by Susan Haas
Jerk. I smile.
I miss them so much. They’re sprinkled around the country in colleges and grad schools. Tucker was last, heading off to California last fall. It’s so weird not having them here.
They’re coming to visit after I get home from surgery. Tucker is even coming to Kansas City to fly back with us. It’s not the same as having them here now. They’re a huge part of my life. In fact, if it weren’t for them, there would never have been a Year of the Buttered Cat. Which reminds me … Deep breath in. My story. Breath out.
CHAPTER 5
Age 5, The Year of the Buttered Cat
The Year of the Buttered Cat was more than a year. It was actually thirteen months. And it wasn’t just about a buttered cat. The Cat would probably argue otherwise, but he’s the arguing kind. As far as names go it’s not great, but in the years after, as I looked back and tried to make sense of it all, that was the name that popped into my head, so it stuck. And it never mattered because, until now, no one else knew it happened, let alone that it had a name.
It all began one late July day the summer I was five and all because of Finding Nemo.
That Friday, Mom had a deadline with her medical writing. Normally, my brother and sisters watched me, but Kali and Kasey were away with friends until Sunday, and Hannah and Tucker were MIA. Mom propped me on my beanbag chair, popped in Finding Nemo, and went to work at her desk.
When Dad came home, he stretched out on his back next to me, and we watched the end together. When Marlin sent Nemo off to fish school, Dad leaned against my shoulder and cried. He always cries at stuff like that.
Finally, he sat up and wiped his face.
“You’ve never been to the ocean, have you?”
Ggguuhhh. I arched hard.
I had wanted to go for forever. Every year, someone would tell me about the beach, about the sand and the waves. It was only a four-hour drive from Charlotte, but I had never seen it in person.
Dad looked at me for a long minute, then grabbed my hand and kissed it. “Tomorrow, we’re going. Tomorrow, you’re gonna see the ocean, even if it’s just for the day.”
The next morning, my parents loaded the van with Harry Potter CDs and a cooler of sandwiches and drove me, Hannah, and Tucker to the beach. By the time we got there, my legs ached.
Dad lifted me from my car seat and carried me down to the surf, leaving a trail of shoes and socks in the sand. He walked us straight out into the water in our clothes, not stopping until we were up to Dad’s waist. Mom stood on the shore, holding up my bathing suit, but Dad and I just stared out into the bigness of it all. And this time, I cried. Everyone always says I’m a lot like my dad.
I spent the rest of that day splashing with Mom out in the water, then on the shoreline on Dad’s lap, squealing as waves crashed over us. Later, Mom wrapped me in a towel, blue-lipped and shivering, and I swatted down sandcastles Hannah and Tucker built for me.
I watched Tucker cartwheel down the beach, spinning faster and faster until he collapsed on his back in the sand. I made a promise. When my body comes in, I’m gonna do that too.
Finally, a late afternoon storm rolled in. Dad threw me over his shoulder and made a dash for the van.
On the drive home, my stomach rumbled. I flailed until Tucker looked up, then stared at him with an open mouth.
“Lexi’s hungry,” he said, “and I am too.”
“Me three,” said Hannah, staring into the empty cooler.
Dad’s eyes flickered over us in the rearview mirror. “I’ll find someplace to stop.”
“Our budget doesn’t include restaurants,” Mom said quietly.
Dad pointed to a Shoney’s billboard. “It’s either this or listen to complaining the rest of the way home.”
We dived on the Shoney’s buffet like mosquitoes on flesh. At our table, Mom cradled me in her lap and scooped sweet potato into my mouth. Halfway through second helpings, a voice rang out behind us.
“What’s wrong with the bay bee?”
Dad coughed into his fist but didn’t look up.
“What’s wrong with the bay bee?” the voice said again, this time louder.
Bay bee. Bay bee. I repeated it in my head, playing with the rhythm. Then it clicked. Baby. Was he talking about me? I arched and groaned.
Mom squeezed my leg and glanced behind us. “Nothing. Nothing is wrong with her.”
“Can I please pray for the bay bee?”
