Dana's Valley (13 page)

Daddy had asked each of us to pray for Dana whenever we thought of it through the next days, and I noticed that he and Mom spent extra time in the evenings together with their door shut. I imagined that Mom also used a great deal of the school hours praying. I thought back, but I couldn't remember all of us praying so intensely for anything before. Even the new house and the decision about buying the land. It made the knot in my stomach grow tighter, and I worried that my prayers were too vague.

I wasn't sure what you were supposed to pray in a situation like this. Did you
demand,
like the television preacher said, showing God how much faith you had? Or did you let God choose His own answer, trusting in “His good will,” like our pastor had suggested? I didn't really know much about either. So I stuck with what I had always prayed. “God, bless Dana. Please make her better soon.” It sounded young and a little silly under the circumstances, but I guessed that I wasn't really a “righteous man” anyway, so my prayers probably wouldn't “avail much.” I was glad so many other people were praying too, people who were more qualified than I was to ask God for something so important.

On the day the visit with the new doctor occurred, we expected to return home from school to a full report. But Mom still looked distracted and jumpy as she welcomed us to the kitchen for our after-school snack. I knew without asking that she wasn't content with the results. Though she wasn't offering any information to us. When Dad finally arrived home, they sequestered themselves in his office, speaking in low voices for some time. I learned nothing by watching Dana's eyes across the table as we laid out the plates, and I decided not to press her for information.

We gathered for supper in near silence. I studied Dad's face and then watched Mom. It seemed that they might be ready to make some type of announcement. Corey cheerfully prayed to bless the meal, and then we began passing serving dishes around.

Dad cleared his throat. “We need to tell you what Dr. Britrich suspects is the cause of Dana's problems. I'm afraid it sounds rather serious.”

I watched Brett's eyes dart across to Dana. Corey seemed somewhat oblivious, but Grandma had begun to tear already. I swallowed hard and turned back toward Daddy.

“There are still more tests to be done, but Dr. Britrich suspects that Dana has something called lupus. It's a disorder that affects the immune system—not altogether uncommon in teenage girls. That means her body has trouble fighting disease. Which could explain why Dana has had so many colds and fevers—and even the rash earlier this summer. It also explains the fatigue and muscle aches.”

“Is it … serious?” My voice trembled.

“It
can
be. The doctor says she thinks this is a fairly mild case.”

Dana refused to look up at any of us as we discussed her. Her fork stabbed restlessly at her mashed potatoes, but she wasn't eating.

“What're they gonna do?” Brett's hand was clenched by his plate as he asked the question, the way it had been when Daddy announced Grandpa had died. It made me even more frightened.

“There are a number of medications we can try. They treat the symptoms.”

“What do they do to
cure
her?” Grandma's voice squeaked at the end of her question.

For a moment Daddy was quiet. “There isn't a cure yet for lupus. I'm afraid it's something that Dana will contend with throughout her life—if the diagnosis is accurate. As I said, there are still more tests to be done.”

Silence fell over us as we attempted to take it all in. I wanted to reach out to Dana. To promise her that it would be all right. But not even Daddy could tell her that anymore. I choked a little and let my eyes drop to my lap. Tears had already begun to roll down my cheeks. There wasn't much more that anyone could say. Our meal proceeded in near silence.

After supper Dana retreated quickly to our bedroom. I followed after a moment or two, anxious to see if there was any way I could comfort her. The door was closed, so I knocked softly and whispered, “It's me.”

“Okay. Come in.”

Dana was stretched out across her bed, but she wasn't crying. Her fingers plucked carelessly at a loose string on the comforter and her eyes looked hollow.

I approached her cautiously. “Are you okay?”

“No.”

I lowered myself onto the bed beside her and waited for her to speak again. Many minutes passed before she was ready.

“It's not fair,” she finally whispered. “I thought I was—I don't know—a
good
person. At least, I thought I was healthy and
normal.
And instead I've got this terrible disease, and my body wants to quit fighting and just die. So I'm going to have to take all this medication to
make
my body go on living. It's not fair, Erin. It's not fair. I had plans!” At last her tears began to flow. The little bed quivered with our sobs.

“It's not fair,” I choked out. “It's just not fair.”

In the morning, when Dana and I rose, we didn't speak about her illness. We hardly spoke at all. But its presence colored everything, no matter how hard we tried to ignore it. The awful diagnosis traveled with us on the school bus. It was evident in her eyes when we passed each other in the hallway. It was still hanging thick as we traveled home again. I hated this lupus. I hated the darkness it draped across our home. I hated the lifelessness it had inflicted on my sister. And I determined in my heart to hate it forever.

This new loathing stayed with me, even though our family life did proceed with some normalcy. It's not that anyone hated it any less. I saw it in Brett's cold stares whenever it was mentioned. I saw it in the glassy, tearful expression that Mom wore so often and in Dad's tired, pinched face. Even worse, we were each powerless to make it go away. And we were given no choice but to go on as if there had been no diagnosis or dreadful disease. There was still school and church and chores and even play. But each conversation about a doctor's visit or a slight rise in Dana's temperature brought the ugly specter back. And the growing row of pill bottles along the windowsill above our kitchen sink was a constant reminder that we were never to be completely free of it again.

I missed Marcy. I still hadn't found anyone in our new school to replace her as a best friend. Not that I really tried. I guess I was waiting for them to invite me into one of the little circles. They didn't. So I just hung back, pretending I didn't care. My grades were the best they had ever been, but that was small consolation. I felt dreadfully alone, and it made it hard at times.

