The Pull of Destiny (12 page)

“So I guess you
have to forgive me now,” he said, a cheerful smile on his face.
Or not.
“Coz
if I die tomorrow- or even tonight- you’re going to feel like a jerk. Hey, I
might even haunt you!”

“You’re not
going to die,” I said automatically, pursing my lips up at him.

“You don’t need
to sugar coat it for me, CiCi; I’m resigned to my fate.” Carefully taking the
papers from me (and making sure not to touch my hand again) he walked back to
his bed, whistling snatches of the song ‘Just Dance’.
Please don’t burst
into song again.
“So- we cool? You gonna accept my apology?” he asked me
over his shoulder.

What would you
have done?

“Okay,” I
sighed, following him. I needed to sit down for a moment. “Apology accepted.
But only because you’re sick. I just want you to get a good night’s sleep.”

He squinted at
me, grinning. “You’re saying you wouldn’t have forgiven me if I hadn’t been sick?”

I nodded, even
though I was lying. If he kept up the adorable sideway glances, I would have
forgiven him for anything and everything. But he didn’t need to know that.

Luke shrugged.
“Works for me.” He sat down right next to me and I took a deep breath. He smelt
divine.
Cologne, aftershave and Irish Spring on Luke Astor. Deadly weapon
right there.

“How’re you
holding up with the news?” I asked slowly. If it had been me, I would have been
crying my eyes out at the chapel. Although he looked pale, Luke was definitely
in fine spirits. Or maybe he was faking.

My heart went
out to him as he bit his lip, turned to me and said in a low voice, “I’ve never
been more scared in my life.”

Faking.

I didn’t know
what to say to that, even though I racked my brain. The sad look on his face-
it just pierced me right to the core. Everyone tells me I’m too softhearted.
Maybe that’s the reason I felt like crying as I looked at him, running his hand
through his hair. This was Luke Astor like I had never seen him before.

“Did they offer
you therapy?” I finally asked, remembering that when the illness was serious,
the hospital usually referred the patients to a therapy group session. It
helped boundless people. Maybe it would help Luke too.

“Yeah, I’m not
big on therapy,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “I’m not going.”

I blinked.
“Why? They would help you deal with it! I’m sure it would be good for you,” I
told him. He gazed at me, an unreadable expression in his eyes.

“It’s a
personal reason,” he said.

In other
words, butt out, Nancy Drew.

My cue to
leave. “Um, I ought to be going,” I said, hesitantly getting up from the bed
and moving towards the door.

 I braced
myself for another bout of singing, but Luke just gave me a lopsided smile and
wave. “Great. Thanks, by the way.”

For what?
What?

“No problem,” I
said ungracefully. And then the softhearted side of me kicked in and just
ruined everything. “Um, if you ever, you know, need a shoulder to cry-,” I
started, stumbling through my ‘I’ll be there for you’ speech. But maybe he
didn’t want me to be there for him!
And what in God’s name am I doing,
offering him a shoulder to cry on?

“A shoulder to
cry on?” Luke asked incredulously, chuckling as he stared at me.

I ran a hand
through my hair nervously.  “I mean- anyone to talk to- about anything- my aunt
says I’m a good listener and-.” Luke laughed harder as I decided to cut my
losses and get the hell out before I embarrassed myself further.
Like that’s
even possible.
“I’ll see you around,” I blurted and scurried out of the room,
Luke’s laughter ringing in my ears as I power walked down the hallway to the
daycare.

Why am I so
awkward around guys? No, scratch that. Why am I so awkward around Luke Astor?

Luke’s Point
of View

“Mr. Astor,
perhaps
you
can tell us what the answer is?”

Mr. Floyd’s
voice jolted me out of a deep doze and I groggily raised my head from my desk,
blinking blearily and trying not to yawn.

I felt like
crap. How the hell was I going to get through two months of this?

Mr. Floyd
pointed to an equation on the board, his face set in grim lines. He reminded me
of my dad so much I bit the inside of my cheek to keep myself from bursting out
laughing. I wasn’t scared that I would be looked at funny for just randomly
laughing like an idiot; I simply didn’t want my head to hurt more than it did.

