Author's Note: Well, I'm back from the beyond. To anyone who is still reading, I'm so sorry if it seemed like had abandoned this story. I was all set to upload a chapter, but my family dealt with an unexpected loss the week before Christmas, and I'm still coming back from that. It hit me a lot harder than I realized. By the time I began getting back to my writing, I didn't like the chapter anymore, so I retooled it in my spare time. I hope there's still readers out there who are willing to stick with me... especially now that our show is back and we're getting more new stuff with the boys.

Again, I'm sorry for being MIA. I hope you'll bear with me.

Evan

I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. I've been doing this for hours, and my room has gotten progressively lighter as the sun begins its ascent. Distantly I can hear a beeping sound from Hank's room, then I hear him stirring, heading downstairs, and leaving the guesthouse to go for an early run. He's not changing his routine, even today, and I figure if he has the energy to run then he must have had better luck in the sleep department than I did.

Taking advantage of the alone time, I go ahead and get up, shower, and dress. That, in its entirety, takes up about fifteen minutes of this endless morning. Coming down the stairs, I contemplate what I should eat for breakfast, but my stomach feels so jittery I don't think I could hold anything down. Instead, I get a cold bottle of water from the fridge and sit at the counter, blankly staring at yesterday's paper.

It's been almost a month since I got out of the hospital. I'm doing fine, though it's taken me a little longer to bounce back that I anticipated. We've all sort of slid back into this pattern of normalcy. Hank and Divya go and see their patients, and sometimes I come along, getting retainers signed, getting billing information for invoices. Other times I work from home, crunching my numbers and filling in spreadsheets. Divya and I snark at each other (though for some reason that I don't want to question, we now greet and leave each other with a gentle hug); I have had increasingly frequent golf outings with Dad as my strength has grown, and he has been to the guesthouse more often for meals with both his sons, on his own and accompanied by Mrs. Newberg; and Hank and I are… us. When I first got out of the hospital he hovered over me so much, I got so tired of using the "Helmet" signal I considered purchasing a hard hat and just pointedly gesturing to it when needed. I didn't, though. Eventually, as I got stronger, he backed off a bit. It's all very, very, very normal now.

And it's also not… because I don't really feel normal. And I wonder if I ever will again.

I feel very disconnected from myself. It's almost like I'm not on speaking terms with my body after what it did to me. I mean, I'm not intentionally ignoring it… I don't know, I just sort of forget that I'm not as I used to be. And as I've been feeling less pain and more strength, I can go for almost a whole day without remembering that I had surgery, or why I had to have it. But then I catch a glimpse of my scar, which my own brother removed the stitches from not so long ago, and I remember. I remember what was pulled out of me, that disgusting, malignant, bleeding tumor. I remember that I had cancer in my body, and I might still have some screwy rogue cells lying around in there, biding their time, waiting to organize themselves to overtake my whole body. That was actually really bugging me – those heavy painkillers the hospital gave me made me so tired I would only take them at night, but as I would wait for them to kick in, my mind would get all funky and I felt like I could actually hear my cells talking to each other, strategizing and plotting to go all cancery on me again. It freaked me out so much I threw out the pills (pissing Hank off tremendously) and just took mega-strength Tylenol for the rest of my recuperation.

But I have no friggin' clue what to do with myself anymore, because I start the radiation treatments today. I can't pretend or conveniently forget anymore, because the largest reality of the disease – the treatment – is looming in front of me for the next two months.

My brother bursts through the door, sweaty and stinking to high heaven, sucking in a couple of deep breaths. I don't know how long I've been sitting here not reading the paper (who even reads a physical newspaper anymore anyways?), but it was long enough for Hank to finish his run. He notices me, and gives me a smile, though I see concern in his eyes. "Hey, morning, bro!" And three… two… one… "How'd you sleep?" Yep. So predictable.

"Didn't," I mutter.

Hank's face falls. "Not even a little bit? But what about-?"

"I guess I managed to out-anxiety the Xanax." I give a wry, half smile. "I'm just that good." As The Day has been getting closer and closer, I've been sleeping less and less. So I've worked instead. With the insomnia I've had for the past week or so, I've managed to not only catch up from when I was sick (when Hank wouldn't let me touch anything work-related), I've also managed to kind of work ahead a few months. Hank sort of looked the other way in the beginning, but he finally confronted me about my inability to sleep a couple of days ago. Then last night, around 11, when he found me doing prep work on tax returns (six months early), he gave me a pill, a Xanax, saying it would relax me and help me sleep. I protested, not thrilled with the idea of being medicated in that sort of way, and also worried as to what this would mean for the morning. But Hank insisted that it was perfectly safe, it wouldn't affect the radiation at all, and Dr. Bowers had OK'd it. So I took it because, well, I'm tired, and the night takes a really long time when you don't sleep.

