Sean Griswold's Head
Page 20
I’ll count to ten. When I hit ten, I’ll start biking again. When I hit ten, I’ll be on the road, headed toward that oasis instead of looking back at the panther. Or jaguar. I can’t remember. Whatever jungle beast is going to get me going again.
Ten comes and goes. So does a hundred. Yet I’m still in the ditch, counting my little heart out. I totally want to do this. I do. But for some reason, my body doesn’t.
I take off my helmet to tug my ponytail tighter and touch my bandanna. The bandanna I’m wearing because I know someone with MS.
I rub it between my fingers. It’s soaked with my sweat, but still has some brand-new crispness. This is the bandanna I should be focusing on. Not Sean’s.
I keep massaging the bandanna, images of the past few months flashing in my head. Mom holding that needle, Dad trying to shoot hoops, the picture of Sean on his mom’s website. My Focus Journal.
More time passes. I’m not sure how much.
My Focus Object is gone now. If I want to get through this I need to just … focus. Period. Finish this thing.
I can do it.
Me, all alone.
I slide the bandanna off and shove my helmet back on. I tie the material through the front slit, so the tips cover my forehead. It’s like dangling a carrot in front of a pony so it will move. And I do. I move.
Actually, I fly.
I spend the next twenty-five miles soaring. The bandanna absorbs my sweat as I pass biker after biker. It absorbs my tears as I cross the first bridge that leads us into Ocean City. Not that I’m looking at it now. There’s way too much going on.
Purple and green balloons arch gracefully over the people-lined main street. Everyone slows here, taking in the applause and cheers. There are signs saying, THANK YOU FOR BELIEVING! or THIS ONE’S FOR CHARLIE or BIKE YOUR BALLS OFF with a picture of a guy biking in a Speedo. And even the weird Speedo poster inspires me. I don’t know a single soul in the crowd. I don’t need to.
The bikers ahead of me thin out and I can see the finish line. I stand up on my pedals and cruise across, pumping one arm (not two; “look mom, no hands” is a recipe for disaster) up in victory. The moment’s so sweet, there should be music playing. Stand up and dance music like in classic teen movies, where the crowd would rush out and carry me away. But first, my dad would show up and tell me he’s cured and Sean would interrupt our father/daughter hug to give me a kiss. Then, the carrying away part would continue until I do one final arm thrust in the air and the credits roll.
But it’s not a movie. Three other people cross the same time as me. A smiling, bouncy girl hands me a plastic medal. And now it’s done. I slow down and stop, taking note of what everyone else is doing. They’re off their bikes stretching and chatting as if they’d simply strolled down the beach, parking their bikes on a nearby rack. I set my bike down on the grass and make a beeline to the Porta-Pottis. Now that the adrenaline is wearing off, I realize how bad I have to pee.
When I’m done, I walk down to the beach. It’s still too cold to swim, but there are a scattering of people. I take off my shoes and walk barefoot along the shore, settling down into a partially secluded spot to call Trent.
“Hey,” I say when he answers. “I’m done.”
“Where are you?”
“Sitting on the beach, right by the finish line.”
“Hold on a second. I have a beep.” He clicks over for a few seconds, then whistles when he’s back on. “So you finished it.”
“Was there ever a doubt?”
“Not from me. You ready to go home?”
“Yeah, can you come get me?” I ask.
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“I arranged alternative transportation.”
“Trent, this isn’t funny. I’ve biked seventy-five freaking miles. My butt’s hurting, my legs are dead, and I just want to sleep for a few days. Will you please come? Now?”
“No can do, little sis. Be glad. Your ride is already there.”
“Where?”
“Look around. You’ll see him.”
“Him? Trent, who is it?”
“What? What? I can’t hear you. The phone’s cutting out … You must have bad reception. What’s that? What’s that—” He hangs up.
He better not have sent a slacker friend. Just what I need, a few hours of loser BO and whiny punk rock after—
“Hey, sunshine.”
