by Meg Leder
All that time, I kept my promise, never telling anyone about his secret identity.
Not the day when I met his brother, Johnny, and Finn got suspended.
Not the day he stopped being my friend.
Not when he transferred out of our school.
Not a few months later when my dad gently informed me that the Major Tom song wasn’t real.
Not in second grade when Em moved to town and became my best friend and we told each other all our secrets.
Not when I got older and realized Finn didn’t forget his lunch money—he just didn’t have any.
Not when Charlie got cancer.
Not when Charlie got better.
Not even years later, when I was learning to drive and heard that song “Space Oddity” for the first time again and remembered Finn, whose eyes were thunderstorms, who believed he could learn to fly.
Eleven
“DR. MCCULLOUGH! LISTEN TO THIS!”
I look up from the Harvard course catalog I was browsing.
Dad turns up the volume.
The music is not my favorite. It’s edgy and off-key, reminding me of when my heart feels like it’s going to jump out of my chest.
“Laurie Anderson. ‘O Superman.’ I didn’t have this one yet,” he says.
Dad is a music fanatic. A lot of the music he likes makes me nervous—it’s experimental, loud and disorganized, wild on its edges. But I love watching him listen, how his whole self seems alert, intrigued, how you can literally see all the stress from his workday melt away.
I put down my Harvard course catalog, making sure to memorize the page number before I do. I’m not a fan of folding down page corners. “Where’d you get it?”
“I picked it up at Shake It Records on my lunch break.”
“In Northside?”
“In Northside,” he says proudly.
I smile, surprised, trying and failing to imagine my dad wandering the tattoo parlors and art galleries of that neighborhood. “How do you know about Shake It Records?”
“Your old dad had a life before you and your brother, you know.” He settles back in the seat, pleased with himself.
“Time to eat,” Mom calls from the kitchen. “And turn it down, Phil.”
“It’s stunning. That’s the sound of someone doing what they love.” Dad sighs wistfully before turning down the music.
I get up and follow him into the kitchen, my mind still caught up on whether or not I should take an extra class at Harvard first semester.
Yesterday, after Em dropped me off, I immediately went upstairs and fell asleep on top of my sheets, the air around me still, my room stuffy. When Mom woke me up for dinner a few hours later, at first I couldn’t remember what day it was, or even where I was, but then, with a sinking feeling, the morning came back—the HealthWheat and Laurel and Dr. Gambier—and claiming continuing nausea, I went right back to sleep as soon as she shut my door.
Fifteen hours later, I woke up.
The heat had broken overnight, and the morning was the perfect amount of warm: no humidity, puffy white clouds, a light breeze making my curtains drift lazily back and forth from the windowsill.
My stomach didn’t hurt.
I’m going to Harvard. I’m going to be a doctor.
Just thinking the words steadied me, and I slid out of bed and stood and stretched, ready to tackle my day. I reassured myself that getting sick the day before was just a hiccup—a product of first-day nerves and a gross old box of HealthWheat. On Tuesday I’d be ready to jump back into my internship.
The first thing I did was write Ruby.
Dear Ruby,
It was nice to meet you yesterday. Thanks for all the nice stuff you said about me. I’d be happy to meet up sometime.
Sincerely,
Parker McCullough
And then I spent the morning digging through my Harvard orientation packet and making lists of what I’d need to get for my dorm room. The afternoon was for starting Toni Morrison’s Song of Solomon, the novel every freshman was reading as part of their First Year Experience, as well as reviewing the course catalog, debating how many classes I could squeeze in beyond the normal course load.
Five feels doable, but maybe I could do six, I think, entering the kitchen right as Dad, clearly still giddy from his new album, sneaks up on Mom and surprises her with a kiss.
She shrieks.
Charlie, already at the table, startles.
We all realize it at the same time: We caught Mom staring at Charlie from behind again.
My mom has always been a daydreamer, content to sit quietly amid their friends while Dad talks about the Reds or music or work. As a kid, I remember finding her more than once in front of the Christmas tree, her eyes lost in a content reverie.
