Westpoint Tales
by Kiwi
Entangled Tales - 2 - Justin
Bob Reynolds stood beside his weeping wife, one hand on her shoulder. He pulled out a large handkerchief, wiped his own eyes, then passed it to Kathleen. Looking across at Marcie and Paul, he nodded towards the door and led them out into the corridor.
"Well, he's one of ours all right - no doubt about that. Thanks for taking care of him. What's wrong with him? And when can we take him home? I've got my car out there."
"Whoa, Bob. Slow down. The doctor hasn't even seen him yet. I don't know what's wrong with him, doesn't seem to be a lot - apart from those eyes! And he obviously needs some TLC."
"Tender Loving Care? Well he'll get plenty of that for sure. Look at my Kathy in there - talk about love at first sight!"
[‘My Kathy? He calls the Dragon-lady My Kathy?’]
Paul said, "Marcie's right, we have to slow down here. Even after the doctor's been we'll still have to involve the child welfare people - he's underage and has apparently been abandoned. Is there a father somewhere? Anyway it's not 100% certain that they'd let him stay with you, there will be procedures and regulations."
"Procedures and regulations? Do you want to stand between Kathy and that boy? I certainly wouldn't be game to try. It would be safer to get between a tigress and her cub."
"But, how are you sure, Bob? That he is one of yours? Mrs. Reynolds said to me before that you don't know of any grandsons. I mean, what concrete proof is there, emotions aside? Have you ever met him before even?"
"No. We've never laid eyes on him in his life or his brother either. We did hear of them when they were born - up in Hamilton it was - but by the time I contacted the hospital our daughter had taken them and gone, nobody knew where. We've never had any contact at all. But if you want proof that he's ours, go up to the Adelphi, have a look at any of my old sports team photos in the bar. The boy doesn't just look like me, that's my face exactly. Even the long hair is the same - back when I had hair that is. Amazing really.
The Maoris call their grandchildren their 'mokopuna'. That means the reflection of the 'moko' or face. There's no more proof needed than that."
"Well, yes. That would be a consideration of course. But I suppose it's best just to wait and see what he's got to say for himself."
"In any case, there's no abandonment here, you've seen that letter. He's just being passed on from one family member to another. That's not abandoning - that is our boy. We'll be taking him home with us, and God help anyone who tries to stop her!"
Time passed. Paul went back to the station to finish up his shift. Marcie handed over to the dayshift and left for home. Bob returned to the hotel. Kathleen sat and watched and waited.
Eventually a doctor arrived clutching his clipboard, to be growled at by the anxious grandmother. After politely but firmly ejecting her to the corridor, the doctor woke the sleeping boy and proceeded to examine him.
After a few minutes the doctor came out and sat down next to Kathleen. "Well, can I go back in there? Is he awake?"
"Mrs. Reynolds, yes he's awake, but before you go back in there, you should know that that is a very sick young man, and he knows it. He probably hasn't got long to live."
"Not long? But what is wrong with him Doctor - ah, Miller, isn't it?"
"Reuben Miller, yes. He has a rare condition, actually a type of cancer."
"Cancer?"
"A type of cancer, there are many different forms. This one is known as 'Kajinsky's Syndrome." Quite rare and very serious, inevitably fatal I'm afraid. I'm going to have to make some inquiries. I know very little about it, but he does. He has lived with it for some time now and knows all about it. Quite extraordinary to be lectured on a medical condition by a 14 year old boy. That is a remarkable young man. Such a waste, tragic. I'm sorry."
"Fatal? So he's definitely going to --? How long has he got then?"
"I don't know. He said that he wasn't expected to live past puberty, but that's already passed now."
"Is there no hope at all? I mean, there must be some cure, some sort of treatment?"
"I don't know. I really don't know - but he says that there isn't. I'm sorry, Mrs. Reynolds, I really am sorry. Look, the boy is a stranger to you. Maybe it would be best not to get too involved."
"Not get involved?!! I am involved. That's not a stranger in there, that's my bloody grandson! And he is literally bloody isn't he? The poor wee lamb."
"From what I understand, the blood vessels are breaking, rupturing, and leaking blood around the eyes. His tear ducts don't function properly. Normally tears continually wash and lubricate the eyeballs' surfaces. But in Justin's case it's the blood that does it."
"So, he cries tears of blood then? That's not good, but will it really, kill him?"
No. The real damage is happening inside, in the brain. I'm surprised that he isn't blind already actually."