I shoot up. My alternative transportation has arrived.
THIRTY-TWO
“Dad? What are you doing here?”
Dad still has his cane, but he’s not leaning on it too much. His face seems to have a lot more color than before he left, but maybe that’s just me being hopeful. “Your mom and I caught the red-eye. We wanted to see you.”
“Oh.” I blink, still shocked to see him. “Thanks. Here I am.”
Dad looks me up and down, taking in my messy hair and sweaty clothes. “So, can you believe you just biked across Jersey?”
“No. Yes. It’s crazy, huh?”
“That’s some major money for the charity, right?”
“Enough that Trent’s going to regret his two dollar a mile pledge.”
“What’s the bandanna for?”
“This?” I untie it from my helmet and hold the bandanna up in the sunlight. “They give us these to show we’re riding for someone.”
“Can I see it?”
“Sure. Sorry it’s sweaty.”
Dad sits down, placing his cane next to him in the sand. I follow. He wraps the bandanna around his wrist. “I had a coach who used to say, ‘There’s nothing sweeter than sweat.’ ”
He loops his arm over my shoulder and we watch the waves in silence. We’ve had so many silences between us these last few months, bitter ones, loaded ones, empty ones, and hurtful ones. This one is perfect. It says things that words can’t.
“You ready to go?” He brushes sand off his slacks.
“Wait, is that it?”
“Isn’t it?” Dad looks around. “Do they give you a trophy or something?”
“No, I mean, aren’t we supposed to talk about last night and stuff?”
“I don’t think there are any supposed to’s.”
“But you know, dad and daughter on beach.” I motion toward the waves. “Triumphant moment. Tears. Hugs. Fuzzy fade-out.”
“That sounds like a lot of drama.”
“I might have gotten it from a made-for-TV movie.”
Dad laughs. “All right. You sure you want to hear it?”
“Yeah.” I tuck my head onto his shoulder and swallow. “Go ahead. I think I’m ready now.”
“So. The most encouraging part is that my symptoms are lessening. They’re switching my meds, hoping it’ll decrease the frequency and length of my relapses. The trials they’ve done on this new med show promise. We’ll see what happens when I go back in a few months.”
“That’s it?” I ask.
“I don’t know if that’ll ever be ‘it.’ At this moment it is. Tomorrow can be a different story.”
“I hate that part.”
“So do I, kiddo.” Dad grabs some sand and lets it slip slowly from his hand. “Another thing. Your mom and I got talking, and she’s decided to go back to work. Maybe she can be a docent at an elementary school or something. Trent’ll get back on his scholarship and start school in fall. We’re going to try living our regular lives again, only slightly modified. We’ll see how it goes.”
“Where do I fit in with that?”
“That’s why I’m telling you this up front. You decide. No more choices made without your involvement. Does it sound like something you can do?”
I don’t say anything at first. Dad picks up another fistful of sand and it waterfalls out of his hands, grain after grain.
“Okay. Here it is. My contribution is going to be getting over myself,” I say. “I mean, I can do normal. Adult normal, though, no more silent treatment or freaking out. I let you know what’s going on with me—”
His voice wavers when he says the last line, like he’s failed me somehow, and he looks away from me. I grab his hand before he can scoop up any more sand. “Don’t apologize. You’re perfect, Dad. Seriously, just perfect.” I pause to rub my eyes. They are suddenly producing tears. “I know why you didn’t tell me. I think I stopped being mad about it a while ago, but I was scared and didn’t know how to let it go. I don’t know how I’ll ever show you how sorry—”
“Hey. How about we make a deal.” Dad stands and pulls me up with him. “You let me keep this bandanna and we’ll call it good.”
“Dad.” I wipe at my eyes again. “I didn’t talk to you for basically three months and you’re going to call it good?”
“Yep.”
“So we’re good.”
