The Gift of Life

The Gift of Life

    I.

    Romero DeTales stepped out of the diamond-encrusted elevator, his blue eyes surveying the vast, elegant nature of his mansion lobby. He stepped forward with a loud cough, marching up to a tall, thin, balding man in the distance.

    “Good morning, Mr. DeTales!” Miles, his loyal butler greeted him, a small black box in his hands. “Look what came in the mail today!”

    “Miles, just what the hell is that?” Romero DeTales said with a thunderous cough, examining as the middle-aged butler opened the box, a luminescent, expensive wristwatch appearing inside.

    Miles crinkled his nose, his droopy maroon eyes fixed upon the boxed wristwatch seated in his stiff, pale palms. “This is the wristwatch that you requested in the mail,” he reminded the wealthy twenty-four-year-old. “A Rolex GMT worth four-hundred and eighty-five thousand, three-hundred and fifty dollars. Featuring a wave diamond dial with luminous hour markers. The bracelet is made of eighteen karat gold, filled with diamonds along with the side. The case and locks are also encrusted with seventy-six brilliant round diamonds.”

    Romero scoffed, tightening his leopard coat, crinkling his tan forehead, letting off another cough. “You’re shitting me, right?” He said, clearing his throat. “That is not the watch I wanted. Get it out of my face.”

    “But sir, I thought this was a Christmas gift for your mother,” Miles rebutted. “I was to visit her next week and—”

    “This was for me!” Romero barked, hacking yet again, sweat beginning to pour out from his beach blonde hair. “You know I don't do Christmas presents! You know that I wanted the 1942 Rolex Chronograph! Why would you do this to me? You know what, just give it to me anyway. God, you’re useless.”

    Romero coughed, snatching the wristwatch from Miles’s hands. “What was the total for this piece of junk?”

    “Four-hundred and eighty-five thousand, four hundred and sixty seven dollars, including shipping and handling,” Miles said.

    “I wouldn’t expect anyone as broke as you to understand the concept of money,” Romero said with a hollow wheeze. “Not double-checking with me to make sure you got the right watch. Wasting my money. Maybe you wouldn’t be broke as a homeless man if you knew how to spend money wisely.”

    “Well, uh, you only pay me minimum wage,” Miles said. “I mean…I’m sorry. Your father did pay me much more. But, don’t worry about that. Erm, what were your plans for today? I…I wanted to request a favor from you, if you aren’t too busy.”

    Romero sneered, coughing violently, his brows furrowing in annoyance. “No! I had a party this afternoon! Then I was going to go shopping! Favor, are you kidding me, Miles?”

    The middle-aged butler adjusted his glasses over his face and frowned. “I was going on Facebook last night, and there was this post about a boy who is in the hospital. His name is Jimmy.”

    “A boy in the hospital? Why? What’s wrong with him?”

    “Cancer.”

    “Cancer?”

    "Advanced brain cancer,” Miles said. “I saw some videos, and…erm, do you want me to pull them up? He’s just the most adorable thing ever, sir.”

    Romero shook his head. “Save it. Just…why are you telling me about this kid, anyway? Why should I care?”

    “Well, erm,” Miles said, adjusting his jacket collar. “He’s just an adorable child is all…there’s a video, a video of him, yes! That’s what it was I was trying to say. Ahem. There’s a video of him online of him selling lemonade to raise money for American Cancer Society.”

    Romero laughed. “What’s that? A society that gives people cancer? Maybe they can do that to you.”

    Miles sighed, doing his best to ignore Romero’s discourteous remark. “The boy started giving away lemonade for free to homeless people outside of Fairfax, Virginia. It was just…so adorable. He’s five years old, and only has a few weeks to live. They don’t expect him to make it until Christmas. His dream in life is to sell houses, just like you do, sir!”

    “That’s so touching,” Romero scoffed, starting for the front door to his mansion. “And I don’t care. And I don’t get why you’re telling me this.”

    “Well sir, I wanted to know if you wanted to go visit with him,” Miles said. “I think that would make his day. And I can't afford a plane ticket without your money...”

    Romero jolted back around, violently coughing, his chest wheezing in agony. “Are you serious, Miles?” He said. “No! I’m not going to go spend my time visiting some snot nosed kid. I have a party to go to.”

    “Sir, did you forget about your doctor’s appointment?” Miles asked. “I set one up for you so you could check out that cough. It’s about an hour from now.”

