by Gwynn White
“Yes, I’m just the hysterical mother, worrying about nothing.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“But that’s exactly what you meant.” Mom takes a deep breath. “I know we agreed I would keep him away from doctors. But I’m scared for him. Truly scared.”
Dad heaves a sigh. “I know you would never harm Thomas,” he says. “I can’t prevent you from taking him, anyway. Fine. It’s your call. You’re the one here with him. I’ll support whatever you think is best.”
“Goddamn it, don’t do that to me!” Mom explodes, and my tensor tympanis contract before I even realize it’s happening. I sit upright in bed and expand them again. “…your son, too,” is all I catch of her last sentence.
“What? I give you what you want, and then you want to argue with me? You’re already the martyr in this relationship.”
“Don’t you dare put that on me,” she hisses at him. “If you have any guilt about the lopsidedness of our relationship, it’s all on you. I never throw it in your face. So don’t you dare try to turn this on me.”
The faucet begins to trickle again.
“I want your honest opinion regarding Thomas, our son. I want you to take a reasoned stance—”
“I have!” Dad says.
“—and not a blind one that says he’ll be exposed and studied, no matter what. Weigh the costs and benefits. Support your opinion with facts.”
Dad actually growls. “Okay, here are the facts. One, Thomas would know if he’s sick, so there’s no reason to have him see a doctor. Two, he’ll be wanted by governments and researchers all over the world. Three, most doctors won’t believe him anyway. Four, if, and that’s a big if, something does go wrong, you can take him to a doctor then.”
Mom is silent for a while. Then she speaks. “One, he’s too young to understand his body the way an experienced doctor can. Two, I won’t let anyone study him. Period. Three, maybe it doesn’t matter if they believe. I only have to convince someone to check for tumors and disease, and if everything’s fine, I’ll let it go for now.”
“And if the doctor does believe? What then? How do you keep this under wraps?”
“I don’t know,” Mom whispers. “I know it might create issues, but I have to know. I have to know that he’s okay. That peace of mind is worth it to me. And I think it should be worth it to you.”
“Does Thomas…what’s his take on all of this?”
The splashing water stops again, and I can picture Mom turning around to face Dad head on. “He wants to go.”
“Why? Does he actually want to be studied?” Dad asks.
“We haven’t talked about that, but I assume he’d like to pick a doctor’s brain. Ask questions. It’s not easy for him, Mike.”
“If I were here…I don’t know. I don’t know enough about what’s been happening. I haven’t seen what he goes through.”
“I email you every goddamn day,” Mom says. “Whether you answer or not. I give you the updates. I include you as much as I can. You know everything I know.”
“But I don’t know him!” Dad says. “I don’t know my own son! I don’t know how he reacts to things, I don’t know how he makes his choices, I don’t know what he thinks about. You do.”
“Then figure it out,” Mom says through clenched teeth. “If that’s what you need to know to be able to weigh in on this decision, then spend every second of your leave with your son. I…I need you on this. It’s too much to ask of me. I know what I signed up for as your wife, and I’m there. I respect what you do…but Thomas needs his dad on this. I need my husband on this. Please.”
More footsteps. Mom’s muffled sobs, probably hidden in his chest.
I grip the covers around my neck with clenched fists.
I want to see a doctor. I want an expert to consult with. I want it so badly that I’m suddenly wide awake and have to fight the urge to jump out of bed and weigh in on the argument myself.
But I don’t want to interrupt them. My parents need time together without me in the mix. I know that their marriage can’t be easy. And I don’t ever want to be the one to make it harder.
At least not on purpose.
I hear them pass my door as they make their way to bed. They close their door and lock it. I can take a hint.
I get my sketchpad and a pencil out of my backpack and sit criss-cross applesauce on the bed. I sketch Tessa from perfect memory. My hand moves as though on autopilot, like a computer printer programmed to print the exact copy of the picture on the monitor. My brain’s the monitor. I can make my hand produce exactly what I envision.
Tessa has a widow’s peak, an inherited trait. Her green eyes came from her parents as well, although neither of them needs to exhibit green eyes for her to possess them. I wonder if she has a crooked pinkie—I can’t recall ever looking at her hands. I wonder if she can roll her tongue into a perfect pink taco. I wonder if she can flare her nostrils at will.
I can do those things, though my pinkies are straight, and no amount of body control can make them crooked.
I wonder if she can contract her tensor tympani muscle. I’ll have to ask her. I wonder if I can teach her to do it, or if that is something of an inherited trait as well.
I fall asleep against my sketchpad, my cheek stuck to Tessa’s.
Chapter Seven
I’ve grown overnight. More than usual. I can’t tell exactly how much, but I know where—more neurons, length to my legs, my bottom tooth is higher up in the gums and loosening my baby tooth. Cool. I can use some pocket change from the Tooth Fairy.
Chapter Eight
My reflexes are slow.
Dad and I are racing our go-karts on the Wii (I’m Mario and he’s Donkey Kong), and I cannot anticipate the turns fast enough, cannot avoid the banana peels littering the track.
I call up a hefty dose of adrenaline and order the neurons from my optic nerve to my brain to fire faster.
