For a second I Wonder if I should chase after her. Probably not a Wise move. The dizziness has kicked in again. The sideWalk appears to be tilting for some reason.
“Rachel, I’m sorry—”
She hurries down the subway steps.
Good grief. Now I know I should chase after her. I know this With every fiber of my guilty soul. I should be honest. I should explain What happened: that I just lost myself for a second in one of those Wild daydreams I always have Whenever I Want to be somewhere else—the daydreams that Won’t come true but that still give me the little pick-me-ups I need to get through the unpleasant moments in life… .
But I don’t.
I never do What I should.
The Most Billboards per Square Mile of Any Town in the World
I can’t dwell on Rachel, I tell myself. No. Right now I have to figure out Why I feel so sick. Then I can lie down. And after that, I can call her and apologize. Rachel and I both need a chance to cool off, anyway. So as soon as I finish all the tasks that require my immediate attention—changing the T-shirt, Washing the face, brushing the teeth—I’m ready to get started.
Except …
I find myself standing in my darkened bedroom, staring at my phone.
Which is When I think: I don’t really Want to know What’s Wrong With me. Of course I don’t. It’ll freak me out too much.
It’s a little past 6 p.m.
I have one new message. The numeral 1 blinks in red on the digital panel, over and over again.
In addition to taking me to the Hong Phat Noodle House on my sixteenth birthday, my parents also gave me a private phone line. Plus a celly, a TV, a cable modem, and a credit card. “Tools for adulthood!” they said. It Was generous loot, to be sure, but it Was sort of overwhelming. I didn’t really need those tools for adulthood. I Was happy using theirs. But now the issue never even comes up. Now, on those rare occasions When they’re actually home, there’s no reason to bug them about getting off the phone or the Net or Watching What I Want to Watch on TV. Likewise, they don’t have to bug me. They can tune in to the Home Shopping Network to their hearts’ content. In fact, We barely have to communicate at all. Which is … good?
Blink blink blink …
Maybe it’s Rachel. Maybe she beat me to an apology. That Would certainly be in keeping With her character: to take the blame for something that isn’t her fault at all just to avoid conflict. So I hope it isn’t Rachel. Be strong! I urge her, attempting to communicate telepathically via my vertiginous brain. You should be mad at me!
As I gaze at the red flash, I’m conscious of two things. The first is that according to Mark and Nikki, I’m supposed to have sex With Rachel tonight. Approximate odds of that happening: four zillion to one. The second is that the phone has begun to tilt to the left. So has the messy desk on Which it sits. And the messy floor on Which the desk sits. Everything is tilting. Just like the sidewalk outside. Also, I haven’t turned on the lights yet. The entire tilting room is cloaked in eerie bluish shadows. I’m about to lose my balance.
I stumble into the desk chair and jab a finger at the answering machine button.
“You have one new message,” the automated female voice pleasantly announces. “Message one received today, 4:12 p.m.”
Beep!
“Hi, Ted!”
It’s Dad. His voice blasts from the speaker, full of tinny enthusiasm: “How’s it going? How’s that application coming along? Remember our agreement. You finish it ay-sap, all right? Then you can have some fun. How’s the Weather there? The Weather here in Denver is just fantastic!”
“Well, I don’t know how the Weather is,” Mom cuts in. For once she doesn’t include an exclamation point. She sounds grumpy. “I Was stuck inside the Hyatt all day. I Will say that the convention floor does have great air-conditioning. Your father and I did the B-to-B ads for the Wholesaler.”
Dad laughs. “Yes, your mother had to Work the convention floor, but I got the day off. You’ll never guess Where I Went! There’s a small town in Colorado that has the most billboards per square mile of any—”
“Not the most billboards,” Mom interrupts.
“Yes, the most per square mile. Of any town in the Whole World.”
“It has a lot, dear. But not the most.”
“It Was in The Guinness Book,” Dad tells her brusquely.
Mom sniffs. “You’re just making this up.”
“I’m not! You Weren’t there! I saw a billboard for it! It Was—”
I slam my hand down on the machine.
“Your message has been erased,” the automated voice concludes, as pleasantly as ever. “End of messages.”
Two out of Four Ain’t Bad
So, everybody of importance in my life has been accounted for. My parents have touched base to update me about their exciting business trip. My blameless girlfriend has stormed off in a huff. Mark and Nikki are most likely still at the diner, celebrating Mark’s triumphant heroism. All of Which means I have some much-needed time to myself. Now I can figure out What’s Wrong With me.
I bury my cowardice and turn on the computer.
The screen spins in circles, like vinyl on a turntable.
I don’t get it. I know it isn’t spinning. So Why does it look that Way? I grit my teeth, fighting to ignore the hallucination as I punch the Words dizziness nausea ringing in the ears abdomen pain into a “Feeling Lucky?” search engine. Several sites appear. All of them revolve (literally) around something called Ménière’s disease.
I click on the first one.
DO YOU HAVE MÉNIÈRE’S DISEASE?