Tryouts for basketball were set to take place before Thanksgiving break. Brett had spent many hours practicing at Travis's house in anticipation. I, however, had no place to practice. We still didn't have the promised concrete pad and hoop at the new house. The possibility that I'd make the team without any practice at all was quite remote, but Brett patted me on the back and tried to be encouraging.

The gymnasium was crowded and noisy when we walked in together. It was easy to see that they'd already divided off the girls from the boys, but kids were still milling around waiting for the tryouts to start. Brett crossed to the far side of the gym and did some warm-up dribbling. His ball-handling ability was what had set him apart on his last team. I think it helped him calm down to show off a little.

I had no such skill to display. So I took a seat along the bleachers until I was called upon. The tryouts were rigorous. First we did several running drills backward, forward, and sideways. Then we split into groups of five and were given basketballs for the dribbling exercises. I could feel my nerves tense as I waited for my turn. Then Brett caught my eye and grinned at me from across the room. It made me feel much better.

The results were not to be posted until the next weekend. I left the gym feeling very little hope, and Brett left certain that he'd have no trouble making his team. He had sized up the competition and remained confident. They were all taller than he, one of them by almost a foot, but he was quick.

For Brett, there were now two sports to pursue. On the one hand, basketball had long been his passion. On the other, he'd discovered a natural ability in skateboarding. As often as he could, he borrowed the car for a trip to the skateboarding park to improve on the various tricks he'd learned. Mom had gone to watch him once and I think had determined that she'd better not do so again. It was breathtaking.

On the Saturday morning when the fall basketball lineups were to be posted, Dad drove Brett and me over to our school. We searched around a little until we found the designated bulletin board in an entryway and discovered the postings that we wanted. Brett's eyes were quicker than mine. He realized first what had happened.

“You made it.” His voice was flat.

“No way!” But then my eyes fell on the boys' roster. Brett's name did not appear. He hadn't even been placed on the junior varsity team. “Oh, Brett, I'm sorry.”

“It's okay,” he muttered and turned for the car.

Dad carried what conversation there was on the way home. Brett had little to say, and I was at a loss for words. We had all expected that he'd make the team.

As we climbed from the car I had finally figured out what I wanted to say. “Brett?”

He faced me reluctantly.

“Thanks. I could never have made my team without you.” There was a sympathetic look in my eye that must have told him how sincerely I meant the words.

“It's okay.”

I knew he meant that
he'd
be okay. And I was glad. But I wondered what he would do to fill the place in his life that basketball had always held. I couldn't imagine that he'd be able to stay home with Mom, Dana, and Grandma when he'd always been so involved in sports activity.

I was surprised when Brett announced his solution to the extra amount of free time. Without basketball practice to tie him down, and with mounting expenses for we weren't sure what, he made a declaration that he “needed” a job.

Mom and Dad discussed it one evening in the living room while the rest of us were getting ready for bed. From the pieces of conversation I managed to hear, the only obstacle that could not be overcome in their discussion turned out to be the third vehicle. And for that, even Brett didn't have a ready solution. Mom encouraged him to pray about it, and then we waited, hoping we'd stumble upon an answer.

As it turned out, the answer drove up our driveway in the form of Grandma's old yellow sedan. She had finally made arrangements for someone to deliver the car to her but really had no intention of using it. From things she said I gathered that she supposed it would be best to have Dad sell it. Brett's eyes lit up immediately when he saw it pull in. True, it wasn't exactly what he'd pictured his first car to be, but it had one exceptional quality. It was available.

Without too much persuasion, Grandma said Brett could drive it, so long as he agreed to take her where she needed to go when he could. Brett was beside himself, anticipating the reaction of his school friends when he showed up with a car of his own—sort of. Now all he had to do was find a job, and he'd be living in a style that was the envy of his peers. Basketball had almost been forgotten. And his trips to visit the new skateboarding buddies became regular events.

When basketball season started, things changed for me. It didn't take long to get to know the girls on the team. Once they discovered that I could play fairly well, they welcomed me. Anything to be a winning team, I guess.

Anyway, as time went on and we spent hours in practice, I lost my shyness and they lost their reserve, and I soon felt that I was actually among friends. One girl in particular seemed open to friendship. She lived down the road from us, and her mom or dad, or sometimes an older brother, was quite willing to pop by and pick me up or drop me off before or after practice. It sure made it easier for my folks.

She wasn't a church girl, but she was really nice. And she didn't replace Marcy, but I was really thankful for her friendship. Her name was Belinda Marsden, but on the team we called her Bull. It didn't really fit, because she was the smallest girl on the team. But we all had rather silly nicknames. I think it had something to do with team spirit. Anyway, Coach encouraged it. The tougher the name, the better he seemed to like it. On the court I was known as Squ-walsh. The girls drawled it as if it were about three syllables. It was a little lame—but I'd never really had a nickname before, so I secretly enjoyed the feeling of camaraderie that it gave. I didn't share that with my folks. Only Dana knew, and she sometimes teased me with it when we were alone.

Dana had been on her medications for several weeks, and she still didn't have much energy. She looked pale and seemed to drag herself around. Often I felt she didn't bother to put out much effort at all. She was even losing interest in piano. And on more than one occasion she begged off a church activity. That meant I either had to go alone or stay home. I usually opted to go without her, though I sure didn't like that option. It didn't seem the same without Dana. We'd always done things together.