I whoop with exhilaration as the adrenaline hits me. The images of the track become crystal clear, high definition without the actual high definition—I am processing it all at super speed.
I come in first place thirteen times in a row before Dad finally concedes defeat.
“How the hell did you do that?” he says with a laugh.
“Neuron boost,” I say.
And then I try to stand. But my knees are like rubberbands, too flimsy to hold my weight, and I collapse, shaking.
Dad reaches for me and lifts my head into his lap.
“Thomas?”
“I’m fine,” I say, wriggling to sit up. Dad gives me a boost with his hand on my back. “Just coming down.”
“Coming down?”
“Adrenaline. Used too much, I guess.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah, but I could use—”
“Orange juice. Got it.” And Dad bounds up to get me a glass.
“I’m concerned because he manipulates his own system. There’s a reason people can’t do that.”
“Thomas is healthy. He hasn’t had a cold in five years.”
“But what about the long-term effects? He makes his own adrenaline, for god’s sake. What if that’s not a good thing?”
“Trish, you’re worrying for nothing. If Thomas is sick, he’ll tell us. If something goes wrong with his body, we’ll take him to the doctor.”
Mom falls silent.
“You’ll take him to the doctor,” Dad says, correcting himself.
I can hear Mom take a deep breath. “I want you to be there, Mike.”
“I don’t do hospitals.”
“We’re not going to the hospital. Just the doctor’s office.”
“I can’t.”
“I need you there,” Mom says.
“It’s a superstition, I know, but I can’t. You know what I’ve been through, Trish. You know! How can you ask this of me?”
I step into the kitchen, and their heads whip around at my intrusion.
“Hey, big guy,” Dad says, a forced sm
ile on his lips. “Mom and I are talking. Is there something you need?”
Mom has turned away from us, busying herself at the sink.
“You don’t need to come with us, Dad. I’m quite prepared for my visit to the pediatrician’s office.”
Dad grimaces. “You heard that, huh?”
I nod.
“It’s not about you, Thomas. I mean, it’s not because of you.”
“I know that,” I say. “They’re called personal hang-ups because they’re personal.”
Dad hangs his head and speaks into his chest. “I have men counting on me, Thomas. I have to have my head in the game.”
“I understand the position you’re in,” I say. “And I know of your agreement with Mom, that she was the one who wanted a child, not you. Take me out of the equation. I don’t need you—you’re never here. But Mom is your wife at her sufferance only, not at yours. She runs your life while you run around the desert or the jungle, and it’s clear what you get out of the arrangement. But what about Mom? Have you even once thought about what she gets out of this arrangement?”
“That’s enough, Thomas,” Mom mumbles at the sink.
“And further—”
“That’s enough!” she shouts.
I grit my teeth. “Fine. My position on this subject has been made clear. But,” and I toddle over to Dad and look way up at him and stretch my arm up so I can poke him in the vicinity of his chest with my finger. “You are a man. A husband. A father. Act like one.” And I walk slowly to my room, silence at my back.
Chapter Nine
Mom steers me to the door with her hand on my shoulder. I want to shrug her off—how will it look with Mommy touching me when Tessa opens the door?—but I’m too nervous. I need the support.
Mrs. Halter opens the door wearing an apron smeared with chocolate and a wide smile.
“Hello, Thomas.”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Halter.”
She and my mother laugh, for what reason I have no idea, and Mrs. Halter waves us inside.
“It smells wonderful in here,” I say.
“Oh, good,” Mrs. Halter says. “We’re baking treats for the Halloween party at school tomorrow. I thought you and Tessa could help.”
I nod enthusiastically. I love to bake, but Mom doesn’t let me eat sweets too often. Plus, she can’t forget the time we were making fudge balls rolled in chocolate sprinkles for Christmas. She left me alone to use the bathroom, and when she returned, she watched while I rolled a sticky ball in my hands, dropped it in the bowl of sprinkles, licked all the chocolate off my hands, then rolled another ball. And repeat. She managed to catch it on videotape, and it’s her favorite holiday movie. I was only three, but she still doesn’t trust me around chocolate.
“Please don’t lick your fingers,” she whispers to me.
“Let it go, already,” I whisper back.
She laughs. “I’ll be back at five,” she says, squeezing my arm goodbye. I prepped her on foregoing a kiss.
In the kitchen, Tessa is kneeling on a stool at the counter. She has chocolate on her shirt, on her cheek, and conspicuously at the corners of her mouth.
“Thomas!” she squeals when she sees me. “We’re making spider cupcakes.”
“Yum,” I say, crawling up on the stool next to her. “How can I help?”
“Would you like to frost the cupcakes or make the spiders?” Mrs. Halter asks.
“The spiders sound like fun,” I say. “What do I have to do?”
Mrs. Halter shows me how to cut black lace licorice into spider legs and how to stick the legs into a large marshmallow for the body of the spider. I make a few of them, and Tessa sticks them on top of her chocolate-frosted cupcakes.
I look over at Mrs. Halter, who is assembling round cakes into a giant cake tower. “What are you making, Mrs. Halter?” I ask.
“Oh, I make cakes for fancy parties,” she says. “This one is for a Halloween party for a software company.”
