by Tim Green
“Like yours?” Harrison asked.
“Better.” Major Bauer beamed. “It’s the Army’s latest and greatest. This is one of the very first. I had to pull some strings. You can’t believe what this baby can do.”
“Play football?”
“Maybe dance in a ballet.” The major did a pirouette with his hands up over his head.
Coach laughed, but Jennifer frowned and spoke in a hushed voice. “All this talk about football. I wish you two would stop.”
Coach looked from her to the major. “Fuel for recovery, right?”
“Well,” the major said, taking back his iPad, “I’ll let Harrison get some rest. Feel better, buddy. You and I will be breaking a sweat before you know it.”
“Why, Mom?” Harrison asked, puzzled by the frown that remained on her face.
She sat down on the side of his bed and ran a finger through his hair. “Everyone wants you to get better, Harrison. That’s what’s most important. Football is a long way away. We just want you to be well, and there are no guarantees. I don’t want you to get your hopes up too high.”
“But I can do it.” Harrison looked at the men and thought he saw the major give a small nod. “I will do it.”
“If anyone can, I know it will be you.” Doubt stained her words.
“Neil Parry did it at San Jose State. Major, didn’t you show her?”
His mom gave the major a quick scowl before her face returned to him and softened. “That boy lost just part of his lower leg, Harrison. Your operation was different.”
“But the . . . that J72. No one had that before.”
“I’m just saying that it’s very difficult, and it hasn’t been done. And, no matter how good the J72 is, it won’t be the same. I’m sorry, but the doctors have told us that the truth is best.”
“But I could play.” Harrison’s voice came out quiet but hard at the same time. “Coach said I could. The major said.”
“That’s what we’re all hoping for,” his mom said.
“That’s what we’re working for,” the major said.
“You can do it,” said Coach. “I know you can.”
His mom glared at his dad, but this time Coach didn’t back down.
Chapter Seventy
AFTER TWO DAYS, HARRISON was ready to go home. He said good-bye to Marty and couldn’t help asking his roommate when he was leaving.
Marty’s eyes widened and he shook his head slowly, pressing the voice machine into the scar alongside his throat.
“I hope. Not too. Soon . . . Harr-i-son. I like. The food. Here.”
Harrison looked at Marty, reading his eyes for the joke, before he grinned and hobbled away on his crutches.
The major kept Harrison busy at home with the weights and bands and machines, grinding out reps like Olympic athletes in training. Everything Harrison did, the major wrote down. Harrison realized the major had been doing so since they started, and when he asked why, the major gave him a funny look.
“You got to have a plan.” He showed Harrison the grid of exercises and the numbers that filled each little individual box. “Otherwise, how do you know where you’re going? Here, look. I probably should have shown you sooner, but these workout cards are just automatic for me.”
Harrison studied the names of all the exercises he’d been doing and noted the increase in the amount of weight he was using on certain machines. “I’m getting stronger.”
“Yes, you are.” The major put the card into a folder and tucked it away on a shelf above Coach’s tool set. “You should be proud.”
Harrison smiled.
The massages still hurt, even though the skin on the end of his leg was toughening up nicely. It wasn’t all physical work for Harrison. The major also helped him with the schoolwork that Coach started bringing home for him so he could keep up to speed with his studies. All that work left Harrison weary and ready for bed each night. The major said part of that was his body healing itself, and that made Harrison feel good.
The day before his second chemotherapy treatment, the UPS truck arrived. Major Bauer signed for the package and the delivery man hauled a big box from the back of the truck. The major set it down in the garage and opened it with a pocketknife. He dug into a bed of foam peanuts and held up a plastic leg.
Harrison’s face sagged with disappointment. He knew from the major that the J72 would come later, but he still expected something more fancy-looking than the thing before him.
“It looks like they took it off some crash-test dummy,” Harrison said.
“I told you, it’s only temporary.” The major held it with care, examining it carefully before he waved Harrison up onto the massage table. “Here, let’s get this sucker on and see how you do. Trust me, we put a pair of pants on this baby and you’re going to feel like a new man.”
Coach pulled a tight compression sock over what remained of Harrison’s right leg, then carefully fitted the prosthetic leg into place.
“How’s it feel?”
“Weird.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
“Should I try to walk?”
Major Bauer chuckled. “With crutches. It’ll be a while before you’re ready to walk without crutches.”
“How long?”
The major shrugged. “A month? And that’s way ahead of what most people would be doing. You’re strong, though, and you’re doing good with the weights.”
“Because I have to be ahead if I’m going to be ready for next season, right?” He let his legs dangle together over the edge of the table and they looked good, even the plastic one. The major was right—a pair of pants and he’d be half normal.
“Harrison.” The major put a hand on his shoulder. “I love your attitude. It’s what’s going to make this thing possible. I just don’t want you to put too much pressure on yourself.”
Harrison felt an alarm go off in his chest. “Why? Is something wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong. We’re on track. Trust me, you’re as good as it gets. I’ve been pushing you because I thought you’d need it. Most people do.” The major scratched his neck. “But sometimes I’ll get a soldier who doesn’t need pushing. Some people have an inner drive that doesn’t need jet fuel to get going. They’re already turbocharged.”