Rubbing my eyes
with the heel of my palm, I tried to focus.

“Well? We’re
all waiting for your informed answer,” Mr. Floyd said, his voice dripping with
sarcasm.

People twisted
in their seats to stare at me and witness Luke Astor’s public humiliation at
the hands of his much loathed Math teacher. The old me would have cracked a
dumb joke, made everyone laugh and admitted that I had no idea what the answer
was. The new me felt so slow, so totally out of it that it was all I could do
to stop myself from going back to sleep

“Uh-,” I
started, scratching my chin and trying to look like I was really thinking. The
pretense didn’t work. Wendy, who was sitting in front of me, tittered behind
her hand while Ahmed turned his laugh into a cough. With friends like these...

Mr. Floyd
scowled at me, acting like I was the first person who couldn’t answer his
notoriously difficult equations.

“I thought
not,” he muttered loudly. He looked directly at me, catching me right in the
middle of another yawn. “I realize that trigonometry isn’t very interesting,
but try not to fall asleep again. You of all people need a pass in this class.”

Even though it
was true, it was still a low blow. People chuckled at my expense and turned to
face Mr. Floyd as he resumed teaching.

I leaned back
in my chair, stretching lazily as I tried to ignore what seemed like
sledgehammers at work in my head. Doctor Khan had prescribed Tylenol for my
headaches. I was still waiting for the three I took in the morning to kick in,
but so far, no dice. I wondered what would get me first, the rupture or an
overdose of pain meds. Probably the last option.

As Mr. Floyd
droned on and on (I’ve never met a guy that likes the sound of his own voice
more) I propped my head up using my hand and tried to look like I was paying
attention but my thoughts were elsewhere.

Thanks to dad,
I got less than five hours sleep last night and it was showing. About half an
hour after my encounter with CiCi (who I thought was really weird, but her
awkwardness made me laugh till I had to wipe the tears from my eyes) dad came
to pick me up at the hospital, grumbling as usual about missed appointments and
the like. Doctor Khan was on hand to give him the news. He was impassive as the
doctor explained my situation to him, as well as telling him some things he
hadn’t told me (Lucas needs to come in for a checkup every week, we’ll discuss
surgery options next week, we’ll do the best we can regarding treatment) and I
wouldn’t have expected anything else from him. I mean, this is the same guy who
said my headaches were ‘nothing but your imagination. Now, man up!’

So I was kinda
surprised to hear him bark “We’re getting a second opinion,” when Doctor Khan
was done explaining.

Doctor Khan
blinked but managed to keep a smile on his face. “Of course, that’s your right,
Mr. Astor. But I’m sure you are aware that our facilities and technology is top
notch. Rest assured, our findings are correct. Your son has an aneurysm.”

Dad nodded
brusquely, finally resorting to rudely talking over Doctor Khan as he tried to
tell him that it didn’t matter how many doctors and hospitals dad took me to,
the prognosis would still be the same.

I was
embarrassed enough for all of us and I folded my gown neatly and handed it to
the pretty nurse, just to give me something to do. I was exhausted but dad was
arguing with a doctor? Even for him, that was stupid.

“I understand
that he’s got an aneurysm, but what I don’t get is why you won’t operate
immediately,” dad blustered, sticking his hands in the pockets of his tailored
trousers and looking down at Doctor Khan.

Taking a deep
breath, I stood up and walked to the bathroom. This was going to take forever.

When I went
back into the room, dad and the doctor were glowering at each other. I didn’t
want to think about the rude things dad had to have said to Doctor Khan, whose
only fault had been finding the abnormality in my brain. Not that dad was
worried about that, oh no. He was probably just pissed because Doctor Khan had
tried to give him advice. Lucas George Astor Senior hated being given advice.
Even his own advisors knew not to ever open their mouths when he was around.