Dad smiles. “Aren’t we?”
I slide my hand out of his and analyze it. I’m shaking a little from the exertion of the ride. Shaking like my dad’s hands sometimes. “I think. Yeah … I think we are. I am. I’m good.”
“Good.”
“Good.” I laugh. Then cry. Then laugh some more. “Great.”
“Should we go? Bet you’re craving some Geno’s right about now.”
“Actually, I was thinking ice cream.” I point to the boardwalk. “There’s a place somewhere down there that I heard is decent.”
“Ice cream it is then. Or ice cream and Geno’s. After that bike ride, you can have anything you want.”
We start walking and I pause. “Um … first, I kind of need to talk to someone, if that’s okay.”
“Sean,” he says.
“How’d you know—”
“Give me some credit. We may not talk, but I’m not clueless.”
“Oh, right.”
“I’ll head down to the ice-cream shop. Meet me there when you’re ready.”
My dad breezes away, swinging his cane and whistling a Beach Boys song as he plods through the sand. It’s the perfect moment, perfect mental snapshot. I file it in my memory, for moments we’ll come to later, for the next relapse or the next Specialist call. Moments not this hopeful, not this warm.
But for now, truly, I’m good.
I drift back over to the finish line so I can spot Sean when he crosses. He’s a faster rider than me, but he did have twenty-five more miles to cover. So if he averages about twenty an hour, he should be here soon. I take a seat on the sea-misted bleachers and wait.
Ten minutes later: I’m still waiting. The bulldog-looking guy who biked next to Sean crosses. I fix my ponytail and smooth out my shirt.
Fifteen minutes later: I recognize biker after biker, but no Sean. And my dad’s waiting. You know, maybe Sean kicked butt and finished before everyone else. I wander over to the food table and survey the crowd. If he’s here, I’ll see him. I can spot his head anywhere.
Thirty minutes later: I’ve spanned the length of the food tent twice, checked all the bikes in the racks for Sean’s, and still zilch. He’s gone. I missed him. He said he’d be around, and he’s not.
Sean, and my window of opportunity to make things right, is gone.
I ride my bike down the largely deserted boardwalk. Most of the stores are closed until summer, but the ice-cream shop is packed with other bikers. I lean my bike against the outside window and try to push my way into the crowded store.
My dad’s sitting at a white wrought-iron table with a mountainous banana split in front of him. He waves and I pull a chair over.
“Sorry it took me so long,” I say.
“How’d it go?”
“I couldn’t find him. He’s probably avoiding me because I screwed everything up. Why do I have to be self-destructo?”
“That sounds like a superhero.”
“Not a very successful one. She would blow herself up before she could save the world.”
Dad laughs. “Maybe some of her blood will stain her enemies’ clothes though.”
“Yay. Laundry disasters. My powers are limitless.”
Dad shakes his head, smiling. Of course I’m still bummed, but if I can’t be better with Sean, at least I can joke around with my dad again. Our spoons clink against the bowl. I’m starving, and the sugar helps a bit. A tiny bit.
“Excuse me.”
I turn to the voice, the words jabbing my insides. What’s with all these shocking entrances today?
“Sean.” I breathe out. He has on a baseball hat and a tracksuit over his biking clothes. Dad looks him up and down, a smile playing on his lips.
No one says anything until Sean sticks out his hand. “Hi. I’m Sean Griswold.”
“Sorry! Dad … this is Sean. Sean Griswold. Meet Sean.”
Dad shakes Sean’s hand. “Sorry, didn’t catch the name? It’s Sean, right?”
“Sorry to interrupt.” Sean scratches the back of his neck. “I just wanted to let you know … I biked for you. I hope that’s okay.” Sean reaches into his jacket and pulls out his bandanna. “Helps me if I have someone in mind. Here.”
