Chapter 3: Diagnosis

"Darry was diagnosed in March, but it really started at the end of February," Soda began. They were in the small living room, Soda in the armchair, Michelle and Ponyboy on the couch, and Clint and Cinnamon cross-legged on the floor. The Curtises were not as poor as they had once been and while the carpet and paint and furniture was newer, the way the room was arranged remained the same. It brought the three siblings comfort.

Outside, they could hear their children laughing in the yard. Laura, who had just turned 16, was in charge of Johnny, Sarah, and Danny, Pony and Michelle's 3-year-old. Soda closed his eyes briefly. He could see his smaller self, wrestling with Pony and Darry, swinging on the swings with Cinnamon, and practicing cartwheels and handstands. Even after … after his parents, after Johnny and Dally, it had been all right. This was home, and the people he loved most, and Darry was at the center of all that.

"What happened in February?" Michelle asked quietly, bringing Soda back to the present.

"Muscle spasms. At least, that's what we thought." Soda looked at Pony and Cinnamon. "Y'all remember how he used to carry all those roofing bundles? And how I'd give him back rubs most every night? Too many years of doing that, his back was about ruined. He hasn't been doing that hard labor stuff for a long time, but even sitting in the same position too long makes him twitchy. So when his back started to ache, he thought that's what it was. Hell, he even went to one of those chiropractors. He took Advil and soaked in the tub and said he was fine."

Soda took a deep breath. "On March 12, he couldn't get out of bed. He couldn't move his legs. It was like he was paralyzed overnight. I was getting ready for work and he started hollering. I have never heard him like that. He sounded terrified. It was seriously the scariest thing I ever heard in my life."

Pony got up and crossed the room. He sat on the floor next to Soda's chair and took his brother's hand.

Soda squeezed gratefully. "We had to call an ambulance. Turns out he had this myo – myla –"

"Myeloid," Cinnamon said quietly. "Chronic myeloid leukemia. It's usually called CML."

"He had too many blood cells, the white ones, they were pressing against his spine," Soda said. "That's why he couldn't move. So he did chemo and radiation and he was getting better. The count was going lower, they said, which was a good thing -- but then, last night – something happened last night. He was throwing up blood and running a bad fever and we went back to Saint Frank's. It's back. It's worse."

"Have they talked to him about a bone marrow transplant?" Cinnamon asked. "We should get tested, you, me, Pony. Even the kids, if one of us doesn't match."

"I don't know," Soda said. "He won't say. Pony, you're killing my fingers."

Ponyboy's grip was no longer comforting, it was crushing and angry. "How could you keep this from us?" he demanded. "Five months – he's had a potentially fatal disease for five months and you couldn't pick up the phone?"

"Darry didn't –"

"I ain't asking about Darry, I'm asking about you," Pony said hotly. "How could you lie to us like that? Cinnamon's a nurse, for Christ's sake, you didn't think she could be helpful?"

"I didn't–"

"You did. You said he was working, or in the shower, or out. And he was having chemo." Pony was so angry he was practically spitting.

"You weren't here!" Soda shouted back. "I was here, I've been here –"

"And look what happened," Pony interrupted.

The room was stunned into silence, then Soda jumped to his feet, dragging Pony up with him by his collar. It had always taken a lot to rattle Soda, but the stress of the last several months, followed by the implied accusation, was simply too much. He shook his brother fiercely, as if they were youngsters again, not men in their 30s.

"You want to shut your mouth, Ponyboy Michael Curtis, before I want to shut it for you," Soda said evenly, through clenched teeth. "You have no idea what you're talking about. You've been in freakin' Utah. I didn't call because he asked me not to. Maybe you'd have done the same, and maybe not. But don't you stand here and tell me I had something to do with this, just because you're pissed, or I'll knock you into next Tuesday."

Pony wrenched away from Soda and put his hands against Soda's chest. Soda braced for the shove, angry and spooked enough to actually fight back, but instead Pony crumpled and Soda had to catch him before he hit the floor. The years melted away and suddenly Pony looked 14 again, miserably bewildered, not knowing what to do when his mouth and his emotions got ahead of his brain.

"I'm sorry," he sobbed. "I can't … I didn't –"

Pony's tears evaporated Soda's anger immediately.

"I know," Soda said, holding him close. "Sh, Pony, I know. I don't want to lose him either." He rocked his brother and Cinnamon came and put her arms around them both, with Clint behind her and Michelle rubbing her husband's back. The women were crying along with Pony; even Clinton had tears in his eyes.

"Get this out of you now, all of you," Soda said. "Y'all can't be doing this in front of Darry. You'll freak him out, and he'll be freaked enough when he finds out I've told you."

Cinnamon took a deep, shuddering breath. "Darry gave up everything for us," she said. "You know what I was doing when I was 20? I was in school, going out weekends, drinking too much and meeting the wrong boys. Darry was working two jobs, trying to pay all the bills and trying to make sure we three didn't end up dead or worse and that Pony and I graduated high school."

High school. Cinnamon had worked hard, especially after Johnny and Dally died, and studied her way to a scholarship, but when it came time to graduate, she wanted to do it quietly. The other girls were buying new dresses and talking about parties and dances. Cinnamon was loathe to be up on stage in Soda's hand-me-down jeans and since a new dress was out of the question, she just refused to walk. "They'll mail me my diploma," she'd said to Darry. "I'm all set for nursing school, it's not like I can't get into college if I don't go across the stage."

But Darry wouldn't hear of it and the week before graduation, Cinnamon walked into her bedroom to find a pink taffeta dress hung carefully from the closet door jamb. As her brothers watched, grinning like idiots, she looked at it, shocked – it had a wide, poofy skirt, there was pink lace on the sleeves and the hem was crooked. It was the ugliest thing she'd ever seen, and she wore it proudly to graduation.

Now she looked intently at Soda and Pony. "Do y'all remember my graduation dress?"

Pony looked blank, but Soda said immediately, "Sure. It was pink. We found it at the Salvation Army and Two-Bit's mom cleaned it up for us. We had no idea how awful it was."

"It was horrible," Cinnamon agreed. "And I still have it. It's in the attic. That dress … Darry tried so hard to be there for me, and to do right by me, by all of us … so now, we have to stand by him."

"We owe him," Ponyboy said, but it was not like the owing of a bad debt. It was an honorable repayment, something you did not onlybecauseit wasthe right thing to do, but also because you wanted to.

"Yes," Soda said.

"OK. So, Chel, how's about you and me go grocery shopping and get these kiddos fed and organized?" Clinton said. "I'll make a pot of chili. That'll reheat easy, when these guys get back."

"Y'all can come," Soda said. "Y'all are family too."

But Michelle shook her head. "Not yet. Tomorrow. You guys should go." She wrapped Pony in a hug. "I love you very much and I am praying Darry will be fine. And if you're making appointments for people to be tested to donate bone marrow, make one for me, too."

"Me, three," Clint said. "And Johnny and Sarah, if you think that will help."

"And Danny," Michelle said.

Soda smiled. For a split second, he was jealous – jealous that Pony and Cinnamon had chosen so well, jealous that Laura's mother, Emily, had not bothered to stick around, jealous that his parents had not lived to see how well they'd all turned out.

He smiled gratefully at his in-laws. "OK, then," he said, "who's driving?"