Unstoppable (21 page)

Chapter Eighty-Two

ON CHRISTMAS DAY, THE
J72 sat propped against the tree with a big red bow.

“I thought it was kind of twisted.” His mom stood with her arms folded across her robe.

“It was my idea,” Coach said.

Mrs. Godfrey directed a short nod at her son-in-law. “And I approved.”

“It's the best present I ever had.” Harrison raised the metal leg and caressed the long, smooth titanium shin and squeezed the rubber foot that looked much like his own.

“Should we open the other presents?” his mom asked. “Or do you want to put it on?”

“If he can, he should.” Mrs. Godfrey's eyes reflected the blinking lights on the tree.

“Major?” Harrison peered at the old soldier, who sat on the couch in a sweat suit after having run five miles before the sun even came up.

“‘When the will is ready, the feet are light.'” The major hopped up. “Let's get that thing on.”

It fit perfectly.

Harrison stood, beaming at the four adults. The major disappeared in the direction of the garage, where his apartment was, and returned quickly. He held out a black cane to Harrison, also with a red bow.

“The only present I ever gave that I hope you won't need.” The major smiled and scratched the stubble on the side of his face. “You'll need it at first, though. Ah . . . trust me, will you?”

Harrison did trust him, so he grabbed the cane and took a step.

“See? It's not as easy as it looks, but you'll be okay.”

“And I can play football with this?” Harrison asked.

“If you can play, it'll be with that,” the major said. “Yes.”

Harrison tried to move too fast, staggered, and nearly fell.

“I got you.” Coach caught him and they all laughed.

The days went quicker with the J72 because there was so much more for Harrison to learn and to do. The shin was a sleek-looking piston that had some give to it, allowing him to spring slightly when he moved. The joints were solid but streamlined; they moved without a click or a clack and slipped easily back and forth as if they were bathed in oil, even though he could touch them without leaving anything slick on his fingers.

The complexity of the J72 allowed Harrison to move with much more ease, and the focus became more about control than about generating the brute strength needed to swing the leg back and forth. Sometimes he forgot he even had cancer, he got so excited. That was impossible, though, when he had to go into the hospital later the next week for his second-to-last chemotherapy treatment.

He couldn't keep from hanging his head, even when he saw Marty's toothy grin and the bright expression on his pale face as he cranked himself upright in the bed.

“Look at. You.”
Marty gulped and the machine at his neck hummed.
“The bionic . . . man.”

Marty knew all about the J72 because he and Harrison were friends on Facebook. He tried to return the smile, but it fell flat. “I'm sorry, Marty. I hate this place.”

“That's how. You are. Supposed. To feel.”

“You're always looking at the bright side.” Harrison tossed his bag down on the dresser and sat on the edge of his bed.

“The second. To last. Treatment. Is the . . . hardest. The last. One is . . . easy.”

Harrison tilted his head. “Have you had your last?”

Marty nodded and grinned.
“Five. Of them.”

That was enough to make Harrison feel bad for moping, but Marty wasn't finished.

“My first. Last. Was when. I was . . . nine. That. Won't. Happen . . . to you.”

“You can't say that.” Harrison dropped his voice. “You don't know.”

“I . . .”
Marty's eyes blazed.
“Know.”

Harrison told Marty more about all the things he was able to do with the J72 and how hard the major was training him. “I'm going to play football again, Marty. They said it's possible.”

Marty stared at him and blinked.

“Are you okay?” Harrison asked.

“Will you. Do me. A. Favor?”

“Sure, Marty. What?”

Chapter Eighty-Three

MARTY WRIGGLED HIS BODY
and straightened up a little more. His face glistened with a thin sheen of sweat.
“When you. Play your. First game. Would you. Write my . . . Name. On your. Shoes?”

“Your name?”

Marty's big head wagged up and down.
“Sometimes. Players. Write things. On their. Shoes . . . That way. I will. Be. With you.”

“Well, you can come.” The possibility excited Harrison. “Why can't you just come to the game?”

Marty raised his arm and the plastic IV tube swung and jostled the bag above his bed so that it glinted with light from the window.

