Soar

by Joan Bauer

  “I don’t want extra doctors.”

  You don’t always get what you want.

  Two years later, I had to have a heart transplant. I was ten. I don’t recommend the experience, but I can promise you, it’s so much better than dying.

  I told Aunt Charity I wanted to keep my old heart in a jar at home to remember, but she started screaming about the intense grossness of that.

  “I made it to ten years of age with that heart,” I told her. “It’s part of me.”

  She threw up her hands and said absolutely not.

  “He’s kidding about keeping it at home,” Walt assured her.

  We gave it to science—the best solution—although first I wanted to use it for the science fair at school.

  “How can you even think of these things?” she shrieked.

  “Maybe we can visit it?” I asked her.

  That didn’t work, either.

  Right now Dr. Feinberg, who did my transplant surgery, is looking at me like he always does—checking my eyes without saying he is, checking to see if I have energy without saying he is.

  Walt says, “We want zero risk, doctor. We are open to whatever you think is best.”

  “Which would be me going to Ohio.”

  Dr. Feinberg is looking at my test results. “Jeremiah, as long as I have known you, you’ve always been clear as to what you want. How are you feeling?”

  “Fine. Really fine.”

  “How’s the energy level?”

  “You know, it’s okay.”

  A medical nod. “Arrhythmia? Swollen ankles? Brain fog? Nausea? An uncontrollable desire to play meaningless, soul-crushing video games all day?”

  “Only the last one.”

  “Shortness of breath?”

  I breathe like it’s hard.

  Dr. Feinberg looks at me. “This is a joke?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll be gone how long?”

  Walt says, “Two months or so. But if this isn’t a good idea—”

  “That’s a lot of compacted stress: packing, saying good-bye, moving, a new school, and then coming back.”

  Walt says, “If you don’t think this is a good idea—”

  “I want to understand,” Dr. Feinberg adds. He always says this. It’s why he’s a great doctor.

  Walt starts explaining about this new consulting gig he’s got, but he’s not selling the concept. He hasn’t once mentioned the stress of living with Aunt Charity. He has hardly touched on the theme of baseball and how tomorrow’s stars are playing on the Hillcrest Hornets today, how it’s a chance to see them before they get really big, how their champion pitcher throws an unbelievable fastball.

  I interrupt and make my case. I also emphasize the robots.

  “How fast does the kid throw?” Dr. Feinberg asks.

  “Ninety-four miles per hour.”

  Millard, Hassan, and Dr. Feinberg nod, impressed.

  I say, “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

  That’s a big sentence for me. Before I got my new heart, I was so sick, I wasn’t going to make it. That surgery went pretty well, considering where I was starting from. They hoped it would have gone a little better.

  My scar from the transplant runs from the top of my chest to the middle. I showed it to my best friend, Yaff, who said, “Tell people you got attacked by zombies and survived.”

  I can walk blocks at a time, but I still can’t run.

  “Jeremiah,” Dr. Feinberg says, “you need to be aware of two things. First, you will need to have another team in Ohio and check in with them.”

  I know this.

  “Second, you have to be uniquely careful of infection.”

  The team stares at me. I say I know that, too.

  “We are talking about bathing in antiseptic lotion.”

  I take out the bottle from my pocket.

  “We are talking about naps.”

  I groan.

  “And you must have realistic goals for your time there. Do you have those?”

  “I want to see as many baseball games as I can, and I want to do well in school and hang out with Walt and maybe build another robot.”

  They are still staring at me like that’s not enough.

  “Okay, and I will run away screaming if I see anyone sneezing.”

  “No running,” the doctor says.

  I nod. I hate the no running part. I tried running after my surgery and that didn’t go too well.

  “And I won’t eat at salad bars because of the germs.”

  “They’re infested with germs,” Hassan reminds me.

  “And when I’m at baseball games, if I feel tired or anything, I will let Walt know.”

  Still staring.

  “It’s what I do here!”

  “We’ll discuss this and be back in a few minutes.” Dr. Feinberg walks toward the door with the team.

  “Don’t forget the part you can’t put on a chart,” I shout. “Baseball and robots. How can this not be good for my heart?”

  The doctor smiles. Millard doesn’t. They walk out.

  Walt says, “You know, whatever they decide, it’s for the best.”

  I look at him. His eyes are kind, but tired.

  I can do this, Walt!

  The team comes back. I try to read their faces like people do on legal shows when the jury walks in to give the verdict.

  I put my hand over my heart.

  “We are unanimous in this, Jeremiah,” Dr. Feinberg begins. And the team stands tough behind him.

  I think it’s no.

  “For baseball and robots and being with your dad, you can go to Ohio.”

  “Yes!” I shout.

  “I want you to write this across your eyeballs, Jeremiah: do not take on too much.”

  “This is a great medical decision, you guys. You work together as a team and that’s why you can get out there and make a difference.”

  Dr. Feinberg writes something down. “I will miss you, Jeremiah. I’m still hoping you can be the subject of the book that I will write someday when I have time to go on the talk show circuit.”