    Romero sighed, brushing his hand down his face, picking up sweat on his palm, letting out another cough. “Yes, yes, of course I remembered,” he lied. “You know I detest…doctors. Agh. All up close and personal…disgusting. The only ones who are ever going to know what’s wrong with me are three people. Me, myself, and I! Nonetheless, I’ll wait for the doctors to arrive in my bedroom. Fetch me some coffee and an omelet in the meantime.”

    Miles crinkled his nose, his eyes twitching mildly as he fixed his jacket. “Actually, I ordered your appointment to be in a public medical facility,” he said.

    “You what?” Romero shouted, stomping his foot, beginning to cough and wheeze and hack brutally, saliva dripping from his lips to the floor. “No! You son of a…I refuse! I’m worth two billion dollars! Doctors come to me!”

    “It’s too late to change anything,” Miles lied, grabbing a handkerchief and approaching Romero.

    “F-Fine!” Romero reluctantly said, smacking away his butler and starting towards the door.

    II.

    “This place looks run down like a homeless shelter,” Romero complained, his eyes surveying the worn out doctor’s office lobby, white paint peeling off the dusty walls, uncomfortable looking red chairs torn up with poor, dirty, overweight people seated in the chairs. “Why the fuck did you take me here?”

    “Hey, mind watching the language?” A morbidly overweight raven haired man said, dressed in a white tank top and blue jeans, a chubby brunette girl appearing to be about four years old in the seat beside him. “My daughter is right here, and she doesn’t need to be hearing that stuff.”

    “She also doesn’t need to be eating Ho-Hos and donuts all day every day either,” Romero barked, turning back to his lanky butler. “Miles, why did you take me here? How could it have been too late to schedule a meeting with my real doctor?”

    Miles opened his mouth to answer, before his cell phone went blaring off. “I have to take this, if you’ll excuse me,” he said, checking the caller ID and starting towards the lobby door.

    In actuality, it was not too late for Miles to schedule a doctor to visit Romero’s mansion. But Miles wanted nothing less than to teach his client some humility. And what better ways to do just that than making him visit the poorest, most rundown doctor’s office in the entire state?

    Romero sighed, adjusting his leather jacket and starting towards a seat near the man and daughter. He scoffed, crinkling his nose upon getting a whiff of the man’s foul, fish-like odor. “You smell lfike manure,” he said. “Don’t you ever take showers or anything?”

    “Can’t,” the man said. “Got this nasty brown stuff running out of the water pipes. Got no way to fix it. Spent all my money on my daughter’s Christmas gifts this year.”

    The man pulled the girl up onto his lap, her thick brunette hair waving, as she turned her head towards Romero, her sparkly blue eyes meeting his.

    “Go ahead, tell him how old you are,” the man said.

    “I’m Michelle! I’m this much years old!” she jollily said, raising her enlarged fists and pulling out four fingers.

    The man chuckled, putting the girl back down to her seat. “Yeah. That’s how old she is, alright.”

    “Where do you work? Aren’t you married? What about your mother?” Romero said. “I mean, not your mother, your wife. What about your wife?”

    Andrew sighed, scratching his left forearm, sniffling loudly as he readjusted himself on the chair, attempting to find some ounce of comfort. “My wife is dead,” he said, sniffling and rubbing his nose. “She passed away in a car accident two years ago. I quit my job to raise Michelle and, well, that’s that. But, pretty soon, I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

    “What do you mean by that?” Romero asked.

    “I’m here today because I have advanced heart disease,” the man said. “I could die at any moment. And I’m only thirty six. It scares me. I mean, I’m okay with dying, but it’s about my parents. It’s about my brother and sister. It’s about Michelle. She’s only four years old, and to lose both her parents? That’s…that’s insane. I’ve been trying to get her to lose some weight, same with me…but it’s not always easy. I’ve learned that the hard way. You know I used to be four hundred and eighty pounds? Now I’m three hundred and ninety pounds, but I’m still too big. I’m still dying. It’s like I put in all this hard work, and now none of it even matters.”

    The door to the doctor’s office opened, a pale, thin blonde nurse appearing in the doorway. “Andrew?” the woman said.

    The overweight man raised his arm, slowly slinking up from his chair, scooping Michelle up into his arms. “That’s me,” he said, starting towards the door.

    “W-Wait!” Romero said, letting off a cough, clearing his throat as he jumped to his feet, a strange wave of energy and pain he was unfamiliar with running through him. “Here.”

