Between Enzo and the Universe

by Chase Connor

  Seizures were a side effect of the collection of extra, though benign, cells that formed a lump the size of a golf ball in my head, pushing against a vital part of my frontal lobe. From birth, it was apparent that my twitching and fits were not the normal behavior of a baby, and my parents soon found out about the tumor in my brain after several visits to the hospital. The medication I had taken for as long as I could remember was to keep me from having life-threatening seizures, and many visits to doctors only led to my parents being told that it was something we would have to endure. Though attempts were made over the years to try and surgically remove the tumor, to see if I could live without the medication and not have seizures, those attempts failed.

  In the morning, before the sun had even begun to rise, we would check into a hospital. We would do paperwork, and I would be taken to a room. A needle would be placed in a vein in my arm, and my head would be shaved—usually, the side the tumor was on, but sometimes my entire head—and I would wait, doing my best to not cry or shake from fear. My mother and father would sit with me—sometimes my grandmother would join them—and they would do their best to keep my spirits up while I froze in the thin hospital gown. Then a doctor would come in, smiling widely, for it was not his head being sliced into, and tell us it was time. Then I would be wheeled away, my parents waving and doing their best to look strong as I headed towards surgery. Strange men and women would stand over me in a room and prepare to make an attempt at extracting the tumor from my brain. The last thing I would remember would be a mask being put over my face and the world going blurry.

  Sometime later, though, I never knew how much later until someone told me, I would wake up in my hospital room once more. My mother and father, seeing that I had woken, would rush to my bedside to hold my hand and gently kiss me on the side of my face. My vision would be blurry, and my head would hurt—not from my brain being poked at, as the brain has no pain receptors, but from my scalp being cut into and peeled back to expose my skull. I always knew that the doctors had abandoned the surgery due to the fact that I could tell that my parents had been crying. Once again, they had gotten bad news.

  Every visit to the hospital, in an attempt to fix my problem, to make me “normal,” only resulted in a shaved head, a new scar, and black eyes that did not go away for at least a week. Even after the bruises around my eyes went away, I would have to wait months for my hair to grow in enough to cover up my fresh and old scars. School could be torturous following surgery. Children love to point out scars and shaved heads and black eyes, and anything that illustrates how someone else is different in an effort to feel less different themselves. It didn’t matter that once my hair grew in and the bruises went away, and the scars became camouflaged once more that the kids forgot about teasing me. Some scars, like the ones on my head, would always be there.

  Over the years, I began to think of the tumor in my head as just another part of my body. Like a thumb or elbow—or maybe an unborn twin. We had been together since birth and would be together when my last day was done. I would have to take medication every day for the rest of my life in order to coexist with my oldest friend, but at least we could get along if forced. As I got old enough to make my own decisions about my own health, I decided that I would never have another surgery to try and remove the tumor. I was only taking one medication a day then anyway. Once my grandmother, father, sister, and mother were no longer with us, I knew that Noe needed me more than I needed to not take my medication. It wasn’t that expensive anyway. And life was hard enough without trying to figure out his care while spending days or weeks in a hospital bed. Besides, after losing most of my family, I couldn’t have another doctor look me in the eyes and tell me that my time had been wasted once again. That all I had to show for it was a shaved head, black eyes, and one more scar to join the rest.

  My oldest friend and I would just live out our days together.

  Though, after a while, I realized that my tumor was not my only oldest friend.

  It was also the medication.

  They were the two things I had left in the world that I knew would never leave me.

  It was a comforting thought at times.

  At least some things never change.

  Le Canard Paresseux

  Pushing the warm, stylish peacoat off to let it drape over the back of my chair was nearly impossible since I was afraid it would disappear like Noe’s. Unlike Noe’s coat, however, I knew that I would never be able to pay to replace it. If Peter’s coat was grabbed by a stranger and they ran away with it, I would never forgive myself. In addition to the concerns I had about someone possibly stealing the coat—which was unlikely in a place like The Lazy Duck—I was still embarrassed by my clothing. Surely, even with someone like Peter sitting across from me, people would notice that, while my clothes were clean, they were not the best. My sweater was a little too big, the sleeves too long, my jeans had holes in them, though they could maybe pass as stylish. My canvas sneakers were obviously not meant to be worn out to dinner. With Peter sitting across from me, looking much more affluent than I, maybe people would think the worst. Maybe they would liken him to the man who had stepped out of the alcove of the closed store and offered me money after my prayers that one time?

  Swallowing down my fear and reservations, I jerkily pushed Peter’s coat off and let it gently fall onto the chair back. Luckily, The Lazy Duck was not so fancy as to have a coat check, so I had been able to wear my coat to the table. When the hostess had seen Peter and I arrive, she had glanced at me, completely unimpressed, though she had not been rude enough to smirk or sneer. Once her eyes moved to Peter, her expression changed to delight, such was the beauty and charisma of my companion. He had made her happy to see us with a mere smile while standing before her. I wanted that type of confidence and skill at making people want to be nice to me. Peter had requested a table for two in a corner, quietly telling the hostess that we were old friends with a lot of things to catch up on.