Dad glanced at Mom. She gave a tiny shrug. Dad took a long drink from his water glass. “Sure.”
We knew how this would go down. We weren’t part of the Bible Belt, but we lived smack in the middle of it. These were good, God-fearing people who went to church both Sunday morning and Wednesday night and to Bible study in between. They drove home to fried chicken and collard greens and to Thank You Jesus signs staked into the red clay in their front yards.
And they prayed. A lot. In fact, someone stopped to pray for me nearly every week. I always thought that was weird—I mean, why me and not Hannah? Or Tucker? Now there was a kid who needed prayers. But it was always me. Sometimes they prayed for me to be freed of my terrible affliction, whatever that meant, but most times they didn’t say what it was they were praying for. I kinda thought they might have been praying for happiness, because when they walked away, they always seemed relieved and happy.
It quickly became clear that this was not going to be that kind of praying.
There was a shrill scraping of metal on tile, and just like that I was face-to-face with the voice. He was a round man in a pea-green suit and a napkin tucked into his belt.
He didn’t introduce himself or say anything at all. Instead, he drew a deep breath and rested his hand on my head. Mom and I cringed. He smelled of cigarettes and stale fried chicken.
As he exhaled he began to mumble softly. It was so quiet, I couldn’t make out what he was saying. Bit by bit his voice grew until I realized he wasn’t talking. He was chanting—loud chanting, like he wanted the whole world to hear. It was crazy, scattered noises and letters crammed together where they didn’t belong.
Ambrazzzzishusss.
Franjooolico.
Whippo-whippo-whippo-que.
I already knew a lot about words, and I was sure these were made-up. Everyone else in Shoney’s must have thought so too, because the clinking of silverware and buzz of conversation had stopped. Hannah and Tucker were frozen with their forks halfway to their mouths. Mom and Dad looked down, fingertips massaging their foreheads.
When the chanting finally ended, Mom swiveled in her seat until his hand fell from my head.
The man then raised his arms towards the fluorescent lights and said, “This child will have five gifts.” He pulled the napkin from his belt and dabbed his forehead. “Give or take a few. I can’t be absolutely sure of the number.”
Awesome. My prophecy had a disclaimer.
The man sat back down at his table. The only sound in that Shoney’s was the clinking of his fork against his plate.
Mom whispered to our waitress, “Check please.”
Before we even left the Shoney’s parking lot, I was obsessing.
Five gifts, more or less. More! Let it be more!
Maybe it was because my body was still missing, and I needed to believe. Or maybe it was that since I already knew two of my gifts, I could believe. Memory and words were great, but I wanted more.
Please, let it be more!
Tucker had found a plastic straw in his seat and was shooting spitballs at my sticker collection on the ceiling of the van. Normally, I would’ve flailed or screeched—these were my rewards from five years of doctors’ visits—but right now, they didn’t seem that important.
He took aim at one of my favorites—the Hulk, all flexed and muscly saying, “Your checkup was grrrreat!”
Thwak! A spitball stuck to Hulk’s nose, and Tucker pumped his fists.
“Maybe she’ll have super strength like Hulk. No, wait! I bet she can fly! Wouldn’t it be cool if she
could fly? We can throw her off the couch and see if that’s how you activate it.”
Mom whipped around.
“We will not throw your sister off the couch to see if she can fly.”
“I was just kidding,” Tucker said. He shot another spitball.
“He didn’t say she’d be a superhero, doofus,” Hannah said. “Gifts don’t mean superpowers. It’s regular stuff. You know. Like singing or sports or …”
I didn’t stick around to hear the rest of Hannah’s regular stuff. I was cartwheeling down the beach. I was strumming my guitar. I was … what else?
Five gifts, more or less. More! Please let it be more!
CHAPTER 6
Age 5, The Year of the Buttered Cat
The next morning, Kali and Kasey came home, and Tucker told the whole story over breakfast. I listened, happy and full in my beanbag chair. This was how life was supposed to be. The five of us hanging out together in our kitchen.
