by Jack Gantos
“I think I’m going to be seasick,” she said as we stepped out and walked toward the line of telescopes by the big windows. She sat down and took a deep breath.
“I need a quarter,” I said. “For the telescope.”
She reached into her purse and gave me one. I stood up on a little metal stool and slipped it into the slot and looked through the eyehole. I aimed the telescope way up into the air, about as far away from Pittsburgh as you could get.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
“The moon,” I said. “You said Dad might be living up there.”
“Is this why you wanted to come up here? To look for him?”
“Coming up here was your idea,” I said, and aimed the telescope at her. “Smile,” I said. But I couldn’t tell if she was, because she was too close and everything was blurry.
I lowered the telescope down to the street and watched people walk up and down the sidewalks. Any one of those guys could have been my dad. “Can we call him on the phone?” I asked.
“Don’t try and pull something over on me, Joey,” she said. “We’re not here to look for him.”
“I’m just asking,” I said. “I’d like to meet him.”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “I don’t think you’d like him.”
“Remember,” I said, “before you returned, Grandma talked bad about you and said I wouldn’t like you either. But then when you came back I began to like you. It could be the same with Dad. Maybe if I met him I’d like him too.”
“Take my word for it,” she said. “You won’t.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “But I won’t know for sure until I meet him.” I looked through the telescope again.
“You better look into the bars,” she said. “If you see some nervous little guy with a drunk red piggy-Pigza face, that’ll be him.”
“Do people call him names too?” I asked.
“Don’t start feeling sorry for him,” she said. “He just goes around asking for trouble.”
“Maybe he stopped drinking,” I said.
“Yeah. And birds stopped flying,” she replied sarcastically.
“There is nothing wrong with wanting to meet my own dad,” I said.
The meter on the telescope ran out and everything went black. When I looked at her she said, “I don’t have another quarter.”
I stepped off the stool and started walking across the room toward the phone book at the pay phone. “I can look his name up,” I said as she hopped up and followed.
“I know you’d like to meet your father,” she said. “I know it would be good for you to meet him. What troubles me is how he’ll be. He could be drunk, he could be sober, he could be nice, or mean as a snake. If I knew he had settled down, then we’d think about getting together. But until I know that for sure I can’t take a chance that he won’t upset you more than love you. Do you understand that?”
I flipped through the phone book to the P section. Then I turned the pages and went up and down the list of names with my finger. There was no Carter Pigza, or Grandma Pigza.
“Well?” she asked. “Are you satisfied?”
“Not really,” I said, because by then I wanted him to stop drinking and I wanted him to want me.
She looked at a line of clocks on the wall and seemed confused. There was one each for about a dozen countries. People in London were going to bed and people in Tokyo were getting up. “We better catch our bus,” she said. “It’s time for us to get home.”
The way she said home meant that it was our home. The one we had made for ourselves without Dad. And it never would be his home. If I was going to see him I’d have to go to his home, wherever that was.
14
THE PATCH
A week later Mom and I and Special Ed were sitting in his office with the doctor.
“The results are very promising,” the doctor said, and he smiled. “They don’t tell us anything except that Joey’s head is filled with lots of good brains.”
I felt so happy I spoke out of turn. “Told you so,” I said to Mom. She held a finger up over her puckered lips and gave me a serious look.
The doctor just kept right on going. “Your problems are not neurologically severe. So it seems the next step is finding the right medication and the right dosage. Presently, I would like to try a transdermal patch. It’s like a big round Band-Aid …”
When he said “Band-Aid” my ears perked up.
“… that stays on for a day at a time and gives you a steady stream of medication through the skin so that you can avoid the highs and lows you now experience with pills. The goal is to give you a fighting chance to maintain a normal attention span. Once you can do that, then other behavior therapies, and positive family conditions, can make a significant difference.”
As soon as the doctor said “family conditions” Mom bit down on her lower lip and uncrossed her legs, pulled down on her skirt, and crossed them the other way. I reached over and squeezed her hand because I knew how it felt to be in trouble.
The doctor and my mom talked for a while and he gave her some papers to read and sign. Then he reached into his case and took out a box. He removed a paper packet from the box, ripped open the edge, and shook out the see-through patch. The first thing I thought was to use markers to make it a cool tattoo.
“Joey,” he said, “take your shirt off.”
I stood and pulled my T-shirt up and over my belly and before I had it over my head I heard my Mom gasp. I had taken all the Band-Aids I still had and made the face of a dog on my stomach.
“Don’t worry,” the doctor said to Mom. “It’s normal. There’s not a kid alive who doesn’t like Band-Aids.”
“I want a Chihuahua,” I said, and grinned at Special Ed and he was doing exactly what I thought he’d be doing, which meant my brain was working right. He was trying not to laugh. Last time he was so mad, but now everything was different. Instead of being sick, I was just being a kid. Now that I was getting better, people could like me more.
“We’ll try to find one today,” Mom said, and she looked down at her feet because she was a little embarrassed.