  The book is about the power of being hopeful and positive when you’re a heart patient. He says I’m the poster boy for that.

  “I’m referring you to a fine cardiologist I know in Cincinnati, Dr. Sarah Dugan. She was a resident here.”

  “If she’s writing a book, I’ll save the good stuff for you, Dr. F. I swear.”

  “Don’t be stupid out there,” Dr. Feinberg warns.

  “I will be highly intelligent and totally aware at every moment.”

  “And don’t forget to have fun.”

  “Yes, sir, I will do that!”

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Walt and I walk down the corridor and stop at the photos on the wall. The sign above them reads: OUR KIDS. These are the pictures of kids who had heart transplants here. There are baby pictures and pictures of people getting married. The point is, we get better and go on to have good lives. The one famous guy on the wall is Rodney P. Sears, who had three surgeries and now writes horror films about evil hearts that take over a person’s body. His new movie is called Heart of Stone: The Ever-Darkening Crevice. Walt won’t let me see it. There are three pictures of me, when I was eight, nine, and eleven. I look a lot better at eleven. I’d like to get on the board for doing something big—although surviving and getting strong is a nontrivial thing.

  I’d like someone to point to my picture one day and say, “And now this young man is managing a major league baseball team.”

  Chapter

  4

  PACKING FOR THIS trip is the same as packing for life. I’m bringing too much, but I am easily bored. I pile up my forty-seven baseball and coaching books, which come up to my waist. They can fit in
the trunk. I’m bringing my glove, my bat, my baseball.

  Before my heart got that virus, Walt and I used to play catch every day, even in the winter—we painted a ball neon red so we could find it in the snow.

  I’m all about dedication.

  Yaff is sitting on the bed. “You’re coming back, right?”

  “In a couple of months.”

  Yaff looks unsure.

  “All my doctors are here.”

  Yaff stretches out his leg. He got the first operation to lengthen his leg last year. We met at the hospital in an elevator. We were both wearing Cardinals caps.

  “It doesn’t look like it, but my leg is growing,” he said to me.

  How can you not be friends with someone like that?

  “I asked my mom if you could stay with us while your dad is in Ohio, Jeremiah. I told her you could train Powderpuff.” That’s Yaff’s mother’s extreme little white dog. “I told her this would change life in our family. My mom said if she had more strength and courage, you could.”

  “Thanks.” Yaff’s mother is a great mother role model. She always tells you how it is, and she gives you credit for understanding.

  Time to pack the robot. “Jerwal, go to sleep.”

  Jerwal shuts down.

  “My mom said Jerwal can stay with us, Jeremiah.”

  “He is needed elsewhere.” I put Jerwal in a box, tuck a blanket around him for padding. Jerwal was a big friend of mine when I was in the hospital.

  I hand Yaff a little card I printed. “Don’t forget.”

  He turns it over, looks at it, and nods. “Yeah. I won’t.”

  I don’t give these cards to just anyone.

  Yaff and I go back to watching the eagle cam from the Nature Conservancy. We are watching live-as-it-happens moments of two baby eagles in a nest as they deal with the unfairness of life. First, three days ago, their mother was killed. Now they’re waiting for their father to come back with food.

  Yaff shakes his head. “I don’t think the father’s coming back.”

  “Bet you he does.” It’s still hard to watch this.

  “Loser cleans the winner’s room.”

  This is an unfair bet because Yaff’s room, according to his mother, has “the ambience of a Turkish prison.”

  The eagle cam is watched by so many people; it’s been a big connect for me as an eagle watcher. I don’t think my mother had any idea what she started when she got me that stuffy. I look over at Baby, who is in a plastic bag for safety. Her talons aren’t what they used to be.

  “Baby,” I say, “what’s your best guess on the father?”

  Baby keeps things to herself, but now on the eagle cam, there’s a swoosh of wings and the father swoops into the nest.

  “Yes!” I shout.

  People are commenting online:

  It’s another eagle!

  It’s a predator!!!!!!

  I type, This is what father eagles do, people . . .

  The father eagle has food for the babies, and he is patient. The baby eagles seem like challenged eaters, probably because of all the earlier trauma.

  I win.

  Yaff cleans my room like he cleans his room—badly. He shoves things in the closet and under the bed while I pack Baby. Yaff is the kind of friend who understands the power of historic stuffies. He still has Fiend, his king cobra stuffy. He wraps it around his neck on Halloween.

  I’m going to need to find a good friend fast in Hillcrest.

  I tape Baby’s box shut. “Later, Baby,” Yaff says.

  I wish Yaff could come with me. He puts his arms out like wings. I do, too.

  “See you in the summer, Eagle Man.”

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  “I think this is an unwise decision,” Aunt Charity announces. “I am concerned on multiple levels.” She drove over to say good-bye.

  Walt hugs her. “We’re going to give it a try.”

  “And if it’s a disaster?” she demands.

  I don’t want to think about that!

  He smiles kindly. “You’ll be the first one to know, Char.”

