Who is going to take him in?
Now the rabbi leads the rest of our family into the sanctuary to pay their last respects before the service begins. They cry when they see us standing alone by her casket, two lost men with our hands in our pockets.
They gather around us and tell us how sorry they are, how she was so beautiful, so funny—and we say Yes she was and Thank you because that’s what grown men say when they’re strong like Dad wants me to be. They don’t say I wish it was my face in that coffin. They don’t goad my mother’s favorite tumor the way I am doing, silently in my mind. Please. Take me next. My brain is delicious. You can eat it with mustard. Because this would be a heinous thing to think before your own mother’s funeral when you’re supposed to be thinking about her. Psst. Hey there. I promised I would take care of you. You want somewhere to live for a while? My brain is ripe. It will fill your belly. Come eat. And when you’re done, bury me next to her so I don’t have to be alone.
The rabbi announces it’s time to close the lid and we will open the doors for the service to begin unless anyone wants to say one last goodbye. Dad raises his hand like a schoolboy. He approaches the casket. His back is straight. He stands there looking at her. Then he leans over and kisses her on the lips one last time, a man and his bride.
The family is silent, waiting.
This isn’t a fairy tale. She doesn’t wake up.
Instead, the prince falls across her body, puts his head on her chest and weeps.
His yarmulke falls to the floor.
The bride is still dead when Great-Tanta Sarah finally comes and pulls my dad away from the casket. She’s still dead when the rabbi, who continues to look like a fish, closes the lid, a grim finality. She’s still dead when Dad slumps into the pew next to me. The doors to the sanctuary open and all the other mourners start filing in. Congregants. Neighbors. Friends. The hospice nurse. People from Dad’s caregiver support group. People from Mom’s yoga class. They all look at me with sorry faces. They think I’m strong, just like Dad wants me to be. They have no idea that when they weren’t looking, my mother’s favorite tumor entered my brain like a thief.
I do not cry during the entire service. I do not cry during the Mourner’s Kaddish, the prayer that falls around us like rain. I do not cry during the eulogies or the sermon. And later, at the cemetery, where the sun slants between the stones like the golden wings of an angel, I do not cry when they lower the casket into the grave. One by one, we shovel dirt over her blind, expressionless face. I don’t tell anyone that with every thump of dirt, I am imagining my own face in that coffin. I am imagining my own empty eyes, my own skin pale as wax.
Shhh, says the tumor as he coils his tendrils into my cerebral cortex. Don’t tell a soul.
WELCOME TO THE HOTEL GLIOBLASTOMA
The week of shiva goes by like a shadow. I pretend to be strong so no one has any idea how far I’ve come unhinged. When they ask me how I’m holding up, I say, “I’m doing okay,” because that’s what they expect me to say. I’m doing okay is a much better response than My mother’s favorite tumor is letting his rottweilers use my cerebral cortex as a fire hydrant, because this would prove what I have begun to suspect lately, which is that I’ve completely lost my grip on reality. Besides, no one likes a lunatic when they are trying to mourn. Especially at the end of August, when the roses are too hot to hold up their heads.
August turns to September. Labor Day comes and goes. It’s time for Dad to go back to the frame shop and for me to start my sophomore year of high school. Dad says it’s time for us to begin functioning like regular human beings again. Notice the erroneous simile. Like regular human beings. I’m pretty certain that “regular” is not a word you could use for me anymore.
The first week of school, I sleepwalk through my classes. Instead of doing homework, I spend my evenings imagining what the tumor looks like winding himself into my cerebral cortex with his long red tendrils. I draw pictures of him leering at me. In many parts of the world, brains are a delicacy. Cow brains, anyway. Human brains, not so much. But the tumor is a culinary risk-taker. He sautés mine with shallots and white wine and feasts upon it with a napkin tucked under his chin.
One week passes into the next. I settle in to school. Dad has a few jobs. He photographs a bar mitzvah. A wedding. A family reunion. At the shop he develops a few prints and sells a few frames. It’s not fine art, but it pays the bills. The green leaves on the maple tree outside my bedroom window blush at the tips. Every morning, Dad urges me awake, kisses me on the forehead, a heartbreaking and tender gesture, even though I pretend I hate to be kissed. Later, he hands me a bagel and pushes me out the door. I’ll be home when you get home, okay? And I say Okay, because that’s what you say when the guy who loves you is doing his best. I grab my sketchbook and my skateboard, and I set off down the road to the high school, a tall black figure dissolving into the distance.
At school I slump in my chair with my sketchbook, my black hood pulled over my face, lanky legs crossed at the ankles, and red Converse All Star sneakers tapping against each other. I sketch corpses. Some with their eyes open. Some with their eyes closed. I imagine Dad closing my eyes after I die. That’s why I can’t answer when Mr. Mancini, who doesn’t tolerate slackers, stands by my shoulder and barks, “Which branch of government is responsible for making laws? Legislative or executive?” The whole class gets quiet. They’re wondering if Mr. Mancini will push me to speak today, or yell at me for not paying attention, or just give up, as most of my teachers are doing these days, just give up and move on to the next kid, leaving me at my desk to fester silently.
