Most nights I can fall asleep with the music off and the earbuds in, because I like the feeling of something nestled in there. But tonight, the night before my first day at Baldwin, I am just too nervous to sleep, so I put the earbuds in my mouth and I suck on them while I google tumor statistics on my phone. By the time we learned that Mom’s cancer had spread to her brain, we only had ten months left. She never said anything to me about the tumor tap dancing, but she did get headaches that brought her to her knees.
I find a list of different kinds of brain cancers listed in alphabetical order. Each one has a picture of a CT scan and a list of information. Diagnosis. Symptoms. Treatments. Prognosis. I suck on the earbuds and whisper the names of the tumors into the dark like an incantation: anaplastic astrocytoma, brain stem glioma, ependymoma, ganglioglioma, ganglioneuroma, glioblastoma, glioma, juvenile pilocytic astrocytoma, medulloblastoma, oligodendroglioma. I whisper their names and run my tongue back and forth across the earbuds until I finally get sleepy. Pretty soon, the tumors stop dancing and begin to gather around my incantation as though it were a campfire. They put their tendrils around one another and lean their heads on one another’s shoulders and they close their eyes while I name them over and over. No tumor has ever heard such a perfect lullaby. We fall asleep together, the tumors and me, our arms around each other, bathed in the milky blue glow of my phone in the dark.
MEASURE FOR MEASURE
When I was little, Mom would always make a big deal about the first day of school. Getting ready was a ritual I looked forward to every August, counting down the days the way most kids count down to summer vacation. First there was the annual back-to-school shopping trip to Walmart for school supplies and new clothes. I can’t believe you’ve outgrown everything in those drawers! Look how big you’re getting. Then there was my last dinner of the summer, which always involved many burners and many pots bubbling at once until the walls of our yellow kitchen would sweat even with all the windows open and the fan going.
Mom hated using the stove when it was really hot, and August dinners tended to be grilled outside on the barbecue, or else they involved leftovers, cold cuts, and chilled salads, but she was always willing to sweat on this one day so her little boy could start off his year right. I would sit at the table like a king, and Mom would smile at me while I ate my brisket or my baked chicken. I would wolf it down gratefully and she would laugh her amazing laugh and smile through her sweat even when it was ninety degrees and the kitchen fan didn’t make a single bit of difference. That’s how much she loved me.
After dinner there was the annual laying out of clothes and school supplies with the once-a-year prayer Mom said only on the night before the first day of school: Tomorrow is going to be the very first day of your very best school year ever. Words that sounded as sweet as a kiss on the forehead.
Each year I would wake before the alarm. I’d bounce out of bed and throw on my new clothes and brush my teeth because everyone likes a white smile. I would tumble down the stairs and Mom would already be there at the table with her coffee and newspaper. Hey there, early bird! she’d say, and there would be a whole plateful of matzo-meal latkes with grape jelly for breakfast because that’s my favorite and they take so long to make you have to save them for special occasions.
Finally, just before the school bus rounded the corner onto our street, there was the once-a-year measuring of my height against the wall in the back hallway. Don’t cheat, she’d say. No tippy-toes. Feet flat on the floor, please. And I would drop down an inch or two, and she would take a pencil and draw a line just like she had every first day of school since I was in kindergarten, and I could stand back and see how far I’d come from the year before and the year before and the year before.
Would you look at that? How can this be true?
But it is true. It is true.
* * *
Today my alarm goes off before sunrise. It’s cold in my room. I peel the cell phone from my unshaven cheek. My desperate nocturnal Google search is still pulsing on the screen, laughing at me. The earbuds are still in my mouth, wires dangling down my chin. I know I should spit them out because they taste like morning breath, but the plastic against my tongue feels good and not much in this world feels good these days, so I suck on the earbuds while I drag a comb through my hair, and I suck on them all the way down the hall to the bathroom where I splash water on my face. Dark circles. Pale. Skinny. Look at you, dude. You look like a corpse already. How can that be true? But it is true. It is true.
I spit out the earbuds and brush my teeth.
“Max,” calls Dad.
“Yeah,” I call back.
“You dressed?”
I look down at the clothes I fell asleep in.
“Yeah.”
“Come and eat something. We need to get going in a few minutes.”
“Okay,” I say.
Downstairs, Dad and Grandma are sitting at the kitchen table. Grandma’s wearing her flannel nightgown and has her eyes closed.
Dad’s hunched beside her, unshaven, bleary-eyed, wearing jeans, reading the newspaper, and drinking coffee.
I slide into a chair.
Dad looks up from the paper and says, “You look like you’ve been hit by a train.”
“You don’t look much better yourself, old man.”
“Touché,” says Dad.
He toasts me with his coffee mug and takes a long, noisy sip.
There isn’t much left.
“Can I have some?” I ask him.
“Yeah,” says Dad. “But go easy on it.”
He hands over the mug. I like the feeling of the hot coffee moving down my throat. I can see why he does this every morning. Feels good. Not so many things in life feel good like this. Earbuds. Coffee. The list is dwindling.
I hand the empty mug back to him.