“I’m going to put this right on your side,” the doctor said, and he stuck it on and smoothed it down. “Now, leave it on for twenty-four hours. If you have to take a shower, peel it off, then put it right back on. That’s it for now.” He looked up at me and smiled. “You’ll be okay,” he said. “You’re going to be a part of a big test for a new drug that’s already worked well for a lot of kids. But let your mom know if you feel dizzy or sick to your stomach and we’ll try something else. It’s important to get it just right and you are the guy to let us know. We count on you.”
I grinned again and turned to Special Ed. “If you see me swallowing my house key then you know it’s not working,” I said.
“I’ll make a note of that,” he replied, and laughed a little bit.
The doctor stood up, and held out his hand. “Very nice to meet you, Ms. Pigza,” he said.
“Likewise,” Mom replied, and she smiled at him in a way that made me think she really liked him. Maybe she is wearing a patch too, I thought, because I hadn’t seen Mom look nice at a man ever.
Then Special Ed said, “If I can answer any questions or be of any help please let me know.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” she said.
“I mean it,” he replied, and reached for his wallet. He opened it and pulled out a business card and gave it to her. “We all want the best for Joey. Call me if you need me.”
She unzipped her purse and slipped the card into an inside pocket. When her hand came back out there was a tissue in it. She turned away from us and pressed it against her eyes. With her other hand she reached for me as if she were searching for something in the dark.
Special Ed opened the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said to me. “We still have a few weeks left to work on behavior and homework.”
“You bet,” I said.
On t
he way to the elevator I asked her if she wanted to date the doctor or Special Ed. “No,” she said, and brushed the idea of it out of the air with her tissue. “Lord no. You are all the man I can handle,” she said. “I just like people who like you.” She drew me to her side and I pressed my face against her hip and stayed that way until the elevator opened. Those elevator doors open and close about a million times a day. But when we reached the lobby and they opened for me I felt they had let me out into something new. I just stood there thinking that I was finally going down the right path to being better. That getting better was really happening to me. That it was my turn for everyone to help, and there was no turning back to my old self unless I messed up. And I didn’t want to mess up.
“Come on, Joey,” Mom said, and tugged at my arm because the elevator doors began to close. I snapped out of it and stood between the doors and held them open with my arms stretched out like Samson. She ducked under my arm and through and I jumped out right behind her.
“I love elevators,” I said to Mom as we walked toward the bus stop.
“They make me seasick,” she said.
I remembered.
Maybe it was the patch working, or maybe it was what Special Ed had said. He had told me that all my problems were not because I was hyper. “Some of it is attitude,” he had said. “If you have a positive attitude things will look a lot better.” And he was right. Because even though I was still Joey Pigza and taking meds and going to a special school for extra help, I didn’t feel the same. I felt like Christmas was just a few days away even though it wasn’t.
As we walked down the street Mom held up the box of patches the doctor had given her. “These are not Band-Aids,” she said, tapping the box with her fingernail.
“I know the difference,” I said. “I’m not an idiot. They took pictures of my brain and I wasn’t missing any.”
“Thank God,” Mom said, and started fussing with the hair around my bald spot, and I had to pull her hand away.
“It’ll grow back,” I said. “Don’t keep messing with it or I’ll put a patch on you.”
“Well, don’t pull out your hair and I won’t have to mess with it,” she said.
From there we took the bus to a pet store and I had a huge grin on my face because I was right about my Christmas-comes-early feeling. I was smiling up until the moment I found out they didn’t have a Chihuahua and were not likely to get one, ever. The pet lady looked at me like I was the only person on the planet who thought a Chihuahua was not a rat.
“They are very nervous,” she explained. “And they make a yapping noise all day long.”
“That’s exactly why I want it,” I replied.
She groaned, then suggested I buy a Rottweiler or a pit bull or some huge dog that looked like the wolf that ate the Grandma in Little Red Riding-Hood. I only considered the wolf for a moment because I thought if Grandma returned he could swallow her whole.
“That’s only a story,” the pet lady said when I asked if a grandma could be swallowed by a wolf dog.
“Be nice,” Mom whispered to me when the salesperson turned to answer a question from someone else. “Grandma took care of you when I couldn’t.”
I knew that having Grandma swallowed alive wasn’t a nice thought and I was trying to be nice like Special Ed and Mom and everyone told me to be. Of course I still love my grandma even after all the awful stuff she did to me, which is scary that you can love someone who is not nice. I guess that is what getting better will do to a person: make you forgive people who have been mean to you.
So we didn’t buy any of the dogs and I left really bummed out. But every day while I was still at the downtown special ed we kept checking in the Thrifty Nickel free newspaper and finally there was an ad for a half Chihuahua and half dachshund. We called the number and a man brought him over to our house in a shoe box and he was perfect. The dog was great because the Chihuahua half supplied most all the good looks except for the really short legs and hot-dog belly, and the dachshund half made him a little less jittery, although he did yap a lot. I named him Pablo. Pablo Pigza. PR for short.
We were destined for each other because right away he decided to sit on the windowsill and wait for me and yap at everyone who went by. Mom said the yapping drives her nuts and that’s why she has to turn the TV up really loud, and she has suggested that I take one of my used patches and cut a piece off and stick it on Pablo’s belly to see if it would calm him down. “I don’t think so,” I said to her.
