The Bad Boy's Babysitter

• Chapter 32

Chapter 32 - Christmas Is Coming

Carson didn't wake up until the morning of Christmas Eve, which was about 18 hours after his admission. He might have been conscious the previous night. But I wouldn't have known because I had left early.

I came walking into his ward at 11 in the morning, with a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a helium balloon in the other. When I entered, Carson was just staring at the window, his breakfast half eaten on the over-bed table.

He looked tired. His face drained of color and his eyes void of emotion. I stood at the door for a while before clearing my throat and making my approach. "Hey, pretty face." I greeted.

Carson finally noticed me. He smiled as he watched me walk over to the his side. "Hey, Sherlock." He said, his voice soft. "How's it going?"

"Could be better," I answered. "I got you some things. I'm hoping they might cheer you up."

Carson eyed the small bouquet of daisies in my hand, then proceeded to evaluate the helium balloon. "Get well soon?" He questioned. "Really, Greyson? That's lame."

I rolled my eyes up, placing the gifts down on the nightstand. "I'm just trying to brighten up your life, Ford. A 'thank you' would suffice."

"Gifts don't heal me."

"They make you feel better." I supported.

"It's not the same as healing."

Okay. Clearly Carson was in a bad mood. It might have just been my luck that I came to visit at a wrong time. Perhaps his breakfast hadn't go down so well.

Or he could be upset about being hospitalized again. That's it.

'Ford. What's wrong? What did the doctor say?"

"I'm going to die."

I thought hearing it the fifth time made the impact of those words less hurtful. Less real, because it hasn't happened since he said it the first four times. But his words were accompanied with teary eyes, and it splintered inside me causing more pain than before. It was the way he said it with so much affirmation that made my stomach tumble.

Carson didn't wait for me to say anything. Instead, he put his arms up, like he was pushing open a door. I examined them, wondering what the hell he was doing.

I was an idiot. Had always been. But I wasn't stupid enough not to notice that there were bruises on Carson's arms. Not a lot. Maybe two or three. But they were pretty visible. Suddenly, I hated myself for not noticing them the minute I came in to see him. I felt terrible that I hadn't been paying enough attention.

"These are bruises because of soccer practice yesterday, Greyson. People with leukemia are more likely to bruise because their bodies don't make enough platelets to plug bleeding blood vessels. I could get them even from small knocks." He explained. "The doctor told me that I have stage three cancer. He kept talking about it, but I shut him out because I thought stage three was enough for me to know how serious this is."

When I didn't say anything in response, Carson put his hands back down. "It's going to be so obvious that I'm sick. Everyone is going to know." He continued saying. He looked down, crestfallen.

I sighed and took a seat on the bed next to him. "Ford, you're being so dramatic." I started. "These bruises are not a sign of death. How could you say that? Besides, stage three cancer can be treated."

"They're a sign of sickness." Carson replied. "A sign of abnormality. I can't have that on the playing field. Coach doesn't know about my leukemia yet. If he finds out, I can say goodbye to my scholarships."