But since Charlie’s last bout of cancer, her daydreaming has turned to uneasy vigilance: carefully watching my brother from where he can’t see her, every muscle in her trembling with the effort of staying still, like she wants to go hug him but she’s worried if she moves she’s going to lose him.
One time when Charlie caught her, he pretended to pick his nose, breaking her trance and earning him a playful swat on the arm. Tonight, though, he just looks back down at his plate.
Mom shakes her head and returns Dad’s kiss.
I sit down next to Charlie, wondering if I should say anything about Erin, but I’m distracted by what we’re having: meat loaf, Charlie’s and my most hated food. When we were kids, every time Mom made meat loaf, he and I would chant, “Meat loaf, beet loaf, I hate meat loaf,” our favorite line from the movie A Christmas Story. Even though we haven’t done it for ages, I sneak a glance his way, wondering if he remembers it, but he’s smashing a piece of American cheese on the mashed potatoes Mom’s just dumped onto his plate.
She joins us, placing her napkin on her lap with a flourish. “So, Charlie, you want to tell them, or should I?”
Even though she doesn’t seem upset, my chest reflexively tightens.
“What’s going on?” Dad asks, his voice clipped.
Charlie won’t meet anyone’s eyes as he mumbles, “Dr. Travis called today.”
“On Saturday?” I ask, my heart thumping.
“Don’t worry—it’s good news,” Mom reassures us.
Charlie shrugs. “She just wanted to let me know my latest test came back good.”
“Better than good,” Mom chimes in. “His white blood cell count is back to a nearly normal level. Dr. Travis said this is one of the quickest recoveries she’s ever seen.”
Dad slams the table delightedly, making me jump, and leans over to pull Charlie into an enormous hug.
Charlie’s limbs are slack, his face unreadable.
“So, does this mean you’re cancer-free?” I ask.
“You saw how ‘cancer-free’ turned out last time. Seven years later and, surprise, it’s back!”
“Now, Charlie,” Mom starts. “You know there are all those studies connecting positive thinking and recovery.”
“It could still come back. It came back once. It can come back again. No positive thinking’s going to help with that,” Charlie snaps.
Mom flinches, and Charlie immediately mumbles, “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. I know it’s a lot to process. I’m really glad you’re starting support group next week.”
Charlie gives an unconvincing nod.
“Well, I think it’s good news,” Dad says, holding up his beer in a toast. “To one of the fastest recoveries Dr. Travis has ever seen.”
“Hear, hear,” Mom says, raising her iced tea.
Charlie and I join, raising our glasses of water, but I can tell by his expression, he’s still in a mood.
“Have you called Coach Franklin to share the news yet?” Dad asks.
Charlie’s face twists in annoyance, but Mom jumps in before he can say anything. “Well, Charlie just found out a few hours ago. But I thought I could give him a call on Tuesday, if that’s okay with you, Charlie?”
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“I guess,” Charlie says.
“With a little bit of practice, I bet you could get back into fine pitching form for next season in no time at all,” Dad says, his eyes lighting up. “You’ll be ready for those college scouts this year!”
“Will that work for you, Parker? Not going to sabotage it this time?” Charlie asks under his breath.
I frown.
“Everything okay over there?” Mom asks.
“It’s better than okay. It’s fantastic,” Charlie says, and I roll my eyes.
“Be nice,” Mom admonishes him, but her tone is gentle.
For the rest of the meal, Dad’s happily chatty, rambling on about the Reds’ new pitcher and a records system they’re testing at work.
Mom’s talking about her summer sessions, but I see the exact moment when she registers all the food left on Charlie’s plate, the way she bites her lip, choosing not to say anything.
As I poke at my meat loaf, I try not to obsess over Charlie’s dig about last summer. But I’m feeling that weird mix of guilt and defensiveness and self-righteousness that always comes up when Charlie brings up last summer, so instead, I turn my attention back to my parents. Mom’s done talking about her students, but Dad seems to be at the start of a long work story.