“Gee,” says Dad. “Thanks.”
“Got any more?” I ask.
“Nope,” says Dad, putting down the mug and regarding me. “That was the last of it. Make your own coffee next time, you mooch.”
“I’m your progeny,” I remind him. “I’m supposed to be a mooch.”
“Yeah?” says Dad. “Less than three years until college. Then I’m gonna kick you to the curb, you miscreant.”
“Nah,” I tell him. “I’m gonna live here forever, drinking your coffee and helping you lose what little hair you have left. Which, by the way, is not very much, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Dad runs a hand through his thinning hair. “Good plan,” he says. “So you want a Pop-Tart or something before we leave?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Blueberry?” asks my dad.
“Okay,” I say. “With frosting?”
“But of course,” says Dad. He finds a package of Pop-Tarts from the pantry and throws it to me. I actually catch it. A minor miracle.
“Breakfast of champions,” says Dad.
Then he goes over to Grandma. “Jean,” he says close to her ear. “Jean. Wake up, honey. I’m taking Max to his first day at Baldwin.” He rubs her shoulders.
Grandma opens her eyes.
“Where’s Anna?” she says.
“She died, Jean,” says Dad.
Her eyes widen and fill with tears.
“My Anna died?”
Dad sighs. “Yes she did,” he says. “And you are living with us now. You said you wanted to say good luck to Max before I take him to his new school. Well, we’re leaving in a few minutes.”
Grandma wipes away her tears and shakes her head until she’s fully awake. Then she pushes herself out of her chair, shuffles over to where I’m sitting, and puts her arms around my shoulders. She kisses me on the forehead. Her lips are soft and warm, like Mom’s were. “Knock ’em dead,” says Grandma. She smiles at me and I see Mom’s eyes twinkling. “I love you,” she says.
“Thanks,” I say. “I love you too.”
“We’ll be back at three thirty,” says Dad. “You gonna be okay?”
“I think so,” says Grandma.
“You have my number at the shop?”
“I have your number. I’m fine. Don’t you worry about me. I just need a little more rest. Didn’t get much sleep last night. Good luck, Max. See you after school.”
“Bye, Grandma,” I say.
She makes her way up the stairs and back to her bedroom. I can hear her slippered footsteps and then the sound of her bedroom door pulled shut.
Our jackets are hanging on hooks in the back hallway.
We pass by the wall where Mom used to measure my height. Dad and I stop for a moment. We look at all the different years written in my mom’s handwriting, letters and numbers that curl and twist, thin and slanted like tendrils.
The tumor is laughing at me.
I take a deep breath.
“You want me to measure you?” Dad asks.
He reaches in his back pocket for a pen.
“No,” I say. My voice is harsher than I intend it to be.
He looks at me, taken aback.
“No thank you,” I say, trying to sound gentler this time. “We better go.”
Dad nods.
We put on our jackets and walk in silence to the truck. Dad gets in. I get in next to him. We slam our doors and pull onto the road, each of us thinking our own thoughts as we drive through quiet streets, down through the center of town toward Baldwin, where the sun winks through the bare trees like a tentative and uncertain promise.
MORNING HAS BROKEN
Somehow, when we first arrive on campus I expect a sign that my life is going to get better with my arrival and that this second chance will really be what I have needed all along. I want it to be true so badly it hurts almost as much as the tumor pounding behind my eyes. I imagine being serenaded by a chorus of angels singing Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus.” I imagine the clouds parting and a shaft of light shining down. A rainbow. God’s ancient promise that the flood is over. But that doesn’t happen.
We see kids heading from their dorms, past the playing fields, and across the fallow gardens toward Trowbridge Hall. They walk in groups, beautiful, confident, sure of their paths.
“Well,” says Dad, “you better get going.”
“Okay,” I say.
I stare out the window at the school. I’m worried that if I make eye contact with him I’ll cry.
“See you later,” I say.
I open the door to the truck. You can smell winter beneath the scent of the engine, the dirty seats, and Dad’s old coffee cups.
“You got everything you need?”
“I think so,” I mutter, still not looking at him.
“Hey,” says Dad.
I pull my backpack onto my shoulders and get ready to leave.
“Hey.” He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Look at me, would you?”
I do. I look at him.
His face is so full of concern, I think it’s going to break me open.
“I want you to have a great day,” he says.
“I will,” I tell him, but my voice is uncertain.
“I’ll be back at three to pick you up, okay?”
“All right,” I say.
We sit side by side for a few more moments, watching the beautiful people.
We are enveloped in silence.
Finally, Dad reaches over and pulls my head closer to him.
He leans his cheek against the top of my head, kisses me, and then messes up my hair with both hands.
“Hey. I love you. You know that, right?”
“I know,” I say.
“Mom would be so proud of you right now.”
I don’t say anything.
What is there to be proud of?
Calling her tumor into my brain like some kind of desperate landlord?
Failing my classes?
Taking Grandma’s money to pay for my failure?
Worrying Dad so terribly that he looks ten years older than he did just a few months ago?
We were supposed to survive this. We promised her we would be okay.