Unfortunately, my anxiety seems to be drug-resistant, because Xanax didn't do a damn thing for me. Maybe I didn't have a big enough dosage, but I didn't bother to awaken Hank to get any more. I get the idea Hank wishes I had. "I wish you'd have let me know," he mutters, proving my point. "I'm sorry, Ev. I really thought it would help."

"It's no big deal," I say dismissively. "It is what it is. I'll grab a nap at some point." I almost add that in a few weeks it won't matter because I'll probably be so worn out that all I'll be able to do is sleep. But somehow I don't think that fact would help either of us.

Hank shakes his head in consternation, and I wonder if he's disappointed in me for being such a coward, for being too wound up to sleep, or disappointed in himself for not intervening sooner or giving me enough medicine to get me to sleep. Either way, he doesn't say anything further on the subject, but opening a bottle of water, he asks, "You had breakfast?"

I don't know why I don't just say yes. If pressed, I could even admit that my stomach is freaking out and say that I just had some toast or something to tide me over. It would just be a tiny fib… a fiblet, really, and it would make things so much easier. But instead I find myself confessing, "No… I'm not hungry."

"Evan, you have to eat something; you didn't have much for dinner last night either."

"I know, I know... But, honestly, I'm queasy as it is, I'd probably just wind up yarfing before we even leave the house." I sigh. "Can we just, like… get something afterwards? Once it's done, I'm sure I'll feel better."

Hank looks sympathetically at me, and after a moment nods his assent. He looks like he wants to say something else, but instead just mentions that he's going to take a quick shower and get dressed, and then we can go. He leaves me still sitting in the kitchen with the paper that I am not reading, but I feel him lightly place his hand on my head before he goes – not in a bold, hair-tousling, borderline-noogie sort of way, but a more gentle form of contact; his way of acknowledging my nervousness and reassuring me that everything will be fine.

Half an hour later, we're in Hank's car, driving silently to Hampton's Heritage. The closer we get, the sweatier my palms become. I feel like there are kangaroos in my stomach and they're getting hyper. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Hank occasionally looking over at me, probably wondering if I'm going to hurl in his car. I'm wondering the same thing, even though there's not a whole lot in my stomach to bring up at this point.

Within about five blocks of our destination, I can't take it anymore. "Hank, could you pull over please?" I choke out hoarsely.

"Are you going to be sick?" he asks me worriedly as he carefully but quickly steers the vehicle out of traffic and to the curb. When I don't immediately jump out of the car and into the bushes, he shuts off the engine and rolls down the window, allowing a breath of crisp morning air to fill the car. "Take a drink of water," he suggests, handing me my half-empty water bottle from the cup holder. We both notice that my hand visibly shakes as I take it, causing the bottle to wobble. I need two hands to hold it steady as I bring it to my trembling lips.

"You're really pale," Hank observes, taking his seat belt off. I can believe it – I feel pretty colorless at this point. As I finish gulping the water and lower the bottle to my lap, he instinctively reaches over and takes hold of my wrist, feeling my pulse. "You've got to calm down, Ev. Ok?" he asks.

"Nope. Not ok," I find myself saying bluntly. "You know, I was thinking... The surgery got the whole tumor out, which means I'm actually cancer-free right now, right?" My words sort of tumble over each other; it's like these realizations have just dawned on me, though I know I've had these thoughts before – just never spoken them out loud to anyone.

I see my brother's brow begin to furrow when he takes in my tight expression. He gives a hesitant nod and says, "Yeah… essentially, that's true."

I go on babbling. "So technically, I don't really need the radiation at all."

Hank blinks as my statement rolls over him. He gets this strained look, a mixture of shock and something else I can't place, and he blurts out, "What… what are you saying? Are you saying… you don't want it?"

"Of course I don't want it! I've never wanted it!" I scoff. For some reason, I almost want to shake him for assuming a silly thing like that. Who on earth would WANT radiation? Who would knowingly volunteer for exposure to something like that if it wasn't necessary? It's kind of a relief to admit it. However, from the look on his face, you would think my big brother had just discovered me holding a loaded gun to my head.