    Romero reached into his right pocket, sighed, and pulled out his heavy leather wallet. “I don’t know…I don’t know how much it will cost…but…here…here, just take it. Take it all.”

    Romero opened his wallet and pulled out several hundred dollar bills, handing it towards Andrew, as the emotional pain magically began to simmer and disappear. “My…my father was a real estate tycoon, a very wealthy individual. I inherited…I inherited a ton of money from him when he took his own life a few years ago. Please, just take it.”

    Andrew’s jaw dropped to the floor, his eyes watering with sheer presence of utter surprise. “You…you’re not serious? That has to be at least…at least a thousand dollars. Sir, there are a lot of people who need that more than me.”

    “That’s pocket change to me,” Romero scoffed, coughing into a balled up fist. “Just take it, please.”

    Andrew gasped, his hands trembling as he took the money into his right hand. “I…I don’t know what to say,” he said. “Nobody has ever done something that nice to me before. I…I could say thank you, but I’m not sure that would be enough. I will…I will repay you for this someday. Wh-what is your name?”

    Romero shook his head, still attempting to grasp just what it was he was feeling inside. Still attempting grasp just what it was it to give that much money away, to a complete stranger no less. “D-don’t worry about it,” he weakly said.

III.

    One hour later…

    “Miles, what the hell is taking them so long?” Romero sneered, his left palm pressed on his chin. “We’ve been in here for a goddamn hour. I’m sick of waiting for a doctor to come here.”

    The door finally opened, the same nurse from before appearing. “Romero?” she said.

    “About time,” Romero scoffed, coughing into his fist, rising to his feet. “Stay here, Miles.”

    “I was planning on it,” Miles said, his head buried into a James Patterson book.

    “Right this way,” the nurse said.

    Romero followed the nurse through the door, and ultimately down the hallway.

    IV.

    Ninety minutes later…

    The doctor examined her lung x-rays carefully, her lips trembling, her body shaking. “Mr. DeTales? You...you said you were a smoker, yes?”

    “Very rare occasions,” Mr. DeTales said. “And by that, I mean I have to be completely drunk. I can’t stand the smell. Why? Why do you ask? What’s on that clipboard you have in your hands? Is that the results of the x-ray that I requested you do?”

    The doctor’s body tightened, her glare fixating on the wealthy man. “Mr. DeTales…you have lung cancer.”

    V.

    Every single muscle in Romero’s body froze, his jaw dropping, his eyes widening with the glow of a thousand shocks. He twitched and he gasped and he breathed hollow breaths, trying to come up with the words but words weren’t enough. “Ca-ca…cancer?” He finally muttered, an unearthing scorn in his dry voice. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no!”

    Romero hopped off the small bed, violently shaking his head back and forth with a loud, thunderous cough. “No, no, no, no, no, no…cancer, no. I don’t have cancer! That…that’s ridiculous! That’s completely idiotic!”

    “Sir, I have the x-rays right here, there are all sorts of--”

    “Enough!” Romero shouted, coughing and wheezing and hacking ever violently, starting for the door to the hallway. “You have no idea! I can’t get cancer! I’m…I’m…I’m rich. You’re broke. You’re broke, and that’s why you’re wrong. I’m leaving.”

    “Sir—”

    “I’ll have my own personal physician consult me on this,” Romero said. “Goodbye, you lousy, good for nothing!”

    VI.

    Two hours later…

    Romero’s personal physician sighed, packing his equipment back into his suitcase. “I’m sorry, Mr. DeTales,” he said, staring solemnly at Romero as he sat up on his bed, kicking his feet back and forth. “You do indeed have lung cancer.”

    "But I’m going to get better, right?” Romero scoffed. “I mean, I have all the money in the world! I can get the best treatment there is. I can afford it!”

    The doctor shook his head. “I’m afraid its terminal and inoperable. Damned may cancer be, it isn’t biased. Cancer doesn’t care about money, fame, power, or wealth, nor race, gender, height or weight. It kills anyone it wants, without mercy, without remorse. It is the worst serial killer the world has ever known.”

    Romero’s eyes widened in an unrelenting fear. “That means I’m going to die? Oh, no! No, no, no, no, no!”

    “Mr. DeTales, the best we can hope for with chemotherapy is to try to slow the tumors from growing and spreading, but they're very, very aggressive. With proper diet and exercise, I’ll give you…a year. Two at most. Now, I’m going to be late, I have another patient I need to see.”

    “Wait! No! Doctor!” Romero shouted, lunging off his bed. “Stay here and talk to me! I need you! I’ll…I’ll pay you more!”

