For example, on Halloween, we were walking around a neighborhood by our dorm and we saw a little trick-or-treater walking around in a skeleton costume. He was knocking on doors but it was too early and nobody was home yet. Heather called him over and pulled like five pieces of chocolate and candy out of her purse and handed it to him. I don’t know what I found more endearing: how sweet she was to the little kid or the fact that she walks around with a bunch of chocolate in her purse.
“I like that she sings,” I finally say.
Patrice shakes her head at me like she doesn’t get it. “What does she sing?”
“Well, mostly these annoying pop songs,” I explain. “Whatever is on the radio. She’s always singing and she’s really off tune. It seems like it would be annoying, but… every time she does it, somehow I love her a little more.” Patrice is frowning, so I add, “I guess it’s hard to explain.”
I know that the Heather line of questioning is far from over.
“Have you ever considered telling her the truth?” she asks. Tap tap tap.
“Absolutely not,” I say without hesitation. “She’d be disgusted.”
“You don’t give her much credit.”
“I’m realistic.” I raise my eyebrows at her. “Would you date a guy who had a…?”
Patrice hesitates a beat too long and I know she is getting ready to form a lie. “Yes, I would.”
I snort. “I’m sure.”
Patrice uncrosses and recrosses her long legs, “So what if Dr. Adamsky doesn’t do the surgery?”
I’ve considered that possibility. On the first day we moved in to our apartment, Mason brought with him a full set of knives for the kitchen. We never cook, so the knives are all razor-sharp. They’re just waiting for me.
If Dr. Adamsky isn’t willing to do the surgery… well, one way or another, I’m going to have two eyes left.
_____
The popcorn is popped and I’m waiting for Heather to come over with a movie. We’re watching some chick flick with Natalie Portman. No, I don’t really want to see it, and no, I haven’t grown a vagina. But Heather seemed excited about this movie, so we’re watching it, end of story. Being next to her—that’s enough.
I make an effort to clean up the coffee table. I toss the half-eaten pizza slice from last night in the trash, and brush crumbs off the futon. Our place is a mess, I know it. I’m a slob and Mason’s spent his whole life having maids pick up after him, so we’re not in great shape. For a while, we had a pretty bad ant problem. They were making trails all over the living room, and Mason was spraying them with Fantastic. It was pretty disgusting, but now that the weather is changing, the ants seem to be gone.
These days, the fruit flies are vying for dominance. The first time Heather came into our bedroom, she discovered our “fruit fly cup.” It’s this cup that used to have soda in it and I guess we never washed it, and it somehow evolved into a fruit fly breeding ground. That cup was literally covered in flies.
When Heather first saw the fruit fly cup, she announced that we had to get rid of it ASAP. Mason argued with her for a while.
“The fruit flies are our pals,” he said.
Heather didn’t find him amusing. Finally, Mason tipped the cup into a plastic bag I was holding, then we quickly put that plastic bag in another plastic bag, and took the whole thing out to the dumpster. But we still have fruit flies—they’re just more spread out.
Heather arrives at my door right on time. She’s wearing a tank top and jeans and just looks so cute that I want to forget the goddamn movie and ravage her right now.
She grins at me, “Got the popcorn?”
I nod. “Got the movie?”
Heather holds up the DVD with the photo of a love-struck Natalie Portman on the box. Damn. I was hoping she wouldn’t be able to find it.
Heather catches the look on my face. “Abe, what’s wrong? Don’t you want to see this movie?”
I force a smile. “Yeah, definitely.”
She puts her hands on her hips.
“Okay, fine,” I say. “I don’t want to see it. But I’m willing to watch it.”
Heather blinks at me. “Why?”
“Because,” I say. “I want to be close to you. I don’t care what we’re watching.”
Her eyes soften. “Tell you what,” she says. “Let me go grab my purse and we’ll go out and see that zombie apocalypse movie that’s playing in the theater.”
I stare at her. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“You really want to see that?” It’s hard for me to believe any woman would want to see that movie.
“I just want to be close to you,” Heather says and she winks. “Besides, zombies are awesome. No?”
I love this girl. I really, really love her.
“Heather,” I say. “I love…” Crap. I can’t say it. “I love seeing movies with you. A lot.”
Her brown eyes twinkle. “I love seeing movies with you too. A lot.”
And that’s why I’d do anything for Heather McKinley.
Chapter 33
Heather wanted me to come to her parents’ house for Thanksgiving, but I begged off, saying that my parents would be disappointed that I wasn’t coming home. I couldn’t tell her the truth. Sorry, honey, I’ve got a PET scan of the brain in my ass scheduled on Friday morning and I can’t miss it.
The PET scanner looks similar to the CT scanner in that it’s a large donut-shaped apparatus with a stretcher that slides through. I’m slightly concerned about the fact that the radiation from the scanner will be right along where my genitals are, but there’s not much I can do about it. By the end of all these tests, I’m going to be glowing green, at least around my crotch. Mason will have a field day with his Hulk jokes.
The radioactive material is injected into my arm as I lie on the table. I close my eyes, imagining that I can feel the isotopes running through my veins. I hear Dr. Petrov’s voice in the room, but he’s speaking quietly and I can’t make out the words.