Shhh, says the tumor, twirling his impossible fingers through the cracks in my brain. Don’t tell a soul.
* * *
The end of September brings the cinnamon of leaves beginning to crisp. Mom always loved it when the heat broke and the cool sun started shining through the branches. There’s a picture that Dad took when I was a baby. She is holding me up to see the leaves. I am reaching with my hands, wide-eyed and smiling as though the leaves were jewels, and she is laughing, her long hair falling behind her. Now I’m sitting in the guidance office with my father, but no one is laughing. Dad takes out the letter the school sent about my grades and unfolds it on Ms. Cunningham’s desk so we all can see my brilliance.
Honors English—C
Trigonometry—F
Honors French—D
American History—C
Honors Biology—D
“I know it looks alarming,” says Ms. Cunningham, “but it makes sense that his grades are suffering after what he’s been through. Mr. Friedman, the teachers know it’s been a hard time for you and Max.”
“He’s failing Trigonometry,” says Dad. “His highest mark is a C.”
“I think we should be asking Max about it,” says Ms. Cunningham. “He’s the only one who can tell us what’s really going on in his head. Max? What do you think of all this? Can you help us understand what’s been happening?”
“Nope,” I say without looking at either of them.
“Don’t be rude, Max,” says Dad.
“I’m not being rude,” I mutter to the floor. “She asked if I can help you understand what’s going on. I said nope.”
Nope. Nopity. Nope.
Ms. Cunningham leans forward and tries to make eye contact with me. “Max,” she says, “your dad and I are trying to figure out what we should do next, but it’s hard if you won’t talk with us.”
“I’m not much of a talker,” I say.
The tumor applauds. He appreciates sarcasm.
“Well, I think it makes sense that you aren’t available for academics right now,” says Ms. Cunningham. “You’re grieving. That’s why you’re struggling to get your work done. This is a really tough time for you, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I say.
“See?” She smiles sadly at my father.
“But a kid doesn’t go from getting straight As freshman year to getting Cs, Ds, and Fs s
ophomore year if there isn’t something very, very wrong going on.”
“Something very wrong is going on,” says Ms. Cunningham gently. “His mother died over the summer.”
“We can’t just let him fall apart,” says Dad.
“No one’s going to let him fall apart,” says Ms. Cunningham. “That’s why we sent the letter. It’s clear that we need to take some action to help Max get back on track.”
“Yes,” says Dad emphatically, “now you’re talking. Action. Thank you.”
“Mr. Friedman, is Max having any therapy to help him work through his loss?”
“Well, no, not exactly,” says Dad. “But we’re in a family bereavement support group. It gives us a chance to talk about our experience with other folks who understand. That’s sort of like therapy.”
“Does Max share what’s on his mind during these sessions?”
Dad looks at me. “He’s always been quiet when it comes to emotional stuff. I’m like that too. But his mother—she could talk to anyone about anything. People loved that about her. And she could listen too. Listening is a gift, you know.”
“I know,” says Ms. Cunningham. “And I can imagine that must make the loss even more difficult. Was Max close to his mom?”
“Yes,” says Dad. “They were very close.”
I take my sketchbook out of my backpack and start drawing a tumor with vampire fangs and a cape. I draw quickly, shading in lines.
Dad and Ms. Cunningham watch me.
“So here’s what we’ll do,” says Ms. Cunningham. “I’m going to suggest that Max meet with me twice a week for a while so I can help support him through this. I think talking about how he’s feeling would help him. What do you think, Max? Would you like to do some counseling with me?”
No, I would definitely not like that at all.
I shrug.
“So it’s a plan,” says Ms. Cunningham.
“And what about his teachers?” asks Dad.
“What do you mean?” asks Ms. Cunningham.
“I mean, what about telling his teachers that it’s okay to start pushing him a little bit? His mother wouldn’t have wanted him to fail.”
“Well,” says Ms. Cunningham, “until we start our sessions together, I won’t know how much we should push him. Max is fragile right now, Mr. Friedman.”
“Please,” says Dad. His eyes are wide and desperate. “Please, Ms. Cunningham,” he says again, this time much more quietly. “I don’t want his teachers to give up on him.”
“No one’s giving up on Max,” says Ms. Cunningham. “Believe me. Things are going to start getting better around here. Just you wait.”
THE ROAD TO HELL IS PAVED WITH GOOD INTENTIONS: AND OTHER UNFORTUNATE PLATITUDES
But they don’t get better.
All I can think about is the tumor.
He is the only part of Mom I have left.
At school I sketch ghosts rising from graves.
At home, Dad and I try to make our way together, two men in an empty house, trying to exist in a new, astonished silence. After the ladies from the synagogue stop coming over with noodle kugels and chicken soup, we lapse into bachelorhood. At first, Dad cooks dinner like he’s been doing since Mom got sick the second time, but soon we’re just heating up frozen pizzas and eating Chef Boyardee ravioli from the can. After dinner, Dad lies down on the couch, exhausted. I go upstairs to draw corpses: wormy-eyed wraiths, shadow lords, dark specters both with and without wings.