    The doctor froze, turned around and sighed. “Money isn’t everything,” he said. “You aren’t the only person in the world who is sick, you know. I’ll be back tomorrow to discuss your treatment.”

    Without another word, the doctor turned around and left.

    Romero stormed back to his bed, grabbing a glass vase off the corner table.

    “Ngh!”

    With an audible grunt, Romero tossed the vase across the room, watching as it shattered into a million pieces. With a hack and a cough, he jumped on his bed and began to cry.

    VII.

    The next morning, Miles stood in the mansion lobby, packing various belongings into his suitcase, when Romero approached him with a loud yawn. “Good morning, Miles,” he said.

    Miles scrunched his eyebrows, not used to hearing a greeting that wasn’t ‘Get me some coffee’ since Romero’s father passed away. “Oh…uh, good morning. I hadn’t seen you since yesterday. I’m sorry to hear about your--”

    “I don’t want to talk about it!” Romero shouted, causing Miles to flinch slightly. “Why are you packing…?”

    “Oh. Well, you remember the kid I told you about yesterday? The one with cancer?”

    Romero nodded. “Yes…Jamie, was his name?”

    “Jimmy,” Miles corrected. “I’m taking a plane ride to visit him, but I still don’t know what to get him for Christmas. Di-did you have any ideas, sir?”

    Miles put his finger to his lips and sighed. “No…no, I’m afraid I don’t. But…I have an idea. Why don’t I come along with you?”

    Miles’s mouth widened in surprise. “Oh, yes…yes, yes, that would be great!” He said. “I’ll pack your things and—”

    “Stay here,” Romero said. “I’ll take care of that.”

    VIII.

    Romero packed his things, and the two boarded a plane bound all the way to Virginia. “Say, Miles...how did you afford your plane ticket anyway?”

    “I um well, you know, I—”

    Romero shook his head, rolling his eyes. “I remember what you said yesterday. There’s only one person you associate who would have the money for a—you stole from me, didn’t you?”

    Miles sighed. “I was…okay! I admit it. I’m sorry. Alright? I’m sorry.”

    “Great. You’re also fired,” Romero said, folding his arms.

    “What…what? N-No! It was Andrew! The man in the doctor’s office!”

    “What about him?”

    “After you left, he gave me all the money back!”

    “Wait, what? Why? Why would he do that?”

    “He said he didn’t want handouts!” Miles exclaimed.

    “And why would you do that,” Romero scoffed. “That was my money, and…and, and you didn’t even ask!”

    “Well, it's not exactly your money!” Romero shouted. “It's...it's your father's. You’re not like your father was. I miss him. I miss him badly. I want…I wanted to work for him. Ever since he committed suicide, and I was forced to start working for you…I’ve just been miserable! It’s miserable catering to the every whim of a spoiled, useless, moronic brat who has earned nothing of what he has in life! So, you won’t need to fire me…sir. I quit.”

    Romero said nothing back as the plane continued to cruise through the sky, others on the plane turning towards him and then back to the direction they came. After a lengthy pause, he crossed his arms and sighed. “Why did he do it?” He asked.

    “Why did who do what?” Miles said.

    “Why did my father, you know, kill himself?”

    Miles rolled his eyes, crinkled his nose, and took a deep breath. “Because money just isn’t the thing that brings happiness.”

    “That’s ridiculous,” Romero said. “I’ve always been happy. At least until yesterday when I learned that I had cancer. At least that cough medicine I began to take seems to be doing the trick. But soon enough this horrid disease will eat me alive and there’s nothing I can do about it. Oh…the horror. I don’t want to die, Miles, I don’t want to die!”

    “Maybe if you beat your disease and grow old, you’ll realize something your father did,” Miles said. “If you have everything in the world that you want put right in front of you, you may feel happy at first, but soon enough it won’t mean anything anymore. You get used to having it, and you expect to have it. You’ll want friends. You’ll want family. That’s what matters in life. People who care about you. But when you have money, you’ll find that people care more about the green bills than the one who carries them. That’s what your father found out.”

    "We are going to land in Fairfax, Virginia in fifteen minutes,” a woman on the intercom said.

    “What you did in the doctor’s office…it was amazing,” Miles said. “I’d never seen you do anything like it.”

    “Yeah, yeah, something…something came over me,” Romero admitted. “Just…forget about it. If I’m dying in two years, what good does it do me anyway?”

    IX.