“So I told Stan, no, you’re not going to win it if you approach it that way. And you know what he does?”
“Approaches it that way?” Mom asks.
“Exactly. And royally pisses off the client. Jeff’s talking about giving him a promotion? I mean, come on! Guy can’t find his own head in his ass.”
Mom raises her eyebrow at him, but I can tell Dad’s enjoying the rant.
“Well, it’s true. He’s going to lose this account, and we’re supposed to toast him while he’s doing it.”
Charlie clears his throat and pushes his food around his plate. “Maybe he just wants to try it his own way for once. Maybe he’s tired of everyone telling him what to do.”
“Well, that’s good and fine, except when his own way is the wrong way,” Dad says. “Just last week, he presented a new campaign to Goldstar, against my advice, mind you, and it was so off base, we nearly lost the account completely.”
“But sometimes the only way you can learn is by making your own mistakes, right? Didn’t you tell me that?” Charlie makes eye contact with Dad.
Dad looks both confused and irritable, which usually means he’s about ten seconds from exploding, so I jump in. “I’m thinking I might take an extra class at Harvard this fall,” I say.
Mom turns to me. “That seems like a lot while you’re getting settled, though, isn’t it?”
“If anyone can handle it, I’m sure Dr. McCullough can,” Dad adds.
But Charlie’s not done with Dad.
“I’m surprised Stan hasn’t quit with everyone up in his business,” he says. “Life’s too short for all that crap. And I’d know, wouldn’t I?” He lets out a dry laugh.
Dad flinches, like he’s been slapped.
I stare at Charlie. He literally got the best news he’s had in at least a year today, and he’s acting like a grade-A a-hole. “Is this about you and Erin?” I ask.
Charlie shoots me a sharp look. “That’s none of your business.”
“What’s going on with Erin?” Dad asks.
“They broke up,” I say.
“Jesus, Parker,” Charlie says, slamming his fork down. “Is there anything in my life you don’t report back to Mom and Dad?”
My face goes red and I look away.
“Charlie,” Mom says, quick to intervene, her face concerned. “I’m so sorry to hear about Erin. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. In fact, I’m better than fine,” he says, his voice loud. He pushes his chair out, standing suddenly, and scratches furiously at the short hair on his head. “This effing itches, though. It’s like I have bugs crawling over me every single second.”
And on that note, he leaves. A few seconds later, his door slams upstairs.
I shoot a glance at my dad, and he looks so stricken, I have to turn away.
“Poor Charlie,” Mom says, glancing at the hall, waiting for him to come back.
“But he just got good news. Incredible news!” Dad says in disbelief.
“It’s a lot to deal with, Phil,” Mom says to Dad. “Plus, if he and Erin . . .” Her voice trails off.
We sit quietly then.
I wish I could make it better for all of us.
I sigh, shaking my head, standing up. “I better get going.”
“Tell Em and Matty bon voyage from us,” Mom says, and I nod, not letting myself look back at them sitting alone at the table because I’m pretty sure I’d cancel my plans if I did.
Twelve
“SO YOU SAW MAY last night? I thought you had dinner with your mom?” I ask Em, following her on the barely there trail in the woods. The weeds we’re brushing up against are practically up to my knees, and I scratch the two new bug bites on my arm.
Em shrugs. “I met May after. We had coffee, then wandered around Joseph-Beth for a little bit. And we might have made out,” she adds.
I stop in my tracks. “Em!”
She sighs. “I knew you’d be upset. It’s okay. I’m totally over her, I promise. Besides, you worry too much. I’m a grown-up. I know what I’m doing. This was the good-bye we should have had last November, you know?” she says. “Plus, I’m leaving tomorrow. I don’t have time for her—I’m ready to fall head over heels in love with a French girl. No worrying, Park.”