Harrison felt proud. “That’s me?”
The major nodded. “And that’s why I’m telling you that you’re doing everything you can. I’m also saying that sometimes it doesn’t work.”
The words hit Harrison like an uppercut.
“I believe it will work, though. I do.”
“Then why are you saying this?” Harrison asked. “Is my mom making you?”
The major hesitated. “You mother and I have spoken, and she’s got a point. I know we’ve spent a lot of time together, but she’s got a point and I have to admit it.”
“What’s the point?” Harrison tried to keep the panic out of his voice.
“Just that if you never play football again, it won’t matter to us. There are other things you can do—ski, jog, be a lacrosse goalie, like Jeff Keith.”
Harrison stared at the plastic leg and probed its metal joint with his fingers. “I don’t want to be a goalie. I’m a football player.”
“I know, buddy. I know.”
Harrison was hoping the major would say more, but that was it.
His second chemo treatment went better than the first. They gave him the right nausea medicine immediately, and even though he didn’t feel like eating, he didn’t throw up all over the place. He brought his Mac with him this time, and Marty instructed him on how to download a skit from a TV show off the internet called Little Britain. In it, two men, dressed up and acting like old ladies, vomited all over themselves and each other. Harrison and Marty watched it over and over, Marty shaking with delight and Harrison laughing until his stomach hurt.
Without warning, Harrison’s laughter became gut-wrenching sobs. An unstoppable flow of tears streamed down his face.
M
arty leaned toward him, fumbled with his voice machine, and finally jammed it against his neck. “Harr-i-son . . . what is. Wrong?”
Chapter Seventy-One
HARRISON CRIED UNTIL THE tears went dry. His stomach muscles clenched and unclenched like a fighter’s fists, draining him.
He lay back in the bed.
When Marty’s electronic voice asked him again what was wrong, Harrison turned his back to Marty’s bed. Marty kept at him, but Harrison said nothing. It was as if every bit of hope had been taken from him.
Finally, he spoke. “Leave me alone, Marty. I’m going to die.”
Harrison squeezed his eyes shut tight, pulled a pillow over his head, and didn’t move.
He almost thought he would fall asleep when, through the pillow, he heard the clank of Marty’s bedrail dropping down, then the click and sway of an IV on its stand, and the soft squeak of wheels. Marty poked Harrison’s spine. Harrison thrashed in his bed, turning and glaring up at Marty.
What he saw surprised him. Marty’s forehead was scrunched down over his eyes so that folds of loose skin stacked up in evil, pointed piles. His dark eyes widened so that Harrison could only think of a cartoon alien.
Marty’s thin lips twisted into a bully’s sneer. He jammed the voice machine into his neck so hard Harrison thought the scar might burst open. “Get up.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Harrison tried to recoil into his sheets.
Marty snatched them from him and yanked them off the bed so that they swirled to the floor. “I said . . . up.”
“I lost my leg, Marty!”
Marty thrust a crutch at him. “Here. Use this. Don’t you . . . dare . . . lie there. And quit. You.”—Marty gulped—“Have. Every. Thing. Do you. Hear me? Every. Thing.”
“What do I have?” Harrison felt fresh tears, and he wagged his bandaged stump at the pale ghoul he had thought was his friend. “One leg? Who wants someone with just one leg!”
“You. Can speak. You. Can hug . . . your mother. You. Have.”—he gulped again—“A mother.”
Suddenly it was Marty’s face that crumbled. “You. Can quit. You. Can cry. You. Can feel. Sorry for. Yourself. Or you . . . can live.”
Marty turned away and staggered back to his bed. He fell back into his pillows, and his chest rose and fell like the shallow heartbeat of a frightened mouse. Then he closed his eyes and went to sleep. Harrison stared at his friend, replaying the words over and over in his head.
Marty was still sleeping when Harrison’s mom came to get him, and the nurse asked them please to let Marty sleep.
On the drive home, Harrison asked his mom why Marty couldn’t go home.
She glanced at him and her voice got low. “He’s very sick, Harrison.”
That was all.
A few days after the second treatment, Harrison balanced himself carefully in the shower, with one hand gripping the handle Coach had installed and shampooing his head almost expertly now with the other. Something didn’t feel right, and Harrison looked at his fingers.
What he saw made him shriek.
Chapter Seventy-Two
HIS MOM BURST INTO the bathroom. The shape of her figure swayed on the other side of the foggy glass. “What’s wrong? Are you all right?”
Harrison held his hand under the spray of water, washing it clean of white suds and a fistful of wet hair. Without answering, he swiped his hand over his head again and came away with another mess of hair.
A groan escaped him. “My hair, Mom. It’s my hair.”
“All right, honey. We knew this would happen.” Her voice was infused with a calm he could tell she didn’t feel.
“It is.”
“Are you okay?”
“No.” He tore at his scalp, pulling clump after clump free until only a few strands came away. He rinsed off the rest of the way. His mom stayed there, handing him a towel over the top of the door when the water stopped.
