by Meg Leder
He kept walking, and I stopped in my tracks, my eyes filling with hot tears.
“But I’m hungry!” I shouted.
Dad turned around. “Not now, Parker. I need you to work with me here. I had a really long day at work, and I’m hungry too, but I need you to be grown-up right now.”
“I’m tired of being grown-up!” I yelled, and then I tried to think of the most horrible thing I could say. “I wish Charlie was dead!”
Dad didn’t even pause for a second, his work shoes clicking hard against the concrete of the parking garage before he leaned down, grabbing my arm.
His face was so mad, so scary, that it stopped all my tears instantly.
“I don’t ever want to hear you say that again. You are being selfish. Do you hear me?” His hands hurt against my arm, and I knew it was serious because even though Dad got frustrated sometimes, he had never laid a hand on me or Charlie. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like Dad was crying then.
My heart tightened up inside me, like a tiny hard fist, and I nodded, and Dad let go of my arm.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“That’s not enough! You can’t say those things. Ever. Okay?”
I nodded again.
I looked down at those red gym shoes, watched them move step by step forward as I followed Dad into the hospital, watched them as I climbed into a seat in the waiting room, watched them as Dad asked the nurse at the reception desk to watch me while he visited with Charlie, watched them when the nurse asked me if I wanted a cookie or something to read.
“No,” I said, my voice small.
I couldn’t even look in the direction of Charlie’s room, convinced Dad was telling Mom what I’d said, worried Charlie would overhear.
I closed my eyes tight, kicked my red shoes together three times, like in the movie with the flying monkeys, and wished I could trade places with Charlie, that I’d be the one who was sick instead. I wished so hard, my whole body scrunched up, like I could force the transformation into existence.
But when I opened my eyes, I was still in the waiting room.
When my parents came out later, I stood up, looked them both in the eye.
“I want to be a doctor to make Charlie better,” I said.
“Oh, my girl,” Mom said, rushing forward and pulling me into a hug. “I have missed you so much.”
Over her shoulder I watched Dad, his face tired and tear-streaked, how he looked at me with so much love then, how I knew I’d finally said the right thing.
Nineteen
I SLIDE OPEN THE screen door to the back deck.
Dad’s stretched out on a lawn chair, beer in hand, head tilted back, nodding slightly in time with whatever he’s listening to on his iPod.
Mom looks up from the stack of student papers she’s grading as I sit down next to her. “Hey, hon.”
Dad takes off his headphones. “Dr. McCullough!”
“Hey, guys. Are we having dinner soon?”
“I’m thinking of ordering pizza in a bit. That okay with you? It’s just the three of us, so we can get green peppers and pepperoni,” Mom says, picking up the paper she’s grading and fanning herself with it. Even though it’s a little before six, it’s still warm outside, the heat from the day sticking stubbornly to everyone’s skin.
“What’s Charlie doing?” I ask, trying to sound casual. Much to my relief, he wasn’t home when Finn dropped me off. I’m not sure I’m ready to see him yet.
“Dinner with some of the people in his cancer support group,” Mom says, blowing her bangs off her face.
Dad leans forward. “Soooo . . . ?” he starts, grinning.
I know exactly what’s at the end of that question mark. I’ve been debating how to answer it ever since Finn dropped me off this afternoon. But now that the moment’s here, seeing how happy he is, how relaxed Mom is, I can’t believe I ever wondered what to say.
“So what?” I ask, purposefully acting nonchalant.
“Day two! How’d it go?”
“Pretty awesome,” I lie, the words gliding easily through water, smooth and noiseless.
“I knew it!” Dad says. “How are the other people in the program?”
The sour face of the waitress at the Anchor Grill flashes through my mind. “There was one crabby nurse named Mabel, but everyone else was really nice. I think it’s going to be really good working there. Not what I expected, but really good.”
I don’t tell them about my fight with Charlie.