  She had been more than willing to help him achieve that goal.

  The Lazy Duck was softly lit and warm, with twenty tables and a few booths, most of which were not occupied that night. A four-sided fireplace was nestled in the center of the room, the flue reaching up to the ceiling. A bar was tucked away into the corner near the back of the dining area, close to the door that led to the kitchen, where beers, wines, and a few select drinks were prepared. All of the tables were of dark wood, roughly hewn but sanded and varnished to prevent splinters or unpleasant textures for diners. The chairs were well-cushioned and comfortable, considerate of diners who might choose to eat courses of meals instead of getting a quick bite to eat. The atmosphere was cozy and homey, though noise did not carry well, so it also felt intimate and snug.

  My stomach did cartwheels when I smelled what wafted out of the kitchen and from the few occupied tables in the dining area. Once the hostess had seated us and handed us each a menu, she informed us that a waitress would be with us soon. Luckily, she had been much more polite than the donut vendor in the square. When she had heard Peter’s English, she had replied in kind. I was grateful for that since I was too nervous to accurately and efficiently interpret for Peter. Having already endured my fellow students in Mr. Paquette’s class previously in the evening, I did not want the humiliation of having the hostess do the same to me in front of Peter.

  “How hungry are you?” Peter asked as his coat fell onto his chair back.

  His new, beautiful coat that should have been hung from a hanger in the nearest fur vault.

  “Everything smells wonderful.”

  “That’s not an answer.” He teased.

  “I am hungry.” I relented.

  Peter perused the menu for a mere moment.

  “I had an early lunch, and the donuts are the only thing I’ve had this evening.” He explained nonchalantly. “I want to do the courses thing you were talking about. Let’s go all out. Eat until we feel like we are going to explode.”

  “It may be ex
pensive,” I said, searching for something on the menu that was filling yet inexpensive. “They have many pasta dishes.”

  “Enzo.”

  I pried my eyes from my menu to glance over at Peter.

  “I’m paying.” He said firmly. “I can spend my money how I choose.”

  For a moment, I merely returned his gaze.

  “I am sorry. This has been rude of me.”

  “You are not rude.” He admonished me playfully. “You’re being too polite. I want to eat until I feel like puking, and I want you to do the same. Okay?”

  “Okay.” I nodded, lowering my menu to the table.

  “Are you old enough to drink here?” He asked. “We could get wine?”

  “Yes. But no.” I shook my head to clear my thoughts. “I have been able to drink for two years now. But I do not drink. I do not mind if you want to have wine.”

  Peter set his menu on the table as well and leaned into the table gently.

  “How old are you?”

  “I am twenty years old.”

  “Drinking age is eighteen here.” He nodded to himself. “What twenty-year-old doesn’t accept free booze?”

  We laughed at this.

  Answering Peter’s question was something that I did not want to do, as it would give more personal information than I had been prepared to provide. Something about Peter made me forget all of the basic arbitrary rules I had made for myself in regard to interacting with strangers.

  “I take medication,” I said, simply. “Alcohol will…”

  Peter watched me.

  “The word…I cannot even remember the French word.” I chuckled nervously as I searched my brain. “They do not get along?”

  “Interacts?”

  “Yes.” I smiled. “Thank you. I am not supposed to drink.”

  “Then I won’t drink either.”

  “You must,” I said, gesturing emphatically, not wanting Peter to forgo something he enjoyed simply because I was unable to participate. “It is part of the experience.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” I nodded. “Please. I am okay.”

  “Only if you’re sure.” He searched my face. “Okay. I will have a glass or two.”

  We both chuckled at this.

  “But I guess I can’t ask you for your wine recommendations.” He teased.

  I held my hands up and grinned goofily. The waitress arrived as Peter was laughing at my gesture, and he ordered a wine I knew nothing about, though I would soon find out it was a deep red. I asked for an herbal tea and water. Just thinking about sipping on a warm cup of tea after being out in the cold for the larger part of the day made me happy. Once again, Peter and I found ourselves unsure of how to continue our conversation, though I knew he had told me he expected me to help with that task. As we waited for our drinks, we stole glances at each other but mostly pretended to read our menus, as if we didn’t already know what we were going to eat. When the waitress returned with Peter’s wine and my tea and water, Peter asked me to order for us. I explained to the waitress that we wanted the whole experience of The Lazy Duck—which made her eyes light up since expensive meals usually lead to larger tips. She became even friendlier, letting us know that we should let her know immediately if we needed anything during our meal, then she left to put in our order for our first course.

  “How often do you dine with strangers?” Peter asked as he brought his wine to his lips, taking a sip, his eyes closing in appreciation.