“Okay?” I say, her tone reminding me of the time she promised to quit smoking cigarettes and how I’m pretty sure she still sneaks one before school most mornings. But I can tell by the set of her shoulders the conversation is over and any attempt to the contrary will be futile.
“By the way, we’re almost there. I promise.” She turns around, walking backward, one hand crossing her heart, then faces forward, hopping stones over the rushing creek with ease.
“Are you sure you know where there is?”
“We’re not lost!”
I approach the creek, tentatively placing one Converse on a stone and then stepping cautiously to the next. When I near the other side, I speed up, only to hit one super-wobbly rock. I try to catch my balance, but my foot slides into the creek, water filling my shoe.
“Argh!” I yell out in frustration, scrambling to the other side.
The bottom fourth of my leg is now wet. I remember that news story of the girl who got the flesh-eating virus from falling in a creek while zip-lining, and smack another mosquito—this one on my neck.
I’m just about ready to give up and go home when Em and I enter a clearing, the Little Miami River glowing under the setting sun. I see other people from our class gathered around a big bonfire, orange fire sparking, others lifting a keg from the back of a pickup truck. There’s even a group wading in the river shallows. I hear a shriek as someone gets dunked, watch as she emerges, laughing.
“We’re here!” Em calls out, grinning as Matty sees her. He breaks away from the crowd by the keg and runs over, then lifts her off the ground in a big bear hug.
“EUROPE!” he bellows.
Em hugs him back, her curls smashing against his face before she bounces down. “You finally packed?”
He shrugs, and Em smacks him on the arm. “Matty, we’re leaving in less than twenty-four hours. You’re not going to be ready!”
“Um, Emerson, I’m a high school graduate now—”
“Just barely,” she retorts.
“I got the diploma.” He runs his hands through his hair, then rests them on his hips, looking nobly off in the distance. “Besides, can’t you tell I’m an adult—full of knowledge and wisdom now? Of course I’ll be ready.”
She lightly punches his gut. “Full of beer is more like it.”
“Harsh, cuz,” he says, then lets out a huge belch and finally notices me. His grin gets bigger. “Parker! Our fearless valedictorian!”
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��Thanks,” I say, blushing. “Is Charlie here?”
“I saw him a few minutes ago,” he says, looking over his shoulder and scanning the crowd.
“So, what happened with Erin?” I ask, but Matty’s face has gone taut, his eyes on the river. “Crap, I told him that was a bad idea.”
“What?” Em asks, but I’m following Matty’s gaze.
There’s a group of people gathering at the river’s edge, and they’re all looking at the opposite bank, the side with the steep cliff, trees at the top.
I glance at Matty for clarification, but right then, like Tarzan swinging through the jungle, a person soars out across the river, fifteen feet or more above the water, hands clenching a vine, a shape shadow-lit against the last of the sunset.
The crowd below starts cheering, and all it takes is one quick glance at Matty’s blanched face to confirm my fear.
Em grabs my hand as I watch Charlie swing back to the tree and then out again, like he’s flying, and then he whoops, no words, just a scream of pure joy and raw fury, a heart on the outside for everyone to see, right before the vine snaps and he drops like a rock, plummeting straight down into the dark water.
“Shit!” Matty says.
“Where’d he go?” someone behind me asks.
What if he hit his head what if he broke his neck what if he drowns?
Someone screams, and I realize it’s me as I’m running toward the river, that I’m the one saying “CharlieCharlieCharlie” as I push through the people on the bank and splash into the cold water.
Em yells at me to be careful, and then Matty’s by my side, his face looking as terrified as my insides feel, and we try to get to the spot where Charlie landed, but you can’t run in water, can only push, stumble.
We’re halfway there—the water up to my waist—when my brother surfaces, shirtless and skinny, alive and grinning, spitting water, pumping his fist, and yelling—no, roaring—with glee.
I stop, the relief washing over me so close to the fear I just felt, I can barely tell them apart.
Matty curses under his breath as Em arrives behind us, out of breath.
The crowd behind us begins chanting, “McCull-ough! McCull-ough!”