“I better go,” I say huskily.
“Okay,” says Dad. “Break a leg.”
“I’m not in a play, Dad,” I say.
“Okay. How about good luck?”
“That’s better,” I say.
There’s a pause.
“Well, good luck, then,” says Dad.
We stare at each other.
“Thanks,” I say.
I climb down from the truck and slam the door.
Dad waves.
I wave too.
You can go now.
But he stays in the parking lot and watches me as I start up the path toward the main office in Trowbridge Hall, hands deep in my pockets.
Students come from every direction with their backpacks and bags, and I fold into them, allowing myself to be carried by the current even though I know I cannot possibly fit in with all these faces, glowing about whatever things interest them, articulating their vowels and consonants like people who like the sound of their own voices.
Suddenly I feel very small, stupid, and unattractive.
I wish I had worn clean clothes. I wish I had shaved. I wish I had used mouthwash. I hope I don’t smell. I hope the tumor isn’t making my eye bug out of my head the way Mom’s eye did. The better to see you with, my dear, and we laughed like it was the best joke in the world, even though no one thought it was funny. Not even her.
“Max!” A girl’s voice behind me. “Hey! You’re here!”
Running footsteps from the parking lot, and she is at my side. Fish. Breathless, with her pink hair cascading down her shoulders and her green eyes shining.
“Remember me?”
I feel myself smile. “Of course I remember you,” I say.
“I didn’t know you were coming.”
“Well,” I say. “Surprise.”
“I am so happy you’re here,” says Fish. “Hey. Did you bring your sketchbook with you?”
“Yep,” I say, patting my backpack.
“Me too,” says Fish, patting her back pocket. Then she smiles mischievously and wiggles her hips. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” But then, just when I think she is going to do something lewd, the alarm on her phone goes off. “Yikes,” she says. “Almost time for first period. Mom woke up late as usual and we had to go, like, ninety through town to get me here. It was crazy. You commute too, right? I thought I saw your dad in the parking lot.”
I look over my shoulder. The truck is still there, and he’s still watching me, his hands resting on the steering wheel.
“Yeah,” I say. “We live just across town.”
“I think it would be better for me and my mom if I could board,” says Fish. “But we could never afford it.”
“Me neither,” I say.
There’s a pause. We watch Dad watching us.
A bell rings high up in the tower.
“We need to hustle,” says Fish. “Want to wave goodbye?”
“Nah,” I say. “He’ll be okay.”
“Aw, just wave to him. Come on. I’ll wave too. It’ll be cute. Like preschool.”
We both wave, Fish on twinkle toes.
I see the scar on her wrist. I had forgotten about it.
Dad waves back.
“Come on,” says Fish.
She grabs my arm.
We hurry up the path, up the stone steps of Trowbridge Hall, to the double doors.
Just before I enter the building, I turn around one more time to look at the parking lot. As if on cue, Dad’s truck finally, finally pulls out of the spot and heads slowly back around the corner and down the road toward town. Even though I can’t see him, I know he’s turning up the radio so he can lose himself in something familiar. I know he’s checking the rearview mirror to see if he can spot me one more time before I’m too far away and I fade behind him into the distance like a ghost.
WE’RE OFF TO SEE THE WIZARD
Trowbridge Hall is filled with excited voice
s, the echo of quick footsteps on wooden floors, and the not-so-subtle bouquet of patchouli and sandalwood, the signature aroma of progressive youth. There’s something overwhelming about being inside the school. Everywhere I look there’s interest and intensity, clues that creativity is the rule rather than the exception.
One girl has doodled paisley Zentangles all up and down her arms, an intricate, interwoven pattern that alternates leaves and polka dots. A boy playing the ukulele is singing that completely sad Hawaiian version of “Over the Rainbow” that everyone loves. I stop for a moment and listen.
Fish pulls me into the front office, where Lydie greets me with a smile and hands me my schedule and an information page with the names of my student fellow and my faculty advisor. She explains that my student fellow will introduce himself during my first-period class and my faculty advisor, who also happens to be my creative writing teacher, will catch me afterward to schedule our first meeting.
“Think of this as your home base, Max. If you need anything, come find me.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I really appreciate that.” And I mean it.
“I’m in creative writing too,” says Fish at my elbow. “Dr. Cage takes a little getting used to, but he is really awesome. He’s sort of a legend around here. What’s your first class?”
I look at my schedule.
“World Literature with Dr. Austerlitz.”
“Serendipity!” cries Fish. “I’m in that too! And so’s my best friend, David. You’ll like him. He’s totally insane. He’s also the tallest guy in the school. It’s good to have tall friends.”
“Are you talking about David Moniker?” Lydie asks.
“Yup,” says Fish. “Everyone calls him The Monk. He’s a junior. He was the Friar in Romeo and Juliet last spring, and everyone started calling him The Monk, which is ironic since he’s one of the most un-monkish people on earth but still, the name kinda stuck.”
“Well, it just so happens that David is Max’s student fellow. See? His name is on your sheet. What do you think of that?”
Fish pantomimes her head exploding.
Ready to Fall Page 5