I don’t tell them about the e-mail that was waiting for me when I got home—the one from the head of the program asking me to call him immediately regarding my unexplained and unacceptable absence, reiterating how competitive the program was and how other students would welcome my spot.
I don’t tell them any of this because I have to go back tomorrow. I’m going back tomorrow.
(My bottom right eyelid twitches.)
Dad takes a sip of beer and gets that look on his face, the surefire sign he’s a little tipsy and about ten seconds away from getting sentimental. “Parker, when I saw you standing up there on graduation night, giving your valedictorian speech, it was pretty much the proudest moment of my life. If only your grandparents could have seen you. Your mom and me, we’re so proud of you. You know that, right?”
“She knows,” Mom says, patting Dad on the shoulder. “I’m going to order the pizza.”
I watch her leave, resting my legs on the deck and flexing my bare toes.
“So, what’s on the agenda for day three?” Dad asks.
“Why did you stop writing?” I ask instead of answering him, thinking of the concerts he used to attend when we were kids, the CDs he’d get in the mail to review, the prized Rolling Stone article he wrote about Pearl Jam, now framed in his office. “Why did you start at the brand agency?”
He looks surprised. “Things changed.”
“But you loved writing.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“Your brother got sick. Schneider and Hall was looking for a copywriter. They offered a steady salary, better insurance than your Mom had at the university.”
“Oh,” I say, realizing even more keenly what he did to take care of us, everything taking on a new feel in light of the internship. “That must have been hard, giving up the music writing.”
Dad leans forward, meeting my eyes. “If it meant helping your brother, I would do it again in a heartbeat. You know that, right?”
I nod. “But did you have to give up writing for good?”
Dad shrugs. “Your mom and I barely had time to sleep when Charlie was sick. And by the time he was better? I don’t know, I guess you get so used to something, you don’t realize it could be different.” He squints, tilting his head back in the sun again. “Why do you ask?”
I fiddle with the hem of my T-shirt.
“I was just thinking about the day I decided to be a doctor. You had just started at Schneider and Hall. Do you remember that?”
“Of course. You were at the hospital with me and Mom.”
“Because Grandma and Grandpa Rose were busy,” I add.
“Yeah, that’s right.”
I brace myself for him to remember, my whole body tensing with shame over the memory of what I said in the parking garage.
Instead, he gets a nostalgic smile on his face. “You had to stay in the waiting room with a nurse. I felt bad leaving you, but when I came out, you were sitting there with your pigtails and a smile from ear to ear. You stood up and promised me and your mom you were going to be a doctor so you could make Charlie better.”
“But—” I start, not sure what to say.
Dad doesn’t even hear me. “It was the only good thing in the middle of all of that time. I was blown away by how smart you are and how big your heart is.” He finishes his beer in one last gulp and stands, presumably to get another one, when he stops, looks down at me.
“Hey, you still didn’t tell me what you’re doing on day three.�
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“A tour of the oncology unit,” I say. “It should be really amazing.”
He leans down and gives me a kiss on the forehead before heading back inside.
I wonder if Charlie knows what Dad gave up for him.
For some reason, I kind of hope he doesn’t.
Twenty
THAT NIGHT, I CAN’T sleep, my thoughts pinballing between imagining Dad’s alternate career and the internship.
I’m going back tomorrow.
My skin itches and I want to crawl out of my body, crawl into someone else’s life. I realize I’m picking at my lip and I drop my hand to my side.
I’m never going to fall asleep, so I get up and turn on my laptop, the screen light giving the room an eerie glow.
I click into my e-mail, and there at the top, like a gift from baby Jesus, like a sweet breath of relief, I see an exclamatory all-caps message from Em titled “HELLO FROM FOGGY LONDON TOWN!” My whole body eases for a second.
Park!
Sorry I can’t text—my cell plan is crap. You’re just going to have to deal with e-mail or four-hundred-dollar phone calls—I’m thinking e-mail, yes?
Do you remember how I told you about that dream I had, where I got off the plane in London and kept saying, “My feet are on the ground in another country”? Well, MY FEET ARE ON THE GROUND IN ANOTHER COUNTRY! Matty and I got to London early Monday morning, and spent the day trying to catch up on sleep in our hostel. This morning, though, we wandered. Park, you would love it here. Everyone sounds like Mr. Darcy. It’s so easy to get around on the tube (what they call the subway), and today we got to see a cat mummy in the British Museum. I’m officially in love with this city—the voices and color and pace.
Tomorrow we’re taking a street-art tour, which makes me think of that weird message on the water tower. Who knew Cincinnati was on the cutting edge of street art (ha!).
Hope you and Charlie are talking again. How was your dad’s Memorial Day picnic? How is the internship?
Miss you, oxo, E
God, I miss her.
I wish she were here. I wish I could tell her about the internship. I wish she could tell me what to do.
My bottom right eyelid is twitching again.
I gaze at my bulletin board: my Harvard acceptance; a picture of Charlie and me when we were little—him with a toothy grin, me with a fierce scowl; the blue first-place ribbon I won in my fourth-grade science fair; formal pictures from junior-year prom—one of me and Em making faces and wearing terrible bridesmaids dresses we found at the Salvation Army. Another of us with Charlie and Matty—Em and Matty squeezed together in the middle, Charlie and me bookending them.
Maybe this summer is what happens when Em and Matty aren’t there to stand between us anymore.
Maybe this summer is what happens when Charlie and I aren’t even in the same picture anymore.
Like a whisper, I hear Finn’s words: Anything. Everything.
I try to steady my breathing, and on an impulse, I Google Image “street art.”
Color explodes on the screen.
There are tiled mosaics of old Pac-Man ghosts and small space invaders. Each one is totally different, and they’re placed on buildings all over the world—Paris, New York, Hong Kong—by an artist who keeps his identity secret, just like a superhero.
There are bright murals of yellow men and women in colorful clothes, dreamy and weird, like they walked out of a fairy tale, painted by Brazilian twins.
There are images of work from a guy named ESPO, sayings in bright letters: LETS ADORE AND ENDURE EACH OTHER. EUPHORIA IS FOR YOU AND ME. IF YOU WERE HERE ID BE HOME NOW. They remind me of Finn’s messages.
I go further down the rabbit hole, discovering even more artists: Ben Wilson, who paints tiny works of art on chewing gum stuck to the sidewalk in London. ROA, who creates detailed black-and-white illustrations of rats and squirrels. Olek, who does something called yarn bombing, where she crochets around trees and bikes.
It’s not the stuff of my high school art history lessons, works I had to memorize, movements I had to put into historical context.
This is on the edges, messy and uneven and rough. It makes me feel a weird sort of jangly, but not in a bad way.
Mustard wanders into the room and jumps up on my lap, and I absentmindedly pet him, clicking through more and more links.
Small figures casting shadows on curbs. A rendering of that famous wartime photo of the kiss in NYC, only with a rainbow behind it. A guy called Hanksy who paints Tom Hanks puns.
This is art that rises from hidden tunnels, that floats off walls and over bridges.
All this art where it shouldn’t be.
All this art not to make money, but just because.
My hand hovers over the mouse, frozen.
What would it be like to do something not because you had to, but just because you wanted to?
But I have the internship.
And right then, it’s not Dad’s words, or Charlie’s, or even Finn’s, that come to mind.
Instead it’s mine—one simple gorgeous word: No.
The sureness of it moves through my body, my bones settling into their joints, my thoughts slowing down.
What if I don’t go back to the internship?
I wait for something to happen, for my dad to rush into my room and tell me I’m out of my mind, for my mom to come in and talk me out of it, for Charlie to get an insta-bloody nose.
But nothing happens.
So carefully, one more small thought at a time, I begin to imagine what it would be like to quit.
