CHAPTER THREE

      JED stared at the doctor’s lips, watching them move, hearing the words but having trouble processing them.

      Acute lymphoblastic leukaemia.

      The diagnosis sounded so much worse coming from the uptight medic in a too-tight white coat, the word ‘leukaemia’ reverberating around Jed’s head till he wanted to run from the room, find a secluded corner and curl up in a tight ball with his hands over his ears.

      He’d had a similar gut-wrenching reaction when the head juror had pronounced his father guilty, and later when the judge had sentenced him to ten years behind bars.

      ‘You sure about this?’

      He met the doctor’s disapproving gaze that read ‘how dare you question me?’ straight on, praying this was a mistake, that the doc would clear his throat, apologise and send them on their way with a prescription for antibiotics.

      However, he’d given up on prayers being answered around the time his dad had done his first stint in jail and he knew without a doubt that his current plea to God was just as futile.

      The doctor shook his head, his fingers toying with a fancy gold pen as he reinforced the news that sent a chill down his spine.

      ‘I’m sorry. We ran extensive tests and they were conclusive. Toby’s loss of appetite, fatigue, frequent nose bleeds and bruising had me concerned when Aimee first brought him in and I had a fair idea what we’d find.’

      ‘I see,’ Jed said, not seeing in the slightest, questioning the injustice of a world where the bad guys usually won and a helpless little boy had to cope with an illness like this.

      ‘What’s the treatment?’ To his credit, his voice remained steady while his insides roiled in one huge, anxious mess.

      The doctor continued to fiddle with his pen, rolling it over and over with his fingers, and he had the sudden urge to lean over and slam his hand on top of it.

      ‘There are several components to treatment,’ the doctor said, his cool detachment annoying him almost as much as his fiddling fingers. ‘Toby has a good prognosis as his white blood-cell count is less than thirty thousand, and with chemotherapy and radiation therapy his chances of remission are high.’

      Chemotherapy…radiation therapy…remission…

      The words echoed through his head, banging and crashing their way through the neurons and triggering a blinding headache that left him paralysed.

      Toby didn’t deserve this. Nobody deserved this. He’d seen the suffering on TV and in the newspapers, seen kids with pale faces, bald heads and brave smiles. His heart had gone out to them and now the son he’d only just discovered would go through the same torture all in the name of survival.

      ‘Of course, a bone-marrow transplant gives the best hope for not having a relapse.’

      ‘Is a transplant always necessary?’ Jed asked, bracing himself for the next bombshell this cruel man dropped. Though in all fairness, it wasn’t the doc’s fault. He was here to help them, and from now on they’d be placing a lot of faith in his skills. If only he’d stop tapping that damn pen on the file in front of him!

      ‘Not always. Some people are cured after just chemical intervention. However, it’s best to consider all possibilities.’ The doctor tilted his head forward and stared at him over the top of his steel-rimmed spectacles as if willing him to comprehend what he was telling him.

      Damn, this wasn’t fair. The diagnosis, the fact Aimee hadn’t told him about Toby before this, the chance to be a dad to Toby ripped from him before he could try, even if he sucked at it.

      In the midst of his self-pity, it struck him. Aimee had already gone through this, had heard the diagnosis, the treatment, the chances. Alone.

      She’d gone through this horrible experience by herself, and suddenly the guilt returned. Guilt at how he’d treated her, how he hadn’t been around, how he’d never known his son and might not have that chance now. He needed to get over it and move on, for all their sakes.

      ‘Tell Jed about the transplant,’ Aimee said, a hint of steel threaded through the softness of her voice, and his admiration for her skyrocketed.

      The doctor nodded. ‘An allogenic bone-marrow transplant usually comes from a sibling donor, from a relative or even a compatible stranger. We harvest the bone marrow, which is the liquid centre of bone, from the donor and the recipient gets it in an IV over one to five hours.’

      ‘IV? Oh.’ Jed winced, hoping his son didn’t have his phobia for needles. ‘What does the harvesting procedure involve?’

      Though he had a sneaking suspicion he knew. His high-school biology wasn’t that rusty and he remembered covering BMT—bone-marrow transplants—in an assignment.

      The doctor’s pen tapping increased as if he didn’t have time for such mundane questions and Jed briefly envisioned ramming that pen in a few places a pen shouldn’t be.

      ‘The donor is given an anaesthetic, a needle is inserted into the hip bone and the marrow drawn out. Harvesting the marrow takes about an hour and is more uncomfortable for the donor than the recipient.’

      ‘Great. About time you gave me some good news,’ Jed muttered, his sarcasm not lost on the doctor, who actually looked as if he might crack a smile for all of two seconds.

      ‘Anything else you’d like to ask?’ The doctor paused for a moment before rushing on, obviously none too keen on further questions. ‘If not, I’d like to have you tested as soon as possible.’

      ‘Just one more thing.’

      All this medical talk of various treatment methods was fine but what if none of it worked? What if the unthinkable happened? What if Toby died?

      The thought made Jed feel faint and he dropped his head forward, taking deep breaths till the spots before his eyes cleared.

      ‘Is he going to live?’

      Aimee’s sharp intake of breath reverberated around the room and she tried to smother it with a forced cough. As if the scenario the doctor had painted for them in plain, harsh language wasn’t bad enough, he’d had to force the issue, to hear the reassurance he desperately craved.

      He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment his mindset shifted but at some moment in time, as the doctor rambled on about treatment and prognosis, he’d suddenly realised that he wanted a chance with Toby. A chance at what he still hadn’t figured out, but he knew that just meeting the little guy wouldn’t be enough.

      He may not know how to be a father.

      He may not even want that kind of responsibility.

      But right now he knew he wanted to take a chance and see what kind of man he was, what kind of a dad he could be.

      And the realisation scared him to death.

      The doctor pursed