Harrison balanced on one leg as he wrapped the towel around his waist and pushed open the door. He grabbed his crutch and stepped out of the shower, peering into the foggy mirror.
“Will you wipe it?” Harrison pointed at the mirror.
She hesitated. “Maybe we should cut it?”
“There’s still some there, right?”
She nodded.
“I want to see.”
“Honey.”
“Please. I need to.”
She wiped the mirror with another towel.
It was horrible.
“I had a foster sister who did this to a doll once.” Harrison ran his hand over the patches of hair. “You’re right. We have to cut it.”
“Honey, we knew it would happen.”
“I was thinking maybe.” He braced himself, using the rail next to the toilet so he could sit down and dry off.
“It’ll look so much better after we cut it all.” His mom dug into the cabinet under the sink and brought out some electric clippers. “Okay?”
He dried off his head and nodded. The clippers tickled his scalp, and the hair he did have fell into his lap. When she’d finished, she helped him up and he looked in the mirror.
“See?” she said.
“Better.”
“Why don’t you rinse off, then get changed and we’ll have dinner. Take your time.” His mom disappeared with the clippers in her hand.
Harrison got into the shower and rinsed the cut hair from his chest, shoulders, and back, then returned to the toilet so he could sit down and dry off once more. Using crutches, he returned to his room, fitted on the temporary leg himself, pulled on a sweat suit, and hobbled out to the kitchen table.
He stopped short in his tracks and nearly fell off his crutches.
“Coach, Major, what are you guys doing?”
Chapter Seventy-Three
GRINNING UP AT HIM from the table were Coach and Major Bauer, both of them with heads as hairless as bowling balls.
Coach swept his hand over his shiny dome of skin. “You think we were going to let you be the one to get all the attention?”
“At least you two look good,” the major said, tugging at his ears. “I look like Dumbo the elephant ready to fly away with these things.”
Harrison couldn’t keep from laughing. “You guys did that quick.”
Jennifer walked in with the clippers in hand. “I hope you don’t mind if I keep mine.”
“One of us needs to keep their hair,” Harrison said. “Otherwise they’ll think we all escaped from prison.”
“All right,” Coach said, “enough talk about hair. Mine’s gone and I’m hungry.”
As they ate, Harrison had to blink back some tears.
“What’s wrong?” his mom asked.
Harrison just shook his head and raised a hand that asked her not to press him. He couldn’t help thinking how lucky he was to have people like this sitting around him. He remembered the Constables, their miserable farm, the other woebegone foster kids, and Cyrus, the scrawny, grinning ghoul. His mom reached out and squeezed his hand and he squeezed it right back until he could feel her bones.
He couldn’t talk until after the table had been cleaned up and Coach and the major were in the front room. His mom was wiping down the stove.
“If I act funny sometimes,” he said, “I think it’s because I’m not used to having people around like you and Coach and the major.”
She nodded. “Didn’t you have friends before you came here?”
“Not like Becky or Jus—”
“What’s wrong?” His mom rinsed her cloth in the sink and the bubbles swept across her hands.
“Nothing,” Harrison said, even though something was.
Chapter Seventy-Four
THE NEXT DAY, MAJOR Bauer sat with Harrison at the kitchen table, peering down at the eighth-grade history book through a small pair of reading glasses.
“You see? This is one of the things that made Abe Lincoln great.” The major pounded his fingertip on the book. “A great man can say he’s sorry.”
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Harrison felt his stomach tighten. He looked at the text and jotted down the answer on the work sheet from school. “Okay, he apologized for slavery in his second inaugural speech. I got it. Next question is—”
The major held up a hand, cutting him off. “Do you realize how important that is? Lincoln made himself one of us. So few great men can bring themselves to apologize—especially in public—but it’s why this country will always love him and never forget him. Do you see it?”
Harrison stared at the major, thinking not of Lincoln but of Justin.
“I get it.”
“Okay, what’s next?”
Harrison finished his work with the major, but when the major got up to make them some lunch, he took out his phone. Under the edge of the table, Harrison sent his friend a text, saying he was sorry and asking him to come visit when he got the chance.
After lunch, he and the major went through a rigorous weight workout before the major had Harrison steady himself on the parallel bars. Harrison stared down at the plastic leg.
“Okay,” the major said. “Swing it, on my count. Ready? One and two and three and four . . .”
Harrison tried to keep up.
“Again.”
Over and over, he swung the leg, fighting to keep up with the major’s cadence.
“Faster, come on. You can do it!” The major’s face turned red as he barked two feet from Harrison’s face. “Go! One, two, three, four . . .”
Sweat poured down Harrison’s face.
“Faster!”
Harrison worked and sweated and never felt good until the final set, a nice, easy warm-down with a much slower rhythm.
“Why the look?” The major wiped sweat from his own neck with a towel.
“It seems like I just can’t do this. Not as fast as I’m supposed to.”
“Cut it out. You’re doing great.”
“Now, when it’s easy.”
“Hey, don’t sulk. If I say you’re doing great, you better be happy about it. I don’t say that all the time, do I?”
“No.” Harrison raised his head.