I’d have to do it in a way that didn’t necessitate the program calling Mom and Dad, who, to put it mildly, would not be keen about my decision. And I’d have to make sure it wouldn’t jeopardize my Harvard acceptance in any way. I’m already in, but despite what I told Finn earlier, what if the director called Harvard, told them I was a big, selfish disappointment? I can’t risk that.
I scratch my arm.
Mono. I can tell the program director I have mono. It’s contagious. I can’t be around sick kids.
What else?
I’ll need to find a compelling reason Charlie doesn’t need to drive me to the internship I’m apparently still participating in. I’ll have to find a job to make up for losing the internship stipend, which I needed to buy textbooks for next year. And at some point, I’ll have to tell my parents.
This lie is going to need constant maintenance and nurturing, not just today but throughout the rest of the summer.
I don’t know how I’m going to manage any of this.
But when I think about not going back to the internship?
The breath in me changes.
This time, it’s not being snagged on thorns. It’s not scary.
Instead, it’s like earlier, at the Anchor Grill with Finn: breath arriving, the whisper of wings.
Behind it all, steady heartbeat: Anything. Everything.
Twenty-One
WHEN I WAKE UP the next morning, I’m lighter than I’ve been for ages.
I’m not going back to that internship.
By the time I’m dressed and eating cereal—a new box of Cheerios Charlie hasn’t plowed through yet—I’m mentally reviewing the plan that I came up with last night. And it’s weird to admit it, but it feels good. I haven’t felt this on top of things since I was preparing my early-decision application for Harvard. Back then, I had to make sure every piece of the application machine was ready to do its part: SATs, recommendations, extracurriculars. Now it’s making sure all my lies are in place.
From behind me, Dad is whistling at the coffeemaker, and I can hear the sounds of Mom getting ready upstairs.
My “no” is a life raft—I’m not letting go.
Charlie eases into the seat across from me, pouring yet again an obscene amount of Cheerios into an oversized bowl.
I steal a glance at him, wondering if he’s feeling even a little bad about our fight yesterday, but he looks disinterested, half
asleep.
For a second I wish it were different, but then I remember Charlie has always been able to tell when I’m lying, so maybe us not talking right now is actually a good thing.
“Can one of you guys put the potatoes on the stove when you get home tonight?” Mom asks as she enters the kitchen.
“Sure,” I say.
She kisses me on the forehead, runs her hand over Charlie’s head, and grabs the cup of coffee Dad’s holding out before rushing out the door.
Dad dutifully grabs the stack of papers she’s accidentally left on the counter, then turns to us.
“Have fun changing the world today, Dr. McCullough!”
I feel a pang of guilt and shovel more cereal in my mouth.
“And, Charlie. Enjoy tutoring. Remember: ‘Any fool can know. The point is to understand,’ ” he says, clearly quoting something.
Charlie gives an exaggerated grimace. “Are you calling me a fool?”
He automatically looks to me for confirmation that Dad is being corny, but then looks away quickly, like he just remembered he hates me.
Dad gives a goofy wave and leaves.
I poke at my cereal, not feeling very hungry. This is the first time I’ve been alone with Charlie since our fight at the hospital yesterday.
I wait for him to apologize for what he said, because there’s no way I’m going to make the first move.
But the longer we sit there, I realize Charlie’s not going to either.
I feel my bottom right eyelid start to switch, and I squeeze it hard, willing it to stop, and focus instead on carefully chewing my cereal.
After a few more minutes of nothing but the sound of cereal being consumed and Mustard chirruping at birds in the backyard, Charlie stands and brings his bowl to the sink. He turns to me, expressionless.
“Thanks to you, I have therapy today after tutoring, so I can’t pick you up until at least six.”
I try to ignore the knot in my chest. “I don’t need you to drive me anymore. A girl from the program can pick me up and drop me off for the rest of the summer. So feel free to take your time at therapy. I figure you need it.”
