Sundays With Jamal (Excerpt Included)

My second book, Sundays With Jamal, is in the works. If you read my first book, Life With Ziggy, then you were introduced, on a very basic level, to Jamal.

Jamal was a very special boy, and my little brother. For six months, I spent my Sundays with him; playing Playstation, walking through the park, watching basketball, drawing, and reading The Hobbit. Unfortunately, those Sundays ended much sooner than either of us wanted to accept.

Jamal bravely fought Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia; a type of leukemia that is extremely rare in children. Sundays With Jamal is a memoir capturing the final six months of his life, and some of the most important months of mine. He was an angel, beyond his years, with wisdom that forever changed my life.

Below is a portion of my unnamed and unedited first chapter of Sundays With Jamal. It is a more descriptive, introductory section, so I would love to hear your thoughts.

Coming soon to Amazon, Sundays With Jamal, in both paperback and on Kindle. I am thankful for your support. Happy reading.

Sundays With Jamal

 

Chapter One:

            Beep………Beep………Beep!

The squeals of the heart rate monitor audibly signaled the presence of life. Each one pierced the bitter silence in the room; working as a constant reminder of the fragility of the situation. Just below the beeping, an old rocking chair groaned. The aged wood whined gently, creaking as it moved. The two noises mixed, cutting through the cold, musty air of room 218.

I sighed, not sure how to ease the tension in the room. My exhausted eyes, bloodshot and heavy, fixated on the two curved bands of wood. I watched intently as the chair moved up and down. I was caught in a daze, watching as the portions of the curved wood kissed the linoleum floor. Like a couple of jaded lovers, the kiss would only last a second. As quickly as the wood touched the ground, it was gone again. It was a simple, painful reminder that our time, here, is fleeting.

I rubbed my cheek, feeling the remainder of moisture that still resided on it. I pressed the left over tear between my thumb and pointer finger, trying desperately, to somehow reduce the pain that resided within it. Pressing hard, I struggled, in a vain attempt, to shrink the wound. Slowly, my skin absorbed the dampness, and, along with it, the pain. It was a never ending cycle. Swiftly, the pain I had just released came back to me.

Silently, I prayed for hope, healing, and happiness. No answer came. As badly as I yearned for a miracle, as I watched him lying there, I somehow knew one wasn’t available. Despite the rather bulky, metal cross, black and speckled with golden flakes, salvation didn’t seem to preside in the room. It hung, crookedly, on the wall; contrasting against the bland, egg shell colored paint. The large, silver nail sloped slightly downward, allowing the pressure from the weight of the cross to slowly urge the nail to leave the confines of the wall. I imagined the heavy cross falling to the ground in a chaotic moment of noise, excitement, and fear.

The cross held my sight, my mind, in a trance. The hefty, wooden door opened with a squeak, rescuing me from my thoughts. Startled, I blinked my blue eyes rapidly, attempting to adjust to the bright light that now penetrated the room. A blur consumed them as they worked to focus. I blinked a few more times as remnants of my tears escaped their prison. I closed my eyes, searching, desiring some relief.

As the beeping and creaking continued to fill the air in room 218, I stood up from the worn, uncomfortable chair, and stretched. My red and black Nike basketball shorts clung to my legs, eager to leave the orange vinyl that covered the cushion of the bench. My arms shook, and my legs shuttered. I yawned, clasping my hand over my mouth. My muscles were weak. I was so tired. Another yawn came, more powerful than the one before. If I was this tired, she had to be exhausted. As I watched the two of them, I smiled. This moment was a peaceful one amongst the chaos that had consumed our lives. This was a moment, that despite the heartache, I wouldn’t forget.

I finished stretching as I watched the woman; short and small in stature, older, nimble on her feet, Hispanic; cleaning the room. She quickly mopped the aged linoleum floor, and emptied the trash can into a large bin. I stared as aluminum cans sharing the words; Monster, Dr. Pepper, and Diet Coke spilled out. Candy wrappers; Reese’s, KitKat, Snickers, and Skittles followed. Lastly, a piece of paper took its turn, tumbling downwards. The once, white paper, was covered with colorful cars, bouncing balls, names, and smiling faces. As I watched it fall, more tears escaped my eyes.

The woman turned, whipping her long, dark, but graying hair. As she reached for the cold steel of the door handle, I yelled.

“WAIT!”

She jumped. Startled, she turned nervously around, looking wearily at me. I approached her, the tears still falling from my eyes. She smiled apprehensively. I, cautiously, reached into the bin of dejected waste. My hand, slightly shaking, grasped the smoothness of the paper. My eyes fixated on the names, colored in black and red graffiti writing…

JAMMER & JAMAL…THE GOOSE - THE MONGOOSE 2004.

I smiled, widely, for the first time in hours. I looked up at her, patted her on the back, and held the door for her to leave. She excused herself with a nod of the head, and a smile. As I watched her leave, I thought about all that she had experienced.  Countless times, she had probably entered rooms like this one. She had probably been in countless rooms filled with tears, screams, and sobs. She had probably seen sickness, pain, and death, countless times. Sweet and innocent, she had probably become a mere fragment in countless horrible, heart breaking memories.

On the other hand, she had probably entered countless rooms filled with smiles, laughter, and happy tears. She had probably seen recoveries, life changing events, and even miracles. Likewise, she had probably become a mere fragment in countless joyful, uplifting memories.

I wondered where her fragment would land in mine. Which role would it play? I yearned to find out. Desperately, I needed to know.

The beeping of the heart rate monitor continued, but the creaking of the antique rocking chair had stopped. Glancing over, I noticed she had finally fallen asleep. Her heavy eyes had shut. For now, the tears had subsided. She slept. Her beautiful, dark face appeared content, almost serene. For the first time in 48 hours, she appeared to be at peace.

Gray hairs, here and there, had begun to find their way into her thick, lengthy black hair. Her hair was pushed behind her tiny, almost elf-like ears. His eyes, still closed tight, were held together by her long, full eyelashes. Her small nose came to a distinctive point. Her lips, pressed together, seemed to tremble slightly. The past couple years had aged her dramatically. Wrinkles had started to appear on her brow. The creases, filled with worry, reminded me again, of the fate that awaited us. The tears returned.

Despite the exhaustion and the age, she was still a beautiful woman. Inside and out, she was patient, loving, and kind. Her soul was full of wisdom and understanding. I admired her. Her strength, her determination, her faith; all were inspiring.

Her face twitched as lines of happiness formed on it. Still asleep, she smiled slightly. She was probably dreaming of a better time; a time when her son was happy, healthy, and safe. My heart ached for her. I longed for her dreams to become our reality. I wished to retract the immense pain from her tattered soul.  For now, as I watched, for the first time in days, she slept soundly. For a moment, she appeared happy. The pain wasn’t gone, but, for now, it was confined within the dreams of a mother.

            The air conditioning began to hum, sending more frigid air in to the room. I looked upwards, first seeing the tiles of the ceiling, followed by the metal vent that was positioned next to the slanting metal cross. Goosebumps began to form on my arms. The hospital was surely attempting to kill every living germ in the room. For that, I was grateful. The tiniest germ could result in irreversible consequences. I folded my arms tightly against my chest, attempting to find them some much needed warmth. I looked at her, and she had started to stir.

I reached over, grabbing the gorgeous, purple and teal, wool quilt from the bedside table. The softness of the quilt reminded me of so many things; a spring morning, a soft kiss, a favorite sweatshirt. My fingers felt the holes as I clutched the blanket close. Memories flooded my mind, causing my knees to feel weak. Tears, of both varieties, happy and sad, streamed down my cheeks. I wondered if these memories would become permanent ones; memories I would never physically relive again. Would they become permanent fragments in mind? Were they simply destined to become mere snapshots of my life, memories that I longed to remember, but painfully desired to forget? I couldn’t help but wonder.

            Lightly, I spread the quilt over her body, hoping she would remain asleep. As I did, she clutched a portion of it in her right hand, and pulled it closely to herself. She smiled slightly. My fingers released the quilt, letting go of the warmth and softness, and hoping that I could let go of my thoughts with it. I desperately wanted my thoughts to slip out of the darkness in my head. If only I could release them from my mind, but couldn’t. They sat there, each one, a constant reminder of the impending events.

            The pattern of the beeping coming from the heart rate monitor changed. It was sudden. There was no warning. It startled me initially, but it was nothing to be alarmed about. The rhythm of his heart, even in his almost comatose state, still had the unique ability to affect the rhythm of mine. My heart fluttered. Originally, the flutters were in absolute panic, followed by imperfect hope, and rounded out, by insurmountable pain. I grasped at my chest, rubbing over my heart with the palm of my hand.

            I looked down at him, still not waiting to accept the fragility of his situation. I didn’t want to accept that he was dying. I didn’t want to accept that the cancer had ravaged his young body; robbing him of his innocence and youth. I didn’t want to accept that the time was coming when I would have to say goodbye. I didn’t want to accept that his mother would be without a son.

            His eyes were closed tightly, in a vain attempt, to contain the remaining beauty of the brown light that still resided in them. His brown skin was cool and smooth to the touch. I studied the inch long scar located just beneath his right eye brow, and I smiled. It reminded me of a better day, one with more smiles and laughs than today. His short, black hair was much longer than normal. Since the chemotherapy had been dismissed, his hair was coming back, thick and full. His lips quivered, moving slightly. They were dry, cracking, and painful looking. I touched them softly, feeling the dryness, and hoping to consume the pain.