“Abe.” The voice is right over my head now. I open my eyes and see Petrov’s white beard. The unusual fact that he’s here for a basic diagnostic test does not escape me—he must think my case is pretty amazing.
“We will begin now,” he says. “I will read you questions as they scan the brain tissue. Try to lie still.”
I nod.
I hear the whir of machinery and I close my eyes once again. I felt the table below me moving. The sensation of movement while my eyes are closed makes me feel slightly nauseated and I have to open them.
Once the donut is positioned over my lower abdomen, Petrov approaches my side. Even though the doctor towers over me in a standing position, he doesn’t attempt to find a chair.
“I’m going to give you some instructions,” Petrov tells me. “I want you to try to follow them best you can. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I say.
It’s pretty basic stuff. Lift your right leg. Bend your knee. Curl your toes. Squeeze your fingers into a fist. After about twenty minutes of that, Petrov approaches me again.
“Now I am going to give you some calculations,” the doctor says. “I want you to try your best to do them in your head. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I say.
Then comes the barrage of questions. I’m asked everything from simple calculations to logic puzzles to tests of my memory. I feel like I’m taking some sort of horrible IQ test. And after every set of questions, Petrov walks over to the monitor that is scanning my body and strokes his beard thoughtfully.
It seemed like hours have passed when Petrov finally closes his book of questions.
“So did I pass?” I ask.
Petrov strokes his beard, “I’m not quite finished yet. I’d like to try stimulating the eye itself.”
I thought I heard wrong. “What?”
“I’d like to show the eye a series of images,” Petrov says. “I’d like to see if the brain tissue lights up. That will also confirm if it’
s actually brain tissue.”
That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. But I kept my mouth shut. I’ve just got to get through this.
“Okay,” I agree.
I’m instructed to turn over onto my stomach so that the eye is exposed. I rest my head on the poorly cushioned table as Petrov turns the pages in a book. Even though I can’t feel the eye, sometimes I can tell when it is blinking. It is a vague fluttering sensation just above my tailbone.
I wish Petrov would say something, anything. But instead, all I hear is the endless turning of pages. Once I thought I heard Petrov say, “Hmm.”
“We are done now,” Petrov finally says. “Lie still.”
I continue to rest my head on the table as the machines whirs into action. The table moves again, ejecting me from the machine. I look up, prepared to ask Petrov for the results of the test, but when I lift my head, the doctor is already gone.
_____
By Sunday, I can’t wait to see Heather again—it’s all I can think about.
I take a steaming hot shower to try to take my mind off how desperate I am to see her. I try to forget the humiliation of that stupid PET scan. Soon this will all be a distant memory. Things are going great with Heather, and I’m going to keep it that way. I’m going to marry her and spend the rest of my life making her happy. She’s never going to know my disturbing secret.
I’m lathering my short red hair with shampoo when a sudden noise in the bathroom startles me. At first, I think it must be Mason, but then I realize that it’s Heather. Naked Heather. In the bathroom. With me.
And I panic.
I start screaming at her to get the hell out. The shock on her face breaks my heart, but I’m too scared to think straight. I need her to leave. Now.
I realize this is not normal behavior for any red-blooded male. My girlfriend just tried to slip into the shower with me—I ought to be celebrating. This goddamn eye. It’s wrecking my whole life.
When I come out of the bathroom, she’s sitting quietly on the couch. I can tell she’s shaken. I also know that there’s no way she’s going to let me get away with this. Heather may be a pushover, but this is a big deal. I just kicked her out of the bathroom naked.
“What’s going on, Abe?” she asks. She’s hugging her arms to her chest.
I close my eyes and sink down onto the couch next to her.
“Heather, I’m really sorry…”
Heather is staring down at her lap, shaking her head.
“I know I put on a lot of weight lately,” she murmurs to herself. She looks up at me, a pathetic look on her face. “Do I turn you off?”
Is she kidding me? How could she think that? It hurts to hear those words coming out of her mouth.
“No, of course not!” I say. “My God, you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met in my life.”
She believes me, I think. I see the wheels turning into her brain, trying to figure it out. Finally, she says, “Are you afraid of me seeing you naked?”
Bingo. “No…”
Her shoulders relax and she smiles. “Oh, Abe,” she laughs. She touches my arm. “I know you’re not a model or anything, but I like your body. Really.”
She has no idea. No freaking clue. If I were just a big fat guy, I’d be thrilled.
And then her hand is sliding under my T-shirt, exploring. It feels so good, but I know she’s moving into dangerous territory. It’s almost painful, but I’ve got to stop her. I grab her wrist, gently but firmly, and push her away.
She stares at me. “What’s going on, Abe?”
“Nothing.”
“Then strip.”
I’m not going to do it. No way. She’ll have to rip my clothes off.
“Abe, I don’t care what it is. I swear I don’t.” Heather’s eyes search my face. That’s when she starts guessing: “Is it… a tail?”
Granted, I wouldn’t want a tail. But I’d prefer a tail to what I’ve got. The eye is disturbing. It freaks people out. I don’t want Heather to think of me that way. I don’t care how pissed off she is at me, she’s not going to see my deformity.