“So who was this guy?” Kali asked.
Tucker shrugged. “Dunno. Some random dude at the restaurant.” He kicked into a handstand and walked around the kitchen upside down for a few steps, then rolled onto his back. “Kinda smelled bad. And he looked like a pea or one of those olives from the salad bar.”
Hannah turned the page of her book. “Oh please, if he were a vegetable, he would’ve been a lima bean.”
We all cringed. There weren’t many things that all five of us agreed on, but we all knew that eating lima beans was basically eating snot.
“Thanks for ruining breakfast,” Kasey said, pushing away her cereal bowl.
“Oh, yeah, Mr. Bean! Crazy Mr. Bean.” Tucker inhaled deeply then burped, “Misssterrr Beeeaaaannnn.”
“Oh, grow up,” Kali said. She straightened me in my beanbag chair and brushed a curl from my face.
With her thick, dark hair and olive skin, Kali was an exact teenage version of me.
“So, what did you think of Mr. Bean and his five-gift prophecy? Did you believe it?”
I turned away. I wanted to believe it. But how crazy was it to get life-altering news from a lima-bean lunatic? Finally, I stuck out my tongue, just a little bit, and Kali understood.
“You kind of believe it.”
I stuck out my tongue as far as I could.
“Then so do I,” Kali said.
“Me too,” said Kasey.
I smiled. They were in high school, so their opinions were legit. Obviously.
“Well, you already know about your memory. And there’s your spelling and reading thing,” Kasey said. She pushed her glasses up on her nose. “Do you want help finding the rest?”
Kali shook her head. “You can’t help someone find their gifts. Self-discovery is done privately.”
Hannah snorted and turned a page in her book. “A five-year-old’s idea of self-discovery is figuring out who has the girl parts and who has the boy parts.”
“Not Lexi,” Kali said. “She’s different. She understands stuff that even teenagers don’t get.”
“She was, like, born a teenager,” Kasey said.
I sat up a little taller in my beanbag. I was advanced for my age, and having four older siblings made me seem even older.
Mom stuck her head in the kitchen. “I have a deadline this afternoon, so I need all of you to keep an eye on your sister.”
Before anyone had a chance to protest, she disappeared down the hall.
“Well, it’s been fun,” Kasey said, standing up and stretching, “but I have to shower.”
“Me too,” said Kali.
Hannah slammed her book. “She said all of us. And if you leave, I’m telling.”
“Fine,” Kali said.
Kasey rolled her eyes but sat back down.
Tucker cartwheeled through the kitchen, into the den, and I guess onto the coffee table because there was a thud and a yelp. He hopped back into the kitchen on one foot. I laughed hard.
“Let’s play hide-and-seek!” he said.
I stuck out my tongue.
“Are you sure?” Hannah asked. “You remember what happened last time?”
Did I remember? Duh. He hid me under a pile of dirty clothes in his room and ditched me. The smell of sweaty gym socks burned into my memory.
But when Tucker promised to take me first and stay with me, Kali closed her eyes and started counting.
“I have an idea,” Tucker said.
He carried me into the bathroom and towards the tub, which was half-filled with laundry.
I arched my back and growled. Ggguuhhh.
“They’re clean.”
True. The downstairs tub was cracked, so it was basically a holding tank for clean clothes.
He plopped me onto the pile, emptied another basket on top until I was buried, then dove in next to me just as Kali called, “Ready or not here I come!”
I gulped in deep breaths.
“Breathe softer or she’s gonna hear us.”
I heard tennis shoes and paws on the tile floor. The shower door swished open and shut.
“Whadaya think, Luke? Where are they?” Kali asked.
More footsteps. The closet door creaked, and I heard the squeak of metal hangers drug across clothing racks.
When that door closed, I sucked in one huge breath and held it until the footsteps faded—just long enough so Tucker would know we had fooled her.
Then I let out a burp, so loud that Luke woofed back.
Footsteps squeaked over the tile. Kali grabbed a handful of clothes, including the shirt Tucker was still wearing.
“Ouch!”
“You’re it!”