“Then snap a rubber band around its snout,” she said. “That thing is just like you used to be.”
“You loved me then,” I said.
“But I don’t have to love that dog,” she replied.
I picked Pablo up by his extra-long belly and held him to her ear and he licked it and tickled her. “Say you love him,” I said. “Say it.”
Nobody can resist Pablo. He’s just like me. Messed up but lovable.
She caved in. “Okay,” she said. “I love him too.”
“Don’t say it unless you mean it,” I said, and pressed Pablo’s nose back into her ear.
“I love him,” she squealed, and pulled her head away. “I can’t live without him.”
“That’s better,” I said. “Pablo and I feel much better now.”
15
PICTURE ME HERE
The doctor had said I wouldn’t be able to tell that the patch was working, like I could with my old meds. He said it was a different kind of medicine and would take a while to “kick in.” But, I swear, almost from the first patch I could feel myself winding down like I was on a swing that was slowly stopping. When I told Special Ed this he said it was a good sign because it probably meant I was getting the right dose of medicine at all times and I would no longer have to feel hyper, then feel near dead, then hyper again.
It was great because once I slowed way down and worked hard at the special-ed center, everything else seemed to speed up. My last two weeks downtown zipped by quickly, and when I was ready to leave it seemed that not much time had passed but I had changed a lot. Still, not all of me had changed. No matter how smart the doctors are, or no matter what medication I take, I’ll always somewhere inside myself be wired wrong and nothing can be done about it. I didn’t make my own bed, but it’s mine anyway whether I like it or not. And as Special Ed said, “You gotta face the hand you’re dealt and deal with it, and make your problems be the smallest part of who you are.” And he’s right.
My friend Charlie was getting ready to go too. He had built up the strength in one of his little hands so that they attached a plastic arm over it and he could control almost real-feeling soft plastic fingers on the end. After Special Ed said my stay was nearly over I found Charlie and he shook my hand with his new one and it was a great moment for me. But it was really great for him.
“Feel this, Pigza,” he said, and he wiggled one of his fingers and tickled the inside of my hand.
“Awesome,” I said. “When do you get the other?”
“In a few weeks,” he replied. “I’ll let you know.”
“We’re the only Pigza in the phone book,” I said. “Call me and you can come over and meet Pablo.”
He made little dialing motions with his finger. “Will do,” he said.
Finally Mom and Special Ed met with Mrs. Jarzab and Mrs. Maxy and they all agreed to let me back as long as I lived by the rules and took my medication. After the meeting, when Mom told me that I said, “I love rules.” And I did. I even made up dog rules for Pablo because he was chewing up stuff and pooping on the floor and so I had to send him to his own doggy special-ed classes so he could learn to only chew his dog toys and poop in the front yard.
I was really happy that first day back because the special-ed bus didn’t stop at my front door anymore. I walked to school and when I passed through the front doors I walked down to the office.
“Can I see Mrs. Jarzab?” I asked the secretary.
“Welcome back,” she said. “Have you been
on vacation?”
“No,” I replied. “Remember me? I cut off Maria’s nose tip and was sent to the big special-ed center and got a patch. Wanna see?”
“I think Mrs. Jarzab is very busy right now, Joey,” she replied, and reached across her desk and pulled my shirt back down. “Can I help you with something?”
“I want to say the Pledge of Allegiance over the loudspeaker,” I said. “I never did that before and now I want to.”
“Well, take a seat,” she said, “and I’ll see what I can do.”
While I was waiting Nurse Holyfield came by. I grinned at her as if I were a squinty Halloween pumpkin with light glowing out of my eyes and ears and mouth, and she grinned right back.
“Don’t tell me you are in trouble already?” she said, and propped her hands on her hips.
“No,” I cried out, almost laughing. “I’m the new and improved Joey.” I lifted my shirt up. “See this patch?” I said. “Now watch this.” I put my hands on my lap, and I stared across the room at a painting of a clown with an old shoe for a hat and I didn’t move my head an inch in any direction. I didn’t even blink.
After about a minute she asked, “Well? What do you want me to watch?”
“That was it,” I said. “Just me sitting still Don’t you get it? I’m better.”
She smiled. “How wonderful,” she said. “But now that you’re better I won’t see you anymore.”
“Oh yes you will,” I said. “I’ll just come to visit. But not to throw up.”
“You do that,” she replied.
The secretary returned and said, “Yes, Mrs. Jarzab says you can say the pledge this morning.”
“Way to go, Joey,” Nurse Holyfield said. She looked up at the big clock. “Gotta run. Gotta get the meds line set up.”
“Give ‘em the patch,” I said. “It’s much better than the pills.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” she said, and hurried down the hall.
And before long I was standing at the microphone with my hand over my heart saying, “I pledge allegiance to the flag …” And when I finished I added really loudly, “My name is Joey Pigza, and I’m back!” I wanted to say that everyone’s nose was safe and not to worry, but Mrs. Jarzab snatched the microphone out of my hand and flicked off the volume. Still, “I’m back! back! back!” echoed down the hall like a giant’s footsteps, and I loved the sound of it.