“Which company?” I ask.
“Blizzard. Have you heard of it?”
“Yes, they’ve seen quite a lot of success lately, with World of Warcraft.”
She laughs. “I shouldn’t be surprised that you know that, but I am. Have you played the game?”
“No, ma’am. I’m not allowed to play video games,” I say, and then I remember the Wii. “Generally speaking,” I add, so that I’m not lying.
“I don’t play, either, but I had to do some research for this cake. It’s a World of Warcraft cake.” She holds up some screen shots of the video game that she has in a pile on the counter.
“Cool,” I say, breathless. “May I look?”
She hands them to me.
I’ve seen how they do these on television. Cake Boss is one of the shows Mom and I like to watch together. “Do you have sketches of the cake?”
“Right here,” she says, handing me those also.
Her planned cake has four tiers, each depicting a different aspect of the game. It’s very intricate, but I see right away how I would have designed it.
“This dragon, I love it, but what if instead of just sitting there, you unfurled its wings so it looks like it’s in mid-flight? You could also have it breathing fire, and have the fire trail down the tiers, maybe even setting this castle on fire.”
Mrs. Halter comes to stand next to me and leans on her elbows on the counter, studying her drawing. Then she studies my face.
“Do you draw, Thomas?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Thomas, I’m ready for more spiders,” Tessa says.
Mrs. Halter leaves the room while I assemble another spider and comes back shortly with some blank white paper and colored pencils.
I drop my half-finished spider and grab the pencils.
Tessa licks her fingers. “You done yet?” she asks.
I quickly snip twenty-four licorice legs and push them toward her.
I draw a four-tiered cake in the shape of a castle. Different creatures peek out of each window, some waving swords, one aiming a bow and arrow. I draw the dragon wrapped around the turret, wings spread for balance, fire erupting from its jaws and twisting around the entire structure.
When I look up, Mrs. Halter is breathing over my neck, staring at my drawing.
“Unbelievable,” she says.
“It’s just a quick sketch,” I say. “I’m sorry I didn’t take more time. I know it’s a bit of a mess.”
“You’re joking, right?” she asks.
I stare at her blankly.
She picks up the paper. “I wish I could do this. It would be amazing…but I don’t think I could get the cake to look like this.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“I’m good,” she says, “but I’m not that good.”
“How do you make the decorations?” I ask.
“I was going to use molding chocolate, then paint them. It’s like molding clay.”
“I’ll do it,” I say.
“What?”
“I love Play-Doh. I made my mom a vase once.”
“It’s a bit trickier than that,” she says.
“May I try?” I ask.
“Why not? It’ll take me a bit to get the chocolate ready. You and Tessa go play and I’ll call you when I’m ready.”
“Okay,” I say. I look to my right, at Tessa’s chair, but Tessa is gone.
I slip off the chair and wander through the house, looking for her. I find her in what appears to be her bedroom, sitting on the floor and flipping through my mummy book. She looks up as I enter and quickly turns her back on me.
“What are you reading?” I ask her, even though I already know.
She doesn’t answer me.
I sit down next to her, and she swivels away from me again.
“Is something wrong, Tessa?” I ask.
“I’m mad at you,” she says.
I feel my stomach contort into a giant knot.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?” she says.
“When you say sorry, you gotta say what you’re sorry for.”
“Um, I’m sorry you’re mad.”
“You don’t know why I’m mad, do you?”
“No, but I’m still sorry.”
Tessa blows out a loud breath and faces me. “We were making spiders and you stopped. Then you talked to my mom and not to me.”
“I thought I was supposed to be polite to your mother,” I say.
“But you came over to play with me.”
I suddenly see my error.
“You’re right. That was rude of me. I’m very sorry that I stopped making spiders, Tessa.”
She smiles. “Thank you. I forgive you.”
I sigh in relief. “Thank goodness. I didn’t mean to make you mad. Is there something you’d like to play?”
“How about doctor?” she asks.
Oh boy. For about thirty seconds, I’m tempted to go along—after all, how many opportunities will I have to play doctor with a female body? But as I play the scene out in my head, I find myself veering in inappropriate directions, and I know we need to steer clear of doctor.
“Would you show me your brothers’ Harry Potter castle?” I ask. “Let’s see if they messed up on any of the directions.”
“Yes!” she says, jumping to her feet.
This friend thing is so new to me that I feel like I’ve been dumped in a foreign country, with no knowledge of the cultural nuances. I have to rely on Tessa as my guide and hope that, even if I make mistakes, she doesn’t leave me stranded.
Mom arrives about twenty minutes early, and I realize I didn’t get a chance to try my hand at molding any chocolate. Mrs. Halter did check on us once, but we were so engrossed in finding all the mistakes Tessa’s brothers had made on their castle that we didn’t take much notice.
As we leave, Mrs. Halter hands Mom a giant baggie of white clay.
“Thomas took quite an interest in my latest cake,” she tells Mom. “This is molding chocolate. I thought he might like to try making some figures out of it.”
“Thank you,” Mom says. “What a neat idea.” I can tell she’s both grateful and dubious about me playing with chocolate.