“But they always have an ambulance at the games.” Enthusiasm flooded Harrison's voice. “You could ride in back and have everything you need and—”

Marty held up a hand for him to stop, and a strange sound, something like laughter, pitched about in his throat. He shook his head.
“You are. A good. Dreamer. Harri. Son. I like. You . . . And. Maybe. You are. Right. Maybe. I will. Be there. With you.

“But . . . Will you . . . Promise?”

“To write your name on my shoes? Of course I will.”

“And you. Won't. Forget?”

Harrison scowled. “No. Of course I won't.”

Marty lay his head back and the bed hummed down. Harrison knew that was Marty's way of saying he needed to rest, so he didn't bother him about it.

The second-to-last treatment was awful. He got sick again. It wasn't as bad as the first time, but Dr. Kirshner shook his head and knit his eyebrows and explained to Harrison and his mom that things like that just happened sometimes and they couldn't explain it. Finally they found a medicine that gave his aching stomach some relief, but not before a fitful night of sweaty tossing and turning.

Just before Harrison left, Marty held out a black Sharpie pen and pressed the voice machine to his neck with the other hand.
“I think. You will. Be. Famous. When you. Play. Football. Again. They will. Ask you. On. TV. About. Your shoes. And I . . . Will be . . . Famous. Too.”

Marty held up a bony fist. Harrison bumped it with a fist of his own, and the two of them held a smiling gaze between them long enough for Harrison to notice the light reflecting off the glaze over Marty's big brown eyes. Harrison and his mom were in the hallway outside when he heard the voice buzzing from inside the room.

“Good-bye. Harr. Ison. My . . . Friend.”

Chapter Eighty-Four

HARRISON ASKED HIS MOM
to buy him a new pair of football cleats.

“The season is a long way away, Harrison.” His mom folded her arms across her chest. “What are you up to?”

“It's like an inspiration thing. You can use my lawn money. I just need you to buy them, please. White ones. Size 11.”

“I thought you're a 10.”

“I'll be 11 by next season.”

“You will, will you?”

“Yup.”

The way his mom sighed didn't allow for any surprise when she brought them home the next day. Harrison unwrapped the cleats, tossing the tissue paper aside and using the Sharpie to write “MARTY” in big, bold letters on the toes of both cleats. He set the cleats on the floor of his closet, facing out, so he'd see them every time he dressed.

The major only waited a few days for him to recover from the chemo before he started working Harrison twice a day again for several hours in the morning and again in the afternoon. With all the therapy, lifting, stretching, and walking, Harrison needed the time between workouts to have lunch and lie down to regain his strength. The major was tough on him. Every time Harrison tried to stop, the major would bark and get several more repetitions—or steps, or whatever he was doing—out of him.

Then one day the major clapped his hands and rubbed them together and flung open the garage door. “Today is the day.”

“What day?” Harrison blinked at the sunlight pouring in on him as he tied his sneaker tight.

“The day you start jogging.”

Harrison swallowed and looked out at the driveway. It suddenly seemed unending, but he stood and walked carefully toward the major, concentrating on his form and the rhythm of the J72.

“You got to swing it just a little harder, like the drills we do on the parallel bars. It's that same quick rhythm. That's why you've been doing those drills.” The major held Harrison's cane and used it to point at the J72.

Harrison nodded.

“You ready?”

“I wasn't even thinking about it, but I guess I'm ready.”

“You are.”

The major stood beside him and turned, slowly starting down the driveway. “I've found that the best way to do this is just do it. Come on.”

Harrison flung the prosthetic leg out in front of him and hopped gingerly with his good leg to catch up to it.

“Good. Again. Don't stop.”

He swung and caught up, swung and caught up. He was halfway down the driveway when he began to laugh.

“I'm doing it!”

“You are. Come on.”

The major turned up the street. Harrison followed. They got to the stop sign and the major stopped and hugged him tight.

“That's as good as I've ever seen.”

“Really?” Harrison's leg ached a bit, but he was flying high. “Can we run back?”

“No, no. We walk back.” The major handed him the cane. “This was a great start, but we need to go slow and careful. You have to promise me, Harrison. I'm pushing you like I'd push an Army Green Beret, but you can't push too hard. There are limits and I know what they are. If I say you can jog a block, that's it, you don't jog two. Your leg is still healing, and if you go past the point it can handle, you could do a lot of damage.