  Before I answered, I brought my tea to my lips and barely even blew on it before taking a sip, which seemed to immediately warm my soul and make my stomach groan in appreciation. I knew that when the first bite of real food slid down my throat, I’d be in ecstasy.

  “Not often.” I finally replied with a chuckle.

  “Is it rude to ask what you take medication for, Enzo?”

  “Non. No.” I said. “It is so I do not have seizures.”

  “Oh.”

  “I do not have voices in my head.” I chuckled, though I knew it was a bad joke.

  Peter laughed with me.

  “I am not dangerous.”

  “That’s not very exciting.” Peter teased, folding his arms on the table and leaning toward me in a too familiar way, though I liked it. “Isn’t everyone a little dangerous?”

  I considered this. “If necessary, I suppose.”

  “Necessary?”

  “If you were defending your family from a burglar?” I replied.

  He smiled. “Well, I meant, like, dangerous in a fun way.”

  “I do not know what you mean.”

  “Some people drink,” He gestured at his glass that he had taken a mere sip from, “some people do drugs, or race cars, bungee jump. Those types of things. What dangerous thing do you do?”

  “Have dinner with strange Americans.”

  He laughed.

  “So, you avoid danger?”

  “When I can.” I nodded.

  “Why is that?”

  “Because life is…life is dangerous enough, yes?”

  “Maybe.” He relented. “But isn’t it best when it is?”

  I gave a small one-shoulder shrug. “This is possible. But sometimes the danger is not thrilling. Sometimes danger hurts.”

  I tapped my chest over my heart.

  “I understand.” He nodded slowly.

  “So…no, I do not seek out danger.”

  “You must think I’m ridiculous.”

  “I think that you are charming,” I admitted as my cheeks warmed. “I enjoy speaking with you, Peter.”

  It was true. Peter was being unashamedly flirtatious and probably not doing it well. Though, I would never have known the difference. I indeed found it charming, especially after all of his kindness.

  Peter’s laugh tapered off as he considered me.

  “I’m thirty-nine years old.” His face was blank.

  I waited.

  “You’re twenty-years-old.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Should we be sitting here having dinner?” His eyebrow rose. “And should you be calling me charming?”

  “It does not bother me.”

  “Do you understand my meaning?”

  Of course, I understand. You feel that you are too old for me. And now I know that you probably do not have a wife and children.

  “You feel that you are being a dirty old man.” It was probably not the best way to explain that I understood his meaning.

  Peter laughed sharply, chasing away my concern. His unwillingness to be offended made me find him even more charming.

  “Yeah.” He reached for his wine glass. “I could be your father.”

  “Impossible,” I said, lifting my tea to take a sip. “My father is dead.”

  I hadn’t realized what had come out of my mouth so flippantly until I had sipped my tea and set it down to find Peter staring at me, utterly aghast.

  “I am sorry.” I shook my head. “I did not mean to say that. It is just that…”

  “Facts are facts?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have any family?” Peter asked. “I know now that your brother and father are…gone. But do you have anyone else?”

  Staring off at the wall for a moment, I considered the best way to answer his question. It dawned on me that Peter was comfortable with the truth.

  “It is just me,” I said, turning back to look at him. “My grandmother, mother, father, sister, and brother came here with me from Mantes. From France. They are all gone now.”

  “When did you immigrate to Canada?”

  “I was turning fourteen.” I had to think, as if it had been that long ago.

  “Were they sick when you arrived?”

  “Non.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Yes.”

  “In six years? That has to be fucking tough.”

  “Yes.”

  Peter sat back in his chair, as though his whole body had been sapped of energy, as he stare
d at me with those still wide eyes. Seemingly unsure of what to say, I knew that I had to fulfill my end of the bargain, about keeping the conversation going. Not that I thought Peter would renege on paying for dinner, but I had made a promise to be his loquacious dinner partner. Talking about my dead family and my problems were not exactly the best dinner conversation, no matter how interesting a story it made.

  “You are from the United States.” I changed the subject.

  “Yeah.” He shook his head, as if clearing away thoughts, his eyes not looking quite like saucers anymore.

  “Which of the states?” I asked, reaching for my tea. I wanted to drink more before it cooled too much. “Do you live in a city?”

  “Uh, Minnesota.” He said, bringing himself to sit upright in his chair once more, gathering his thoughts. “I’m in Minneapolis now. It’s big like Montreal, though Montreal is bigger. Heard of it?”

  I nodded, though I only had a vague knowledge of the city and state. My knowledge about the United States and the states themselves was not abundant then.

  “I grew up in a small town.” He said. “Which, I guess you did, too?”

  “Not as large as Montreal, no.” I agreed. “Is Minneapolis on an island as well?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Montreal is an island and a city,” I said. “Montreal, the island, is surrounded by the Prairies River and the St. Lawrence River. And Montreal is a city on that island. Like your Manhattan in the United States, I think?”