I’ve got to get rid of it. Whatever it takes.
Chapter 34
The next day, I buy flowers on the way home. It’s a bouquet of lilacs, Heather’s favorite, even though I spent a good minute eying the red roses. Roses are more romantic. Even though I haven’t spoken to Dr. Petrov about the test, I’m feeling cautiously optimistic. They aren’t going to tell me no and turn down an expensive operation. They’re just trying to minimize my risks, like they said.
I race up the flight of stairs to Heather’s room. I grip the lilacs in my right hand as I knock on the door. I feel sweat accumulating under my armpits. I don’t know what I’ll say when I see Heather. I don’t want to make things worse, especially since I’m still not ready to tell her the truth.
I’m slightly relieved when Rachel answers the door, looking irritated as usual.
“Is… is Heather home?” I ask.
“She doesn’t want to see you,” Rachel says, folding her arms across her chest.
I hang my head. “Well, can you give her these flowers?” I ask in a small voice.
Rachel’s eyes soften slightly. “Look, I… I don’t know what happened between the two of you, but you really upset her.”
“I know,” I murmur. “I didn’t mean to…”
“You never do,” she says. I guess that “you” refers to all men.
Tell her that I love her, I want to say. But that’s not the sort of thing that should come from a third party. I need to tell her myself. But I can’t do it until I have the surgery.
I’ll tell you soon, Heather. I swear it.
I’ll fucking butcher myself if I have to.
_____
“It must have been hard,” Patrice says knowingly, “growing up… with that.”
I chew on my lip. I have an appointment with Dr. Adamsky tomorrow and it’s all I can think about. “I guess.”
“Did the other kids tease you?”
“They never knew.”
In gym class, I took pains to hide the eye. I never showered in the gym locker room and always changed in the bathroom. The other guys made fun of me for that, but not as much as they would have if they knew the reason behind it. I never tried out for sports teams, even though a few overeager gym teachers tried to drag me kicking and screaming to football practice.
Instead of gym classes I opted for weightlifting. I kept it up through all of high school and in college. I got pretty good at it. My parents bought a bunch of weights, and I’ve still been lifting regularly, as much as my schedule allows. I won’t brag about how much I can bench press, but I’ll tell you it’s more than you and your best friend weigh combined, I’ll bet. Don’t think I’m just a fat guy—I’ve got a very solid layer of muscle under that blubber.
“It must have made it hard… to get close to girls.”
Gee, you think?
“I guess so,” I say. “I’ve always been pretty shy around girls. They never seemed that interested in me.”
“Heather is your first girlfriend?
I nod and look away. It’s embarrassing that I’ve gotten to age twenty-two and never had a girlfriend before.
“Do you have any siblings?”
I shake my head. Sometimes I think my parents didn’t have any more kids because they were worried that there was something messed up in their genes. I wouldn’t blame them.
“How about your parents?” Patrice asks, still digging. I don’t know what she’s trying to find out. Psychologically, I’m fine. “What’s your relationship with them like?”
I shrug. “Fine.”
I get along well with my parents. My mother always told me that I’m the “sweetest little boy in the world” although I don’t think “little” is an adjective anyone would ever use to describe me these days. I lived at home through college and probably would have continued to do so if the only medical schools that accepted me weren’t over a
n hour away. Home is safe.
“Did you ever tell them that you wanted to remove the eye?”
I did, only once. When I was in elementary school, some friends of mine were throwing a pool party and I wanted to go but I was too ashamed to be seen in a bathing suit. I asked my mother in a humble voice, “Is there any way to get rid of it?”
My mother took my round freckled face in her hands and said to me in a solemn voice, “Why would you want to change who you are, Abe? That eye is part of what makes you you.”
In retrospect, her words made no sense. The eye doesn’t make me who I am. It’s nothing more than an unusual birthmark. Yet her words served to keep me from daring to ever ask about it again.
_____
Today is the day they’re going to schedule the surgery. I sit in Dr. Adamsky’s examining room, tapping my fingers nervously against the examining table. At least this time I’m dressed.
Eventually, Adamsky enters the room with Dr. Petrov at his side once again. I imagine that it must have taken a lot of effort for the two physicians to coordinate their schedules just to see me. I guess that a case like mine only comes along once in a lifetime. Hey, maybe they won’t charge me for the surgery because it’s just so damn interesting. After the surgery, they can write me up in the New England Journal of Medicine or something.
“Hello, Abe,” Adamsky says. Petrov nods his hello.
“Hi,” I say. “So uh… how were the tests?”
“Well, there is some good news,” Petrov says. “It seems that the brain tissue in the lumbar region has no control over your own thinking or locomotion, as far as I could assess.”
“Great,” I say. “So when can we take it out?”
“It’s not that simple,” Petrov says. “You see, it seems that I was wrong about the vanishing twin syndrome. I think what you actually have is Craniopagus parasiticus, otherwise known as a parasitic twin.”
“I have parasites?”
Shit. None of this is going to make me seem more attractive to Heather.
Suicide Med Page 17