I eat my pathetic lunch in Ms. Cunningham’s office twice a week so she can help me “get in touch with the grief,” a plan that pisses me off, not because I’m missing out on some spectacular social experience in the cafeteria (I’ve always been pretty much a loner, sitting with my sketchbook drawing while my classmates either ignore me or look on, bemused), but because let’s face it, there’s no way I’ll ever tell Ms. Cunningham what’s actually going on inside my defective but delectable brain. She thinks talking about my emotions will eventually help me be more available for academics. But most of the time I don’t talk at all. I look out the window and watch the blazing orange leaves wave in the wind.
In class, I put my head down on my desk or stare off into space or draw on my wrists in black ink.
Sometimes my teachers surreptitiously push an extra classroom copy of the textbook and a few pieces of white lined paper onto my desk so I will not look so obvious in my apathy.
“Max,” says Ms. Cunningham, “I’m wondering if it might be time to start trying to work at school again. We know you’re sad. Believe me. It makes a lot of sense that you’re sad. Anyone would be. But I’ve met with your teachers, and I’ve talked to your dad about it, and we all think it’s time for you to try getting back to your normal routine here at school.”
I don’t say anything. I’m thinking about the tumor.
Mom’s cancer started out in her breasts and ended up in her brain.
“Just too beautiful and too brilliant for this earth,” she told us toward the end, all teeth and eyes when she smiled. “God’s taking back all my best parts.”
I know she meant to make us laugh, but it’s hard to laugh when you’re trying so hard not to cry that you have to bite your lips. Dad kissed the top of her head and said, “Anna, you are just too much perfection in one human being,” and then he took a photograph of her, which was, if you ask me, the perfect response.
* * *
Ms. Cunningham leans over and looks right in my eyes to make sure I’m paying attention to her.
“So, Max. We all think it’s important that you start bringing your materials to class, even if you’re feeling sad. And that you start paying attention to what your teachers and your classmates are saying. Even if it’s overwhelming at first. And when you and I talk together, it’s important that you listen to me, and when the teacher assigns homework, it’s important that you do it, Max, because the school year goes by so fast, and once you’re behind, it’s hard to catch up. I don’t want to pressure you, but next year you’re going to start looking at colleges, and we really don’t want failing grades on your report card, especially someone like you, with so much talent and so much promise. We want to send you into your junior year with a good, strong, clean academic record. Okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Okay.”
But it’s not okay. It’s really not.
Because the tumor is watching NFL with the sound turned all the way up and I have always hated football. Every time his team scores, he jumps up and down on the couch and the rottweilers go wild.
Not surprisingly, I don’t bring my stuff the next day or the next day, or the next day either.
* * *
US History. Mr. Mancini has been lecturing about the Magna Carta and Rights of Man and, true to form, I don’t have my spiral notebook or my textbook United We Stand, the one with the waving flag and the bald eagle on the front, or the rough draft of my assigned reflection on John Locke’s philosophy of natural rights, and instead of turning to talk with my partner about life, liberty, and property, I’m drawing scenes from the zombie apocalypse in my sketchbook and trying not to think about tumors.
And because more than two months have gone by since the funeral, and because Ms. Cunningham has made a plan (scrunch invisible finger quotes around the word plan) with my dad and my teachers about consequences for continued bad behavior, Mr. Mancini does not shrug his shoulders and leave me alone like he’s been doing. Instead, he gets in my face like he wants to fight.
“Excuse me,” says Mr. Mancini. “Where are your materials?”
“In my locker,” I say.
Students watch. Only an idiot would mess with Mr. Mancini.
“And why, Mr. Friedman, did you think it was a good idea to attend my class without the materials you need in order to participate?”
I shrug.
“A few minutes ago, I asked you to talk with your table partner about the meaning of John Locke’s philosophy of natural rights. Why are you not doing that?”
“We read about John Locke and reflected upon his philosophy for homework. Do you have your homework with you?”
“No,” I say.
“Is that in your locker too?”
“No,” I say. “I didn’t do my homework.”
Kids around me shift in their seats.
“And why didn’t you do your homework?”
I shrug.
“I expect you to do the homework I assign, Mr. Friedman. Do you understand?”
I shrug.
“I asked you a question. Do. You. Understand. Answer me with words, please.”
“Yes, sir,” I say. “I understand.”
“Good,” says Mr. Mancini. “From now on, I expect you to behave as a full member of this community. That means you read what we read, you write what we write, and you discuss what we discuss. Do you think you are capable of that?”
“No,” I tell him.
“Excuse me?” asks Mr. Mancini.
I clear my throat and stand up beside my seat so he will hear me loud and clear.
“I said no, sir. I do not think I am capable of that.”
“Then get out,” says Mr. Mancini.
There is a beat.
“You want me to go?” I ask.
“Yes,” says Mr. Mancini. “Get out of my classroom. Now.”
All eyes are on me.
“Where do you want me to go, sir?”
“I don’t know,” says Mr. Mancini. “But if you’re going to be in my class, I expect you to participate. Otherwise, I want you out of here. Go. Now.”
“Okay,” I say.
“Don’t come back until you’re ready to be part of the class.”
Ready to Fall Page 2