"So… you're not going to do it? But… but, you can't…" Hank sputters, trying to process what I'm getting at, somehow stunned that I would be feeling any misgivings about this. "You heard what Dr. Bowers said – she recommended it for a reason. We've been over it a million times, you know what could happen if we don't do it…"

"But there are no guarantees either way!" I interrupt. "Even if I have the radiation, the cancer could still come back. And if I don't have it, I could still remain cancer-free for the rest of my life. I've paid attention, Henry – believe me, I've contemplated every possible scenario in this horrible Choose Your Own Adventure story."

"Where is this even coming from?" Hank sounds like he's desperately trying to hold back some emotion, trying to understand how my dread has bubbled up into this seemingly sudden hysterical urge to run as fast as possible in the opposite direction. It's a legitimate question – I've had a month to talk about the depth of my fright before now and I haven't, and I know it's horribly unfair to pop out with this today, en route to the very first appointment, but I can't hold it in anymore. I know how the whole thing is supposed to work, and it's only supposed to take ten minutes every day for the next eight weeks. And I know they told me I wouldn't even feel it… although it's hard to take my radiologist's word on this, because he's going to be sitting in a little radiation-proof room the whole time the thing's going, so he won't be exposed to it. Meanwhile, I've got the doo-dad trained directly onto my internal organs. Yeah, that's very reassuring… I don't see how you can't not feel it, at least a little bit.

"Please, just… Hank…" I whisper. I swallow, closing my eyes, trying to gather myself. "Just tell me I don't have to go in there. Just say that I don't have to do it."

"Oh, Evan," Hank sighs. He looks at me, his eyes growing bright as he hesitantly speaks. "I'm not your doctor now – I can clarify or explain what the specialists say so that you understand all the facts to make informed decisions… but the decisions have to be yours. I can't make you do anything; I can't force you to have treatment that you don't want. I know you know all the information, and all the potential consequences of doing it or not doing it. I want you to have the radiation, but I can't decide for you… and if you feel that I've pressured you into anything, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do that. I j-just want my brother to be healthy and strong, and… and…" he bites his lip to control the slight tremor that has crept into his speech, choking off the end of that sentence: he wants me healthy and strong and alive.

A deep, shaking breath is taken, and he goes on. "Buddy, I'm not going to push this. If you don't want to do this today, you don't have to. I don't want this anxiety to cause you physical distress. We can turn around and go home, and we can start tomorrow, or next week… or never, if that's what you really, truly want. I won't like it or agree with it, but I will respect your decision, because in the end, it's your body and your choice. I'm just asking you, Ev… please be sure about this. Just really think about what you need to do right now. Please."

Hank actually sounds like he's on the verge of tears at the possibility of me not having treatment, though he's doing his best to hide it. To his credit, he has left the ball in my court, which sobers me pretty quickly. And he didn't beg me to do it 'for him.' He isn't going to force me to suffer through anything because of his own fear.

"Of course I'm going to have the radiation," I sigh, suddenly drained.

Instantly I see some of the tension lift from his shoulders as he exhales in relief. "Oh, thank God…" he whispers to himself, squeezing his eyes shut. I only catch a fleeting glimpse of the moisture catching hold of his eyelashes before he hurriedly brushes it away and sniffs himself back under control. "You're sure? You really mean it?" he asks, a hint of desperation still in his voice, as if I will suddenly change my mind again. I guess he has a right to feel that way, given my irrational outburst.

"I mean it; I'm going to go through with it. I don't think I was really going to change my mind to begin with. I guess I just… I don't know. I wish I could explain. I just… needed to know I had the option to back out. I'm sorry…" Hank nods slowly as I try to explain my meltdown. "I'm just… scared."

"It's ok, Evan… it's ok. I understand. And I meant what I said: you're the one in charge. If you want my opinion or my advice, I'll gladly give it to you, but you're the decision maker when it comes to your treatment." Hank earnestly reiterates that I am in control. I have to confess, it helps. Knowing that I'm in the metaphorical driver's seat helps me feel a little better. I'm in command of my battle – I get to determine the strategies, the tactics we use to eliminate the enemy. The feeling of power, however limited, relieves some of the tension building up inside my chest.

Of course, by relinquishing all the control to me, Hank also has given me permission to decide when to surrender. If it ever does get to that point (and God willing, it won't), I get to decide when to pull out the troops and wave the white flag. But not before I've literally exhausted every reserve of strength I have. Hank might not be able to ask me to do it for him, but of course that's why I must do it. For him… and for Dad… and all the people I love.

"You ok to get back on the road? It's just another couple of blocks… we're still going to be on time. Not to rush you…" Hank adds hurriedly.