“Oh, well … thank you. Wow.” Dad reaches for the bandanna. “I’m starting a collection of these. I was actually just about to use the restroom, but why don’t you sit down and join us for a bit? There’s plenty of ice cream to go around. Payton can tell you all about her superpowers.”
Dad gives me a winning smile before he leaves. I shrink into my seat, sweating like I’m back on the bike ride. Gah! Now that I have Sean here, I don’t know what to say.
“So, you finished,” he says.
“Yeah. Superpowers kicked in around mile fifty.”
Someone leans over and asks if they can use a chair from our table and I nod. Sean’s phone rings and he looks at the number on the caller ID before turning the ringer off.
“Cool. So I’ve got to head out,” he says, taking a bite of the sundae.
Head out. Sean Griswold’s head is out. I have to stop him, say what needs to be said. But I don’t say anything.
The table next to us erupts into laughter as a guy tells an animated story to his friends. They all have on the same jersey. There’s a fatigued excitement in the air, the kind that appears at the dwindling hours of a slumber party. I almost point it out to Sean. We deserve that. Even if I was stupid before, we could go back to that. Right? Maybe? “Can you stay for a little bit?”
“I can’t. I have plans.”
“Oh, that’s right.” I purse my lips together hard so I won’t cry.
“My mom has a beach house she’s trying to flip down here. My cousins came down for the weekend and we’re going to fish and hang out.”
“Well, that’s great. I hope you have fun. And … you should be proud of yourself for … you know … the bike ride.”
“So should you.”
“I am.” I smile. “I am.”
He rubs his temples.
“Headache?” I ask, alarmed.
“No, more like body ache. That second bridge killed me. I haven’t had a headache since, well … we uh … talked about it. I think I just rub my forehead out of habit.”
I restrain the urge to burst into song. No more headaches! “You’re cured!”
“Cured?” Sean shrugs. “I guess you can say that.”
“Well, what did it?” I ask.
Sean points to the sunglasses still on top of his head. “These. My glasses.”
“Glasses?”
“Yeah, I was getting headaches from this weird astigmatism. Eyestrain. So the doctor gave me glasses. Well, I just put my contacts in, but these sunglasses are prescription. I wear them riding.”
Glasses. Not a brain tumor. Glasses. My freak-out was the result of blurry vision. My own blurry vision.
“The
y look good on you,” I say.
Sean stands. “Thanks. Well, hey, it was good talking to you, but my family’s meeting me in the parking lot. Tell your dad I said bye. I’ll see you later, I guess.”
He nudges through the crowded store. The shop bell rings as he opens the door. I look back at the sundae melting on the table and shovel in bite after bite until my brain freezes. Ah, kryptonite!
Wait, what am I doing? How can I think about ice cream at a time like this? I spring out of my seat and race outside. Sean’s halfway down the boardwalk. I run after him and grab his arm. We both stare at my hand, but I don’t move it. I think of the last time I stopped him like this, in the hallway when he found out about the PFEs. He forgave me then. Could he do it now?
“I’m wondering if you can help me with something before you leave,” I say, out of breath.
Sean nods. I release his arm and draw myself up straight.
“See, I’ve been thinking about those Revolutionary War soldiers and how they must have been torn, you know fighting the good fight but being away from their families.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You think they ever got scared, ever … ran away? Like, as a self-preservation kind of thing?” I ask. “Even if they knew they weren’t supposed to. Even if they really, really didn’t want to?”
Sean squints at me. There’s so much behind his look—curiosity, amusement, uncertainty. I can feel him though, even from a few inches away, loosening. The edge he’s had in his voice is gone. “I bet they did.”
“What was the punishment for that? When they got the … brains to come back, when they realized how stupid they were. How sorry they were. How did they make things better then? Could … could they make things better?”
Sean paces the boardwalk, hands behind his back, like a general issuing orders to his troops. “You’re speaking of great treachery here. Especially if it’s a repeat offense. Trust was vital in the camp.”
I hang my head low. I’m an idiot. “I know.”