"In the brain? So is he brain damaged then?"
"Not in the way you're thinking. He's as sharp as a tack. Wouldn't surprise me if he was genius material actually. What a waste."
"So, what do we do now? Can we take him home?"
"I don't see why not. I'll do some research and I'll be in touch. You take him home and, well, just be guided by what he says - he knows what he needs, better than anyone. Keep the dark glasses on him at all times, keep him away from bright lights, and, well, he knows."
Kathleen used a telephone to summon her husband, then returned to the ward to meet her grandson. After a brief introduction and explanation of the plan, she sat with her back turned while Justin dressed in the same gray clothes he had worn the night before.
Bob Reynolds arrived and greeted the quiet boy, and then they returned to the hotel where Kathleen sat him down at the kitchen table and served him with sufficient breakfast to feed three hungry men.
He ate very sparingly and only when told to "Eat up, have some more." Mostly he just sat quietly gazing at the table before him - though it was hard to tell where he was looking behind those large, black, wrap-around glasses.
"So, Justin Reynolds," said Bob sitting down opposite him. "Welcome to your new home. There are so many questions; I don't know where to begin. Are those prescription glasses? Or are they just sunglasses?"
"They are just sunglasses, Sir."
"Sir? Don't call me Sir. I'm your grandfather, Son. Call me Granddad, or Gramps, or whatever you choose. Call me Bob if you like, but don't call me 'Sir'."
"Yes Sir."
"Yes Sir? Ah, well, we'll work on it. Do you have to wear the sunglasses all the time? "
"Yes Sir."
"And why is that then?"
"For my eyes. The light hurts them."
"So you have to wear the glasses all the time - day and night?"
"Yes Sir."
Kathleen sat down next to Bob and said. "Justin, would you show us your eyes please? The people at the hospital told us, but I'd just like to see for myself."
"Yes, Ma'am." He lifted the glasses and looked up at them. The eyes were round and large in his small, pale face. Deep blue pupils swam in pools of blood. The 'whites' of his eyes were totally red - blood red.
"Thank you, Justin. You just wear the glasses whenever you like."
"So, Justin," said Bob. “ Next question, where is your brother?"
"I do not have a brother, Sir."
"But you do. Or you did anyway. When you were born there were two of you. You had a twin, an identical twin brother. Didn't you know that?"
The silent boy sat, stunned. Then his face crumpled, blood-red tears flowed, his head slumped forward, and he sat sobbing into his chest.
"Justin? Oh, Justin, don't." Kathleen came around the table and reached out to comfort him, but he flinched and cringed away from her. "It's okay. It's all right, Son, it's all right." She stepped back holding up her open hands.
Kathleen passed the boy a box of tissues. He took one, wiped his face below the glasses, and looked across at Bob. "Nobody told me. Nobody ever told me that I had a brother. I did not know. But, I did! I did know." Tears flowed again.
He wiped his face again, and continued, "I did know. I have always known that something was missing. I have always felt an empty space beside me. An empty, empty space."
Again he collapsed forward, sobbing, "My brother. My own brother. Where is he?"
This time they knew better than to try to touch him. Eventually he calmed down, wiped his bloody face, and said, "She did not tell me. Maybe he died, or more probably, she may have sold him as a baby. She would do that, for the money. It is a pity that she did not sell me as well. Perhaps my life would have been better. It could not have been much worse."
"But at least you were with your mother."
"You do not know, Sir. I hope that you never know."
After that outburst, he volunteered no more information. Days passed. Weeks, then months passed. Dr. Miller came to the hotel several times, tried different tests and spent time questioning Justin's knowledge of his condition. The doctor always left shaking his head.
Social Workers turned up once, but they made a rapid retreat in the face of Mrs. Reynolds' fury. They never came back.
Authors deserve your feedback. It's the only payment they get. If you go to the top of the page you will find the author's name. Click that and you can email the author easily.* Please take a few moments, if you liked the story, to say so.
[For those who use webmail, or whose regular email client opens when they want to use webmail instead: Please right click the author's name. A menu will open in which you can copy the email address (it goes directly to your clipboard without having the courtesy of mentioning that to you) to paste into your webmail system (Hotmail, Gmail, Yahoo etc). Each browser is subtly different, each Webmail system is different, or we'd give fuller instructions here. We trust you to know how to use your own system. Note: If the email address pastes or arrives with %40 in the middle, replace that weird set of characters with an @ sign.]
* Some browsers may require a right click instead