I stared warily
at the two of them as I walked to the bed and sat down. Dad did not look happy,
but I didn’t care. All I wanted to do was go home, play with my little sister
for a while, take a shower and sleep for 10 hours straight. I felt I deserved
that much.

Doctor Khan
moved closer to me, his hand extended.

“Lucas, I’m
sorry I didn’t have better news for you,” he said, sincerity etched in his
face. “But I’m glad we caught the aneurysm before it ruptured and I’m hopeful
that the surgery will be a success. Please rest assured that we’ll do
everything in our power to get you through this.”

“With the money
I’m paying you, you’d better,” dad growled behind him.

I got to my
feet, blinking away the double vision as I shook the doctor’s hand.

“Thanks,
Doctor,” I said, trying to offset dad’s rudeness. Doctor Khan pumped my hand
vigorously, than gave me an imploring look.

“Now, I realize
I already broached this subject, but I feel obliged to press you with regards
to counseling.” I bit back a groan. Not this again. “Not only does it help you
get ready for surgery, it is also beneficial in you healing process after
surgery.”

I nodded again.
“I understand that, but I’m cool,” I said patiently, running a hand through my
hair. “I don’t want counseling. I’ll deal with this my own way.”

Dad looked up
at me, a frown on his face. Eavesdropper. “What counseling?” he asked shortly.
Doctor Khan turned to him.

“We offer
counseling to help patients understand the ramifications of the illness and how
serious it is. It’s useful for patients to have some idea of how they’ll get
through the aftermath of surgery. Perhaps you can talk to Lucas about
rethinking his stance on it,” he explained.

Dad nodded, a
grim look on his face. “Perhaps I will.”

Oblivious to
the rising tension in the room, Doctor Khan beamed at me again, almost as
though he hadn’t just given me life threatening news. “Lucas, I’ll see you in a
week for a checkup and we’ll discuss surgery options.” I nodded and he turned
to dad. “Mr. Astor.”

They shook
hands and Doctor Khan left, his nurse in tow. Almost immediately, dad turned on
me and I braced myself for a fight.

“What’s this
about you refusing counseling?” he asked, his hands clenched.

As if he
actually gave a damn.

Practically
swaying on my feet from drowsiness and pain, I gave him a level look and said
“Dad. I’m exhausted and I just found out that I have some kind of tumor in my
brain, so can you please hold the lecture till we get home?” I shrugged. “I
just can’t listen to you right now.”

Kick ass!
Aneurysm immunity. If it had been any other day, dad would have laid into me
for ‘back talking’ him, but today he just glared thoughtfully at me, nodded and
growled, “Let’s go.”

I honestly
thought we were going home when we got into the car, but to my annoyance, dad
told his chauffer to “Drive to NYU Medical Centre.”

I groaned as
the limo drove off. I seriously wasn’t in the mood to get poked and prodded by
another doctor right now.

“Why are we
going to NYU Medical Centre?” I asked, leaning back till my head was touching
the headrest and closing my eyes.

“Getting you a
second opinion,” dad said, as though I ought to have guessed that was his
intention.

“I’m sure that
can wait,” I mumbled.

“No, it can’t,”
dad replied and I opened one eye.
Did
he care? I had to find out.

“You know, I’m
surprised you care so much about me to get a second opinion,” I said to him.

He snorted,
giving me a derisive look and said, “You’re my heir plus I want you to live
long enough so that I can watch you screw up the family fortune.”

He gave an evil
laugh and I shook my head in disbelief. Even my own dad thought I was a
screw-up. Then again, our relationship had been frosty ever since he divorced
my mom back when I was a kid, so that was nothing new.

We spent about
two hours at NYU Medical Centre, with the doctors who pored over my scans and
reports finally proclaiming them flawless and on point. You’d think dad would
give it a rest, but that wasn’t the case. I felt sicker and more tired than
ever when we left the hospital, but instead of listening to my complaints, dad
just told me to man up and instructed his chauffer to drive us to La Guardia.
Apparently he’d chartered a jet (at 8 grand a pop) and we were making the trip
to John Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore.