As You Wish

Authors' Note:

This is a story about Jeremy, a single dad struggling to keep things together for his son, Ethan, who has been battling cancer, and Noreen, the burnt-out Wish Granter from a local charity struggling to find herself amongst tragedy. Surrounded by hardship, tragedy, and grief, can Noreen and Jeremy find what they need when it comes time to start again?

This is a long, novel-length story co-written by Cheryl Terra and Bebop3. It is posted in its entirety. Chapters are marked throughout the story. Childhood illness is a major theme throughout this story, but no graphic or "shock value" medical descriptions occur.

**

Well, who says life is fair? Where is that written? Life isn't always fair.

--William Goldman, The Princess Bride

**

Prologue

There's no easy way to say this, so let's just get it out of the way: this is the story of how my son died.

There. Like ripping off the Band-Aid. Not easy or painless, but quick. Unlike ripping off a Band-Aid, though, that pain doesn't fade. It leaves a scar. It's something that follows you around, day after day, twisting its way through every moment and every interaction.

It's something that defines you. You lose a bit of yourself when something like that happens, and I don't mean just the actual loss of your own flesh and blood. For me, I stopped being a dad. I spent years and years as a dad, and then he died and I wasn't a dad anymore.

And they'll tell you, you know. People will tell you you're still a dad, even though your son isn't alive anymore. Maybe some people find that comforting, but I fucking hated when people said that. Because I just... wasn't. I wasn't a dad anymore. My kid was gone and so was that piece of me, and I resented it when people tried to convince me I still was one.

Maybe I'd be one again, one day. But after the cancer finally took Ethan, I just couldn't be that anymore.

It feels like it's always some rare form of cancer with kids, doesn't it? They don't get run-of-the-mill cancers, whatever those might be. It's always something some doctor has only ever read about. It's always something aggressive and impossible to treat. Or maybe I'm just biased because that's all I had experience with. Because they surround you with others just like you, right? When you try to reach out to those support groups and shit? The other parents who've had to sit across from a doctor who's so fucking used to sharing that kind of news that they don't even blink when they tell you there's nothing left to do.

Mine at least had the decency to look sympathetic when I desperately asked if there was any hope. She took a moment before delivering the final blow, which was enough of an answer.

"Mr. Whitlock--" Because they always call you Mr. Whitlock no matter how many times you ask them to just fucking call you Jeremy, since calling you by your first name has too much of a human connection, apparently "--I'm sorry, but it's terminal."

Terminal.

Fuck that shit, right? Like my kid hadn't already been dealt the shittiest hand. Now he had terminal cancer.

Knowing that the last day is coming is weird. It forces you to try being the dad your kid deserves at the same time that you're grieving for something you haven't lost yet. And those two things take so much of your focus that you almost don't even notice the way those other parents are pitying you. Because they are, which is even fucking sadder, since their kid is dying too, but at least they have each other. Not like that poor Mr. Whitlock--no matter how many fucking times you tell them to call you Jeremy--who doesn't have anyone because he's a single dad about to lose his only kid.

But you don't have time to focus on that because Ethan's dying and everything in your life revolves around making the rest of his life perfect.

And while this might be the story of how my son died, he'd be livid if he thought it didn't have a happy ending. Which seems strange, I know, but Ethan was insistent that stories have happy endings. Movies, books, fairytales I made up to take his mind off the needles and treatments and pain: it didn't matter.

"I don't have time for sad stories, Dad," he would say. "So don't start telling me this story unless it has a happy ending."

So, this story has a happy ending because the story doesn't end with my son dying.

We focus so much on the idea of death as "the end" when it's not, and Ethan's life was proof of that. He may have died, but the world kept turning. That horrible day, buses and trains were still running. Children went to school and their parents went to work. Babies were born. People fell in and out of love.

And in a hospital surrounded by beeping machines and wilted flowers and half-empty cups of cold tea, my son started the next part of his story in whatever place we go to after we die.

It wasn't the end.

Just a new beginning.

For him. And for me.

And for her, too.

1 - Noreen

"Maybe next week, okay? I just want to grab some soup on the way home and curl up on the couch, get under the comforter and veg out."

"Noreen, it's been more than a month."

"I know, it's... Look, I just can't. Soon. Next week, I promise."

"Want me to come over? I can pick up the soup. That tomato bisque and that grilled cheese they have?"

The offer was genuine. Inda was a good friend and would slow down the world if it would help me catch up, but I couldn't do that to her. It was karaoke night at Brooke's Downtown and it was bad enough that I wouldn't be joining her.

"No, you go. Have a good time. I'll be fine."

"You sure?"

"Positive."

"Okay, but you're coming next week even if I have to kidnap you."

"Inda, we've been doing this forever. Don't guilt me if I take a break for a while."

"Um, yeah. Sure. I'll... I'll call you."

Great. Now she was all hurt and offended. It was all so much. I didn't feel like going out. What's the big deal?

While most of my college friends had drifted away, Inda had remained as close as the day we had graduated. We still got together to eat junk food and watch old musicals, we still talked for hours and we still went to karaoke. We're music nerds. Sue us.

It's not that I didn't want to go. No, I was levels below that. I couldn't even find the interest to pretend to want to go. I'd been sleeping too much lately and staying by myself. It wasn't healthy, but that was something else I didn't really care about. I was an adult. I paid my bills. I went to work every day and I met my obligations, so I could express that adulting by getting two family size soups and a pint of Ben & Jerry's for dinner.

I was two hours into reading a romance when my mother called. Unwrapping myself from the comforter, I put the Kindle down next to the half-melted remains of Cherry Garcia and picked up the phone.

"Hey, Mom. Everything okay?"

"Yes, of course. Why are you home?"

I rolled my eyes. "How do you know I'm home?"

"Because I'm not an idiot, dear. If you were at karaoke, I'd hear music or loud conversations and you wouldn't pick up on the first ring."

My father gave me my drive and head for numbers. From my mother I got my love of singing and the ability to not give a crap about other people's opinions of me. For her birthday and Mother's Day, Inda and I would take her with us and we'd stay out all night singing to strangers whenever our name was called.

I get it. Karaoke is a cliche from an earlier decade. Don't like it, don't go. For glee club members who've graduated and moved on, there aren't that many outlets to get your singing on. So yeah, Mom knew where I should have been that night.

"Fair. I didn't feel like going out."

"Are you sick? I could drop off some soup?"

Smiling, I shook my head. "I just finished the better part of a large chicken noodle. I'm fine, really. What's going on?"

"I was going to leave a message. I'm stopping by this weekend to get the decorations from the attic and set them up."

Shaking my head, I looked up at the ceiling. "Okay, go crazy."

"You'll be there to help?"

"Mom, I'll bring the stuff down and leave it near the door. Don't ask me to actually set all this crap up."

My parents lived in one of the most exclusive neighbourhoods in the province. If my mother decorated their house like she wanted to, some stodgy banker would have a coronary. Besides the trust fund, I'd inherited my home from my grandparents and Mom used it to overindulge in holiday spirit. Inflatable reindeer at Christmas, giant Easter bunnies, ghosts and ghouls for Halloween; my house was an eyesore every few months.

There was silence on her end.

"Mom?"

"Noreen, if you're not happy, make a change. Whatever this is, it's been bothering you for a while."

What was with everyone? "I'm fine. I just... I don't know. I'm fine. Don't make this a thing, okay? Set up your decorations, have a great time and maybe we'll get dinner after."

"So, you're going to sit in that house and what, read, while I set everything up? Don't you--"

"This is your tradition, Mom, not mine. If it makes you happy, go for it. I'll give the kid that does the lawn some cash. He'll lug things around for you. I gotta go. I love you."

"I love you too, Noreen. I'll see you Saturday."

Snuggled in, I read until dropping off.

I woke up almost smelling the antiseptic aroma of the hospital. I was still on the couch and I guessed it was two in the morning. Rubbing my eyes, I tried to recall what I'd been dreaming of but could only pull together faint memories of sickbeds and cemeteries.

The wind was whistling in the backyard and the one light in the kitchen worked with the full moon to give me enough light to see by. Shivering, I sat up and stretched.

Sighing, I grabbed the remote and put on the TV. Some folk singer who hadn't had a hit in fifteen years was squatting down next to a puppy. She was at a no-kill shelter letting me know that for less than the cost of a cup of coffee a day, I could help keep dogs like Maxie off the streets and help them find a forever home.

I snorted and rolled my eyes. No thanks. I needed my double-double in the morning if I was going to make it through the day. Let's swap jobs and we'll see how much you care about random doggos, Ms. Once-Was-Famous-Singer.

Letting the TV drone on, I reclined back into the couch and pulled the comforter around me. Closing my eyes, I tried to will myself back to sleep.

A few minutes later, I was staring at the ceiling. Why did I just roll my eyes about a no-kill shelter? Why was my instinct to joke about my caffeine addiction? Why didn't I give a fuck anymore?

Falling back asleep, I slept soundly and woke up knowing something was different, something fundamental and deep. Change was on the horizon.

2 - Jeremy

"Did you pack Spike?"

"'Course I packed Spike, buddy," I said. "Come on. Go to bed."

Ethan ignored me, rifling through the bulging backpack we took to all his treatments on the couch. "I don't see him."

"For sure?" I asked as a furry black-and-white ear poked out of the zipper.

"Yes, Dad," he replied snarkily.

I took a deep breath and silently repeated the advice Ethan's oncology nurse had given me at our very first appointment.

"Pick your battles, Jere," he'd said as Ethan threw a world-class tantrum in the middle of the hospital hallway. "We're about to pump him full of chemicals and make him feel like garbage. I'd be throwing a tantrum, too."

Pick my battles, I thought to myself. Pick my fucking battles.

It was good advice, though the amount of battles I picked had dwindled significantly from that first appointment. I'd been so naïve back then, so sweetly naïve, thinking that we'd go through a few rounds of chemo and come out haggard but healed on the other side.

At first, picking my battles had been about keeping some semblance of normalcy to Ethan's life. Yeah, maybe I didn't get on his case about leaving his toys lying around the living room, but I still expected him to help clean up after dinner. That kind of pedantic shit that normal seven-year-olds are supposed to do. But as treatments went on, and on, and on... well.

You forget what "normal" should be when seeing your kid sick and in pain all the time becomes normal.

Ethan had enough battles to handle without me scolding him for talking back or mouthing off, so I let out that deep breath I'd taken and reached for his backpack.

"Are you fur-sure for-sure?" I asked, tugging on Spike's ear.

Ethan grumbled unintelligibly and grabbed the stuffed dog, yanking it out of the backpack along with a pencil case, colouring book, and a deck of cards. Gritting my teeth as the various items intended to distract and entertain my son spilled onto the living room floor, I took Spike from his hands.

"Come on," I said. "That was funny. Fur-sure."

"It was lame," he grumbled.

"Lame?" I raised my eyebrow, looking at the stuffed toy in my hands before turning back to Ethan. "Spike didn't think it was lame."

"Yes, he did." He grabbed at Spike, but caught nothing but air as I pulled it just out of his grasp.

"Mmm, I don't think so," I said, making Spike dance from side to side. "I think Spike said I was so funny that he wants to hang out with me more."

"No, he didn't!"

"Yep, he did. I speak toy dog and he totally said that." I lifted Spike, making him fly through the air as Ethan tried to grab at him again. "He was all like 'Ruh-roh, Rethan, I runno how you're runna get any sleep tonight because your dad's so funny!'"

Ethan did that thing that kids do where they still want to be mad, but are having a hard time not laughing at my impeccable impersonation of a toy dog that sounded suspiciously like Scooby Doo. He pressed his lips together, twisting them as though that would hide the smile lurking on his face, and took another swipe at the toy dog.

"That's not what his voice sounds like," he finally said.

"Yeah it is," I replied. "That's why they call him Spikey Doo. Scoob's smaller, border-collie-esque cousin."

"Dad!" he said, struggling not to laugh even more. "His name is just Spike. And he wants to hang out with me."

"I didn't hear him say anything like that."

"He did," he said. "He said 'Rethan, I ranna... wanna... ro to red with roo!'"

It was all a father could hope for: his son surpassing his ability to do a kick-ass cartoon dog impression. Ethan's Scooby Doo voice was far superior to mine, as was his ability to hold laughter in; I couldn't stop myself from chuckling as I let him snatch Spike out of my hand.

"Ro to red?" I asked. "He wants to go to bed?"

"Uh-huh."

I sighed heavily. "Well, if Spike wants to go to bed, you better listen. We both know who's really in charge of this apartment."

"Yeah, me," Ethan said.

"Not even, dude." I took Spike in one hand and Ethan's hand in the other. "Spike is El Capitán of this vivienda."

