Doctors were supposed to be middle-aged, and on the brink of a mental break-down. Eve wondered where he attained his degree. Central America? Or, listening to his Cajun accent, most likely the bowels of Louisiana – which wasn’t much of an improvement.
Carey’s doctor should be a summa cum laude from Harvard or John Hopkins. Not Swamp Monster Community College, or the University of I-Don’t-Own-A-Clothes-Iron.
She sighed, drawing the glances of both men. Dr. LeBoeuf cleared his throat and stood up. “Well, Mr. Sanborn—“
“It’s Carey,” her brother inserted. “We’ll be seeing a lot of each other. No need to be formal about it.”
Which was Eve’s case in point. Dr. LeBoeuf was anything but formal.
“Alright, Carey,” the doctor said, smiling at Eve. She kept her face controlled. “You’re scheduled for another blood test tomorrow morning, and then we’ll up the treatments and figure out why your body isn’t responding the way they should.”
“Great. More radiation,” Carey complained, snapping the netbook closed. “I think I’d rather just loose the arm.”
“That’s an option,” Dr. LeBoeuf stated. “One that you’ve been against since your relapse.”
Carey closed his mouth with a petulant frown. Eve said, “Dr. Rudy said that wasn’t necessary. Carey needs his arm. He coaches baseball. Without it…”
Those brown eyes connected with her blue ones. “Still, we must look at all our options. The surgery removed as much as was possible, but without detaching the arm from the shoulder, we can’t be certain that all the cancer will be eliminated with only the radiation.”
“The radiation makes him sick,” she argued. “Surely there is a compromise here.”
Dr. LeBoeuf smiled that slow smile again. Eve’s demented heart fluttered. “Don’t call me Shirley,” he joked. A joke! Her brother was on his deathbed – or could be – and the snarky doctor was making jokes!
“Do the tests and the stronger treatments,” Carey piped up in a strong voice. Eve blinked at him. “Then we’ll look at my arm.”
Dr. LeBoeuf nodded, marked a note on the chart, and left. Eve stared at her brother. “Carey, think about this…”
“I trust him,” Carey said, cutting her off.
“Who? The man that earned his degree from a cracker jack box? You can’t be serious.”
Carey held up her netbook. “Go home, sis. You’re tired, and cranky, and you look like hell. I’ll be fine.”
“I do not look like hell,” she protested loudly. “It’s him that looks like hell! You’re being childish about this.”
Carey waved the black device at her, not saying any more. If she weren’t staring at him, she’d never believed that her baby brother just told her to go home and take care of herself. Eve was the caregiver in this family. Eve, who’d sat up at nights – night after night after night – worrying herself to death, spooning chicken broth into Carey’s mouth when he was too sick to raise his head, reading the sports pages to him when he was too tired to open his eyelids.
Carey never told Eve what to do. Carey never complained about her being too motherly. Carey never grew up enough to force his will.
“Fine,” she huffed. “But I’m calling Mom and Dad and letting them know that you kicked me out.”
“Now, who’s acting like a child,” he said with a small smile.
Angry at him, angry at herself, and royally pissed off at Dr. Clint LeBoeuf, she snatched her things and stomped out of the room.