“Come on, use the right form. Use the cane, too. Here we go.”

They returned to the garage, and the weights and stretching and therapy seemed easy. Harrison was delighted and hungry to get back out and run again.

Within a week, Harrison was jogging around the block with the major, and it felt to him like they were flying, not jogging. It was a freedom he'd never experienced before, even carrying the football on a touchdown run.

“Major?” Harrison asked after a jog one day. “When do we cut?”

The major tilted his head. “Soon. I want this running thing ingrained in your mind and your body, too. Cutting is something entirely different and I don't want you working those muscles until the running is down cold. You're getting close, though. I can tell you that.”

“And then I'll be on my way to playing.” Harrison could barely catch his breath.

“Yes, you will.”

The thrill of it all filled Harrison's mind, day and night, and so when his mother walked into his room after dinner one evening, he looked up from some school math problems completely baffled by the anguish on her face.

Fear raced through his bloodstream and knotted his stomach.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

His mom's colorless face crumpled and she tried to cover it with one hand. “Oh, Harrison. I am so sorry.”

Somehow, he knew. He just knew, and tears welled in his eyes before he could even speak.

“Marty?” The word choked him.

His mother clenched her teeth and bobbed her head in angry little nods. Harrison hung his head over the desk. His mom threw her arms around him and held him tight.

His breath left him.

An iron fist squeezed his heart, crushing it so tight that no sound could escape his chest.

Chapter Eighty-Five

A CHILLY WIND HISSED
through the pine trees above so that they swayed sadly like funeral mourners God had sent in his place. The sun was nothing but a rumor behind the heavy clouds. Marty's father was much older than Coach and Jennifer and even the major, and with him were two people so ancient Harrison was surprised they could even walk. That was it from Marty's side of things, a dad and two grandparents. There were no other friends or brothers or sisters or aunts, uncles, or cousins, and no mom. This puzzled Harrison because to him, Marty had been so open and friendly that it seemed odd other people hadn't felt the same way as he did and shown up in huge numbers to remember the special person he'd been.

At first, Harrison felt angry that the nurses, doctors, and therapists who'd spent so much time with Marty weren't there. Then he realized that if they did that, those people would spend more time at funerals than they did at the hospital, trying to help people get well.

A silver-haired minister in a black cloak spoke in a gentle voice strong enough to cut through the wind with authority. After he read from the Bible, he said some prayers that he'd obviously said before, then cleared his throat.

“When we lose a child, our burden is doubled.” The minister looked around at each of them with bright blue eyes that glinted behind his wire-framed glasses. “Added to the grief we feel for the loss of a loved one is the extraordinary sense of guilt. We ask, ‘Why did God take this child . . . instead of me?' But I tell you truthfully, that is not our burden to bear.”

The minister looked at Harrison as if he were speaking to him alone and that he might know the secret part of Harrison that felt lucky it
hadn't
been him. Harrison looked at the ground, sick to his stomach with grief and shame.

“I knew Marty well,” the minister said. “I loved him, as you loved him, for the kind, passionate, forgiving soul that he was. And if you think, you'll remember his words—maybe even
hear
his voice—telling you to
live.”

Harrison looked up at those words. The minister cast his eyes upon the adults. His words were slow but powerful. “That's what he wanted, and that's what I ask you to do. If you want to honor Marty, grieve for him, yes, but no guilt. Marty would tell you instead to watch the sun set or the moon rise, eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a cold glass of milk, hug each other, kiss, laugh, cry, run, jump, hold each other's hands. . . . Think of him, be thankful for it all, and
live.
”

Silent tears streamed down their faces. Harrison wiped his cheek on the sleeve of his coat but never let go of his mother's hand.

The minister was quiet for a moment before he said a final prayer. Then he knelt down in the yellow grass to slip the shiny urn into its vault. After that, he covered the vault with the metal plate that would mark the place where Marty's ashes rested. Harrison toed the grass away from another metal marker and noticed many others beneath their feet, all of them half-covered by the creeping grass and rusted by wind and rain.