  “Call the doctor first, then me.” Aunt Charity hugs me and messes up my hair like I’m still eight years old.

  We get in the car; she stands there waving until we turn the corner.

  “I love her, Walt. I do.”

  “I know.”

  And we are off to live in Baseball Land . . .

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  We are driving by the Gateway Arch—the tallest arch in the world. It’s made of stainless steel and manages to glisten even on a cloudy day. We’ve been to the top of it four times. Every time I see it, I remember the early pioneers who pushed west to see what was beyond Missouri. That’s what the arch is for—to help you think about courage.

  Those people had strong hearts and vision.

  My heart’s not strong, but my vision makes up for it.

  I take out my folder. On the cover I drew my signature mark, two curved lines coming together, like wings:

  “I’ve been researching the high school team, Walt. The Hornets’ star pitcher, Hargie Cantwell, has an ERA under two!”

  That’s earned run average. That means when this Hargie kid pitches seven innings, the other teams can only score one or two runs against him.

  Walt was a pitcher in college. “That kid’s got some heat.”

  “Last year the Hornets were undefeated.”

  “Impressive.”

  “They have a stadium. People call it the Hornets’ Nest. And on this map”—I hold up a map of Hillcrest—“it looks like the house we’re renting is close to the stadium. How excellent is that?”

  “I’m glad you’re looking forward to it.”

  “There’s a game today at four o’clock, Walt.”

  He drives a little faster. Three hundred and eleven miles to go.

  We’re on I–70 East in Illinois, zooming toward Indiana.

  I remember when we moved from Indiana to St. Louis. We needed to be near Aunt Charity so she could help take care of me.

  A lot of my time in St. Louis was spent in the hospital or at home. First, I got medication to make my heart pump better. But everything the doctors tried worked for a few months and then stopped. For two years I was in and out of the hospital; I could only go to school for part of the year. Aunt Charity and Walt tutored me. Walt is a cool tutor—we built our first robot (pre-Jerwal), we took a computer apart and put it back together, we built a radio. Aunt Charity made me write three-paragraph essays like “How Adversity Has Made Me Stronger” and “Why I Will Never Give Up.” I tried a shortcut on the giving up one.

  Why I Will Never Give Up

  by Jeremiah Lopper, Age 10

  I will never give up because I have too many cool things to do to waste time being negative.

  The End

  Walt had that on the refrigerator for the longest time. Walt’s uncle Jack (my great-uncle) laughed when he saw it. “Kid,” he told me, “you’re going places.” I made a copy of it for him and he carried it in his wallet. He died last year when his heart gave out. Right before that he told me, “The best thing Walt ever did was bringing you into the family.”

  Two hundred and eighty-three miles to go.

  “Are you up for more data, Walt?”

  “Shoot.”

  “There are 12,761 people in Hillcrest, Ohio.”

  “Soon to be 12,763,” he says.

  “Right. The town motto is, and you’re going to love this, ‘Life is a game. Baseball is serious.’”

  Walt laughs. “I guess we know what they’re about.”

  “Totally. They have two ice-cream shops and only one pizza place.”

  “Only one?”

  “Junk Ball Pizza. It’s near the stadium, which is only one-point-seven miles f
rom our house. I can walk one-point-seven miles, Walt.”

  “Sometimes you can.”

  “Let’s be positive.”

  Walt chuckles. “I found a hornets’ nest once when I was a boy. That was not fun.”

  Lots more driving.

  I’ve got questions:

  Who will my friends be?

  What are they doing right now?

  Will they know right away that they need a new friend, or will I have to convince them?

  “What do you think it’s going to be like in Hillcrest, Walt?”

  He smiles. “We’ll know when we get there.”

  “I want to know before we get there.”

  “Takes the fun out of it, Jer.”

  Lots more driving.

  Lots.

  And then a huge baseball bat glistens on a little hill.

  And after that, we see the ultimate sign:

  TO THOSE WHO SAY IT’S ONLY A GAME,

  WE SAY IT’S MORE.

  TO THOSE WHO SAY IT ISN’T IF YOU WIN OR LOSE,

  WE SAY IT MATTERS.

  WE ARE WINNERS.

  EVERY DAY.

  EVERY YEAR.

  PUSHING TO BE THE BEST.

  WELCOME TO HILLCREST, OHIO.

  Chapter

  5

  WE DRIVE BY the stadium, or try to. The traffic is crazy. It’s like this town has a major league team.

  An amplified voice blares out: “Ladies and gentlemen, we have three hours till game time.”

  People on the street cheer.

  “The game, Walt. We can’t be late!”

  “We won’t be late.”

  In front of the stadium are huge posters of the players. Music blasts.

  You’ve gotta know

  You’ve gotta know

  You’ve gotta know

  What it takes

  To win.

  Two kids wearing Hornets hats are dancing.

  You’ve gotta know

  You’ve gotta know

  You’ve gotta know

  What it takes

  To win.

  It takes full commitment to have this kind of attitude. The best coaches talk about dedication. I put my hand over my heart. It’s totally inspiring here.