"No… I'll be all right. We can go now," I nod. As Hank turns on the car, I inhale grandly. "Time for me to get nuked," I declare with a big, over-the-top phony smile. Even though I don't feel like I'm going to be physically sick anymore, I'm still not looking forward to this. But the anxiety is down to a dull roar, just slightly higher than if I was going in for a root canal.

Hank winces a little. "Um, Evan? I know you're trying to be cute and everything, but could you not use that term?"

"Why? What's wrong with saying 'nuke'?"

"It's just… completely inappropriate. You're not Hiroshima."

I blink. "I'm not saying 'nuke' like nuclear warhead. I'm using it as a verb – as in, 'I'm going to nuke this hot pocket in the microwave.'" I shake my head in mock disappointment, and mutter. "I'm inappropriate? Way too soon for a Hiroshima joke, dude."

"Sixty some odd years is too soon?"

"Much."

"At least I didn't just refer to myself as a hot pocket."

After parking the car, we go into the hospital and head up to the radiology ward. As the doors close and the elevator begins to lurch upwards, the queasy feeling returns to my gut. I close my eyes and focus on my breathing, determined not to freak out again. As I mentally try to slow my racing heart, I feel my brother shift next to me, feel him place his warm, calming hand on the back of my neck. He steadies me, and somehow it's not so dizzyingly hard to breathe anymore. I feel the elevator hiccup to a stop, and I open my eyes just as the doors open.

As we leave the elevator, I'm not prepared to see the knot of familiar faces clustered in the waiting room. Dad, Mrs. Newberg, and Divya are all there, looking toward us expectantly. Dad steps forward to meet us, pulling me into a hug, and I stammer, "Dad? What are you… doing here?"

"What do you mean? Where else would I be today?" He smiles at me, but looks surprised at my confusion.

"No, I, uh… you didn't say you'd be here this morning; I just thought… we'd see you after. But I'm really glad you're here now." I don't know why I'm so flustered. I am glad Dad is here, I just wasn't expecting it. I had absolutely no idea he would be here before the appointment. And I feel a little exposed. My brave exterior I try to wear when he's around isn't fully in place from when it slipped in the elevator (and I nearly giggle as I immediately follow this thought by imagining a Scottish voice saying, "Shields at 40%, Captain!" I really shouldn't have watched that Star Trek marathon yesterday).

I've done pretty well, freely admitting when my confidence in the soundness of my health has been shaken, but only to Hank or Dr. Bowers. Dad has not seen me falter. I've been quite careful of it, actually. It's ok to let Hank see me less than 100% positive – he knows me like a book, so even if I were to pretend that everything was hunky-dory, he would know instantly if I was lying. I can usually be convincing around strangers, but I'm really bad at lying to my brother. Always have been.

I guess, after everything, I'm still scared Eddie will panic and leave. He stuck it out while I was in the hospital and showed his support at my diagnosis. He's been attentive during my recovery. Now begins the real test: will he make it through my treatments intact? I suppose there is yet another reason I should be thankful that I don't require chemo at this point – expecting Eddie R. Lawson to see me through that… that could certainly be considered too much too soon. As it is though, the radiation might be enough of a trial by fire for him. But here he is, Day One, with his lady in tow – I can't help but wonder if it was Mrs. Newberg or Hank who told him to see me before I went in, or if he came up with the idea himself. I decide I probably won't ever find out definitively, so I might as well not care what prompted his presence.

We make small talk as Hank checks me in with the nurse. Since I did my preliminary paperwork at the previous appointment when they mapped out the radiation site, all I need to do now is wait for them to call me. Divya pulls me aside, almost shyly.

"Evan, I wanted to give you something… for today. But I swear, if you laugh at me for this, I will hit you very hard in a painful place!" She's using that stern reprimanding-librarian voice on me now, which I love. I'm intrigued by this little preface.

"I promise I won't laugh," I vow solemnly.

Divya, eyeing me warily for any signs of mockery, reaches into the large tote bag on her shoulder (the one that is perfectly color-coordinated with her outfit) and brings out a stuffed animal, well-worn and ancient, but clean and carefully preserved. "This is Basil the Badger. I got him when I was four, and carried him with me all through boarding school and university. Even when I stopped using him as a toy he was a… good-luck talisman of sorts. When I felt lonely or afraid I could always hold him and remember that there were people who loved me, even if they couldn't be with me right then." She bites her lower lip and hands the creature to me, and I take it as if it were made of 14-karat gold. It's very soft, the stuffing having been squished down to nothing in some parts.