"Why is he Spanish?"

"'Cause he's from Spain, bud."

We made our way to Ethan's bedroom and he took Spike back from me, frowning down at the toy before looking up from me.

"Is he really?" he asked.

"Of course."

"No, but like for real," he argued as he climbed into bed. "Like you bought him in Spain?"

And I mean, of course his fucking toy dog wasn't from Spain. I'd never been to Spain. I'd never so much as left Canada, let alone hopped across an ocean. But I also couldn't tell him the truth of where Spike was from because... well.

"I didn't buy him in Spain," I said carefully as Ethan brought the blankets up to his chin. "But that's all part of his mysterious past."

"Mysterious?" he asked.

"Mm-hmm."

"Will you tell me?"

I pretended to contemplate it as I dimmed the lights, leaving only the yellow glow of his bedside lamp illuminating the room. "I dunno, bud. It's a long story full of pirates and sword fights and horses. You might not like it."

"Does it have a happy ending?"

"Well, yeah. You already know the ending. Spike ends up living happily ever after with you."

"I'll like it," Ethan said. "Tell me."

It came out more demanding than I was willing to handle, so I picked that battle. "Tell you what?"

"The story," he said.

I raised my eyebrows. Ethan sighed.

"Please, Dad?"

It was an easily won battle, and so despite knowing we had to be up early the next morning for yet another round of chemo, I settled in and told him the far-too-long story of the famous Dread Pirate Spike and his adventures that were liberally borrowed from The Princess Bride.

"How did he learn to drive a ship if he was a stableboy?" he asked sleepily when I finished, Spike tucked tightly into his elbow as his head--bald as it had been the day he'd been born--rested against my bicep.

"Sail."

"Huh?"

"You don't drive a ship," I said. "You sail a ship."

"Oh." He yawned, snuggling into my arm. "If I get better, can we go to Spain?"

I almost said yes, then the words hit me. "When you get better. Not if."

He yawned again. "But can we go to Spain? And sail ships with pirates?"

Guilt washed over me. There was nothing I wanted more in the entire world than to give him everything he wanted. Everything he deserved. But being a single dad of a kid with cancer didn't exactly pay well. I'd barely been making ends meet before Ethan got sick, and holding down a regular job wasn't exactly easy when you had to keep taking time off for appointments and days when the side effects overwhelmed him. There was some help from the government and insurance and all that, and my parents had helped with what they could, but they'd never exactly been well off either. So maybe it was time to swallow my pride and... well.

It wasn't so much swallowing my pride as it was coming to terms with the fact that Ethan wasn't getting better as fast as anyone--doctors included--had hoped. When he'd first gotten sick, my mom had handed me one of those brochures for the Wish Mission and I'd nearly lost it on her.

"He's not dying!" I'd snarled, thrusting it back at her.

Anyone else might have trembled at the anger in my voice--not that I made it a habit to sound intimidating, but I looked imposing enough as it was without adding that gravelly darkness to my tone--but my mom had looked at me patiently, seeing past the anger and the shame and the absolute, all-encompassing fear that was consuming me.

"Dying isn't a qualification to having a wish granted," she said, flipping the brochure open and sliding it across the table towards me. "It says right here his doctor can refer him to--"

"I don't need this," I hissed. "This is for kids who are really sick, for kids who--"

"He is really sick, Jeremy."

She didn't say it angrily or pointedly. She said it kindly, with the sort of soothing sympathy that cut deeper than any hurled insult or biting remark. And so I'd shoved the brochure back at her again, grabbed a beer out of the fridge, and went to the living room where Ethan was watching hockey with my dad. Dad had glanced up, mild alarm in his eyes as he recognized the aura of roiling anger coming off me in waves, but I'd said nothing as I settled into the armchair and popped the tab on the can.

Mom joined us a few minutes later and we handled the whole thing the same way we handled every uncomfortable situation: pretending it hadn't happened and never speaking of it again. But after they'd left that night, I noticed the Wish Mission brochure stacked neatly on top of that month's past-due bills, which I'd organized in order of what ones I could push out for a bit before losing access to whatever service they were. That month it was the gas bill. I had a thirty-day grace period before my already shitty credit score took another hit, so it was going to have to wait until the next caregiver benefit cheque hit my bank account.