    *Knock* *Knock* *Knock*

    Miles knocked on the front door of the address he retrieved online of the residence where Jimmy Schow lived with his single mother, Lila. Moments later, the door opened, where a pale, young blonde lady appeared dressed in a blue coat, her cheeks pink and her blue eyes soaked in water. “Oh…hello there, I’m sorry, but is there something you need?” she said, her voice choked up and tears trying their best to escape her eyes.

    “Yes,” Miles said. “I had…we, had heard about your son, Jimmy. We wanted to--”

    “Oh no,” Lila said, beginning to sob and cry uncontrollably. “He…he’s…dying! His disease took a turn for the worst this morning. He just slipped into unconsciousness. I called 911 and I’m waiting for the ambulance to arrive.”

    “Looks like we arrived at the worst time possible,” Romero said, sensing the dramatic urgency in the situation.

    “I’m sorry, you two need to leave,” Lila said.

    “No,” Miles said, shaking his head. “We’ll wait together and ride in the ambulance. Get in the house. You should be giving him CPR, and more importantly, someone to depend on.”

    X.

    The hospital room was tiny and cramped, but Lila Schow felt some sort of shrouded comfort finding herself along with two strangers, a sense of comfort she didn’t quite fully understand. “Doctor…is my son going to make it?” She asked, staring solemnly at Jimmy as he laid unconscious on the hospital bed, IVs now running through his veins, a plastic tube running through his nose.

    The doctor sighed, clenching her fists and taking a deep breath. “I’m afraid it’s difficult to say at this point, his brain functions are shutting off at alarming rate. I suggest you say whatever you want to say to him as a goodbye right now.”

    The doctor stepped out of the room, quietly closing the door behind her. Lila took a deep breath and approached the bed, wiping tears away from her eyes. “I’m…I’m twenty one years old,” she said to Jimmy. “When you get pregnant at sixteen, it’s like…it’s like the whole entire world turns against you, just shuns you like you’re some sort of monster. When your father wanted nothing to do with you, when my parents wanted nothing to do with you, I almost…I almost did the same exact thing. But I didn’t. And for five years, I made you happy. And you made me happy. And that’s the only Christmas gift I’d ever need from you. I wish I could give you the gift of life, Jimmy. But I’m afraid that’s something none of us can ever afford.”

    Lila turned towards Romero and Miles. “Thank you for coming with me here,” she said, nodding her head and stepping towards the door to the lobby.

    Once Lila was gone, Romero sighed and coughed mildly into a fist, looking at Miles with stuttering lips and a blank expression. “Miles, do you mind stepping out for a moment? I’d like a moment alone if that’s not too much to ask.”

    Miles nodded. “Yes, sir. I will be back in a moment to check on you.”

    Miles stepped out of the room, quietly shutting the door behind him.

    Romero stepped up to the bed, taking a deep sigh and stretching his arms. “So, we’ve come to this,” he said. “A mansion, the best friend I could ever had just outside that door and all the money in the world and none of it matters in the end. Next year, both of us will be dead.”

    Romero looked at the comatose Jimmy, rolling his eyes over to the vital sign, then back to the bald, chubby faced five year old, battered and wounded by years of battling his disease. “But at least I’ve gotten twenty years to live. I wonder what you would’ve done with those twenty years. I did nothing. Nothing but act spoiled, act entitled to everything I’ve gotten. I wonder how much you would’ve looked forward to Christmas this year. I know I didn’t. Anything I want, I can already afford and nobody else can. I’ve…I’ve always been too selfish to give anything for Christmas so…”

    Romero blinked at the child, who didn’t move a muscle. “What?” he scoffed, his voice beginning to choke up. “Can’t you move? Can’t you open your eyes and look at me? N-no. Of course you can’t. Because the boat we share is about to sink. Here. Merry Christmas.”

    Romero pulled the expensive silver watch from his pocket. He grabbed Jimmy's thin wrist, and with a deep breath, wrapped the watch around it.

    Jimmy Schow passed away the next day. His mother Lila attempted suicide, but survived, got married to the doctor who saved her, and had three more children. Miles and Romero made contact with Andrew, who reluctantly accepted the money. With an active lifestyle and vegan diet, he lost one hundred pounds over the course of a year, and lived another twenty years. Michelle grew up to become an elementary school teacher.

    Romero passed away from lung cancer exactly one year after the story took place. He left his fortune to Miles, who used the money to begin his own cancer research charity, with the high hopes of one day finding a cure for the disease.

    The End