“It’s not fair! She gave us away on purpose.”
Obviously. That was for the dirty gym socks.
Kasey and Hannah stood in the doorway.
“You’re such a sore loser,” Kasey said. “Just man up and start counting.”
She positioned me on her hip and jogged down the hall. “Where to?”
I pointed to the closet.
We slipped inside. Kasey slumped to the floor and arranged me on her lap. It was full-on, middle-of-the-night dark. If there was one thing I hated, it was the disorientation of pitch dark. I flailed.
Kasey corralled my arms to my side. “You have to be still or they’ll find us for sure. Take deep breaths.”
I focused on breathing and stillness, but the harder I tried, the more I moved. My right foot flew out and banged the door. Kasey scooted backwards.
“Think of something else. How about your gifts? Pretty cool, huh?”
My body quieted as I stuck out my tongue to the pitch dark.
“You know two of them, but what about the rest? There’s gotta be more. I bet this prophecy is a sign of good things to come.”
I let that settle into my brain. A sign. Of good things to come.
It sounds so stupid now, but at the time, it all made perfect sense. It was time for my body to come in, and I needed to understand it when it finally got here. I needed operating instructions. That’s where the gifts came in. Obviously. My gifts would be important—essential—for the life that was waiting for me.
The message from the universe was loud and clear: to get your body and your voice you need to find your gifts. From that moment on, my prophecy and my Epic Reasoning Fail became one hot tangled mess.
CHAPTER 7
Age 13, 21 hours until surgery
After twelve—count ’em, twelve—sticks, my IV is finally in place. I’m trying to stay calm, but my body hasn’t gotten the memo. I’m hungry. I’m tired. My arm is throbbing.
My brain is obsessing about three things: eating breakfast, messaging with friends, and sinkholes. Yep, sinkholes. They’ve been on my mind a lot lately.
This spring, I was watching the news with Dad when up popped pictures of a massive sinkhole devouring a major road. In Charlotte. One moment you’re driving down the street, minding your own business, then bam! You’re plummeting into nothingness.
After that, I saw sinkholes everywh
ere. That crack in our driveway—was it just me or had it grown since yesterday? And that little hole in the backyard that I thought was a chipmunk burrow. Maybe it wasn’t.
Then in the months leading up to this surgery, I realized I had my own personal sinkhole growing beneath me. Fear. Fear of my upcoming surgery. Fear of the pain, and the risks, and that at the end of it all nothing would be better. And most of all, fear that this surgery would make things worse. By the time I could recognize these fears, I was hanging on with one hand, the rest of my body dangling into the nothingness of that hole.
Dad’s phone pings. The Facebook ping.
Anna? Elle?
My arms flail. Gus hops back on the gurney, but Mom shoos him off.
“If you knock out her IV, I’m gonna lose my mind!”
Dad fishes his phone from his pocket and reads silently.
Really? I flail some more.
“Ken, please,” Mom says, holding my arm.
“Okay, okay!” He clears his throat. “This one is from Adelle in London. ‘Who wants this surgery, Lexi? You or your family?’”
“Me!” I’m so mad I have no problem belting it out, although out loud it sounds more like “Eeee!”
Dad sends my message, but he’s shaking his head. “I wish we’d taken a picture of ‘I am 13. Let me decide.’ Adelle doesn’t know how pigheaded our girl can be.”
I smack Dad’s leg, but he isn’t wrong.
With the first surgery, I was only seven, so Mom and Dad chose for me. They agonized over that decision.
That surgery turned out better than they feared but not as good as they hoped. Since then, I always got the feeling my parents had a tinge of regret. Like they had put me through a lot of pain, suffering, and worst of all, expectation, for a body that was a little calmer. That could puff out a few garbly words. Was it worth it?
When doctors here told us a second set of leads into another area of my brain could possibly help me even more, my parents got hung up on “possibly.” They took me all the way to California so another -ist could tell me a second surgery was a crazy, fish-in-the-sky idea. Instead, she also said “possibly.” When we returned home, I took the decision out of their hands.