"We can't go in there with you, Evan. So I thought, perhaps it was time to take Basil out of retirement so that he could accompany you where we could not… so you wouldn't need to worry. He'd remind you you're not alone, and that we're all here cheering you on." She lowers her eyes, clearly feeling awkward about revealing her soft little underbelly like this.

I can't help but smile. Basil the Badger seems a very un-Divya-like accessory, at least in her present glory, but I imagine her as a little girl, already whip-smart and gorgeous, sent to a posh boarding school far from her family… maybe having trouble fitting in, and without the benefit of the confidence and regal bearing she exhibits today as a grown woman. She said she held this toy when she felt alone. Given Basil's condition, I think she might have felt that way a lot as a kid. I feel like Divya has just allowed me to see a brand new side of her, one that she doesn't show to many people. I feel privileged.

She sees my smile and she rolls her eyes and groans. "God, you said you wouldn't laugh. You think it's ridiculous, don't you? I feel like such an idiot - I kept telling myself it was dumb and it wouldn't help anything at all..."

"No, no, Divs! I don't think it's ridiculous or dumb at all! I'm not laughing at you, I swear!" I hurriedly placate her before she attempts to take Basil back. "Really I'm not… aside from being a little perplexed as to why you gave the name Basil the Badger to what is clearly a raccoon-" I have to dodge as she moves to smack my arm. "- I am… really honored and touched that you would loan him to me for this. I mean… it's clearly precious to you, and it means a lot that you thought of it. You're sure you don't mind him getting all radioactive and stuff?"

"He'll be as radioactive as you are, and you'll still be almost fit to go about in polite society," she smiles, managing a tiny little snark so as not to turn this into a scene from a Lifetime movie. I grin at her, and she leans in and gives me a hug. "I know it's a bit foolish, but I just wanted to... do something for you today, to make you smile."

"You've made me smile, which I desperately needed, by the way," I murmur into her hair, leaving out the part about how she didn't need to give me a badger to bring a smile to my face. If I do that, she might take it away. Frankly, I would like the company while I'm getting nuked... I mean, um, zapped. "Thank you, Divs."

"Evan Lawson?"

The embrace is broken, and all five of us turn and look at the nurse who has just come to the waiting room. I recognize her from my preliminary appointment (Carol? Carolyn? Something?). Despite her pleasant, expectant smile, my stomach suddenly drops into my feet. Tightening my grip on trusty Basil the Badger, I raise my hand in acknowledgement. Here we go…

"We're ready for you," the nurse says (Karen?). I take a look at my support knot, who all just sort of stare back at me. "They're ready for me," I repeat to them, with a smile that is trying its best to be secure on my face.

Hank steps closer to me. "You want me to come with you? I can't go in, but I can wait in the hall until it's done…"

Yes, Hank, please come with me. "Naw, that's ok," I find myself saying. "It'll be, what? Ten, twenty minutes tops?" I try to give a lighthearted, casual shrug. "I'll be ok. I've got a badger," I say, holding up my stuffed companion.

Confused (and though he saw her give it to me, he's clearly unfamiliar with Divya's history with the toy), Hank looks at Basil, then at me, and says in a quiet, confidential tone, "That's a raccoon, isn't it?"

My tone matches his. "Leave it alone… we're going to go with badger. It's a badger." Hank nods in befuddled agreement. I face the rest of my group, and wave timidly. Then for some bizarre reason that I'm not even aware of, I make Basil the Badger wave his paw at them, too, and everyone sort of chuckles. I don't know why I feel like I'm going off to war. It's ridiculous to be so terrified – it's going to take no time at all; it's not like I'm never going to see my family again. I head toward the nurse (Carla? Carly?). One last look over my shoulder and I see them all smiling at me, hoping to deliver vibes of encouragement and positivity to my dragging spirit. I try my best to put on a brave face, to make sure that's the last image they have of me as the door swings closed between us. I wonder what they'll do while I'm gone?

Now I'm alone in the sterile hallway with the nurse. Tucking her clipboard under her arm, she gently ushers me toward the exam room where I get to change into a flimsy gown. "I'm sorry, can you remind me of your name again?" I quietly ask her, clutching Basil tightly to my chest, more embarrassed at my lack of memory than the fact that I'm a grown man with a stuffed animal. I'm hoping she doesn't feel insulted, like she's easily forgettable.

"Roberta," she answers amiably. Man, I wasn't even close.

To be continued...