IF YOU SUFFER FROM SOME OR ALL
OF THE FOLLOWING SYMPTOMS,
THE ANSWER COULD BE YES:
Frequent episodes of severe rotary vertigo or dizziness
Progressive low-frequency hearing loss
Tinnitus
Pressure in the ears
Number one, check.
Number two, not so much. I hear fine. Except I hear ringing, too.
Number three … What the—?
I grab a dictionary. My breath quickens. Words like this make me nervous, even more nervous than Words like examination procedure. I riffle through the pages, frantic. At least I know What those Words mean. But I have no idea about—
tin-ni-tus n. med. Ringing in the ears.
Oh.
I toss the dictionary on the floor.
Number three, check.
Number four … I don’t think so. Nope. No pressure.
That leaves me With two out of four of the symptoms. Fifty percent. I sense I’ve failed some sort of test. Still, two out of four ain’t bad. “Some or all,” right? I skim through the rest of the medical literature on the site, searching for any indication that Ménière’s disease is fatal. There is none. I do learn, however, that it leaves its victims incapacitated for hours on end With nightmarish head spins and vomiting. The gist seems to be that Ménière’s doesn’t kill you but that death might be preferable once you get it. And there’s something else: it almost never strikes anybody under the age of thirty.
I lean back in the chair. Hmmm.
Once again, the trusty Internet has raised a lot more questions than it has answered.
Do I have this awful disease? Could I be one of those one-in-a-million victims in the under-thirty crowd? Or maybe even the first? Is it one of the “things” that the intern Wanted to “rule out”? Is that Why she needed parental consent for a … Whatever?
Actually, I know Who can solve all these riddles. He’s the reason I Went to St. Vincent’s in the first place. I glance at my Watch. It’s already six-fifteen. He’s definitely home by now. He never gets home past six. He likes to have a beer and Watch the news. (He might not Want to admit it, but that is his “thing.”) Mark even joins him sometimes. He’s just a phone call away.
I dial the number faster than I’ve ever dialed it before.
A Very Grim Confluence of Conversations
“Hello?”
“Hey, Mr. Singer. It’s—”
“Burger! How are you?”
“Well, actually …”
“Your buddy Mark isn’t home right now. He’s out With Nikki.”
“Yeah, I know. I Wanted to talk to you.”
“Me?” Mr. Singer laughs. “Why? What did Mark do this time? Try to buy me a dog?”
“No, um … I have a medical question.”
He sighs. I can hear the TV in the background. I probably should have Waited until the news Was over. Oh, Well. It’s too late now. Besides, I’m desperate.
“I’m not a doctor, Burger, remember?” Mr. Singer tells me. He’s told me this many times before, and We both know it. “I’m a hospital administrator.”
“But you’ve given me good advice in the past,” I point out. (It’s true. When I Was twelve, he correctly diagnosed me With a stomach virus that my parents believed Was appendicitis.) “I Was just Wondering: Is it possible that I have Ménière’s disease?”
“Ménière’s disease?” He laughs again and takes a swig of beer. “You know, Burger, I always pegged you as a clown but never as a hypochondriac. But in answer to your question, no. Well, yes, it’s possible, but very unlikely. What are your symptoms?”
“I feel like the room is spinning. I have a Weird ache in my side. I have tinnitus.”
“Tinnitus, huh?” He takes another long pull from the bottle. “Big Word.”
“I looked it up.”
“Hey, I’m sorry, Burger. I’ve just been sort of grouchy lately. I don’t mean to be supercilious.”
Super-What? I eye the dictionary on the floor, but it’s too far away.
“Let me ask you something,” he says. “Is the ringing louder in one ear?”
“Yes! It’s louder in my right ear! The intern at St. Vincent’s asked me the exact same thing. Oh, congratulations on your new job there, by the Way.”
“Thanks. But Wait, you say you Were at St. Vincent’s? And they didn’t tell you What Was Wrong?”
“No, see, the intern Went to look for a doctor, and she told me to call my parents for consent, but I can’t call my parents—I mean, I can call them, but they can’t come give consent because they’re in Denver—so I just … um, I sort of left.”
Silence.
“Mr. Singer?”
“I’m here. Sorry.” He doesn’t sound so grouchy anymore. “Listen, Ted, I think you should go back there.”
Ted? I swallow. The Singers don’t call me Ted. Well, Mrs. Singer does, but she and Mr. Singer got divorced six years ago, and she moved to Florida—so I hardly ever see her. Mr. Singer calls me Burger. Like his son does. Ted is bad. Ted is a no-no. Mr. Singer Would only call me Ted if he knew something Was Wrong.
“Why should I go back there?” I ask.
“Hey, come on, don’t Worry!” he says With a big laugh. (That same fake laughter the intern gave me.) “Just go get checked out. I’m sure it’s nothing. And by the Way, your parents don’t have to be present to give consent. They can do it over the phone. But if you can’t get in touch With them, I’d be happy to do it.”
I glance at the computer screen. It Whirls like a pinwheel. Now that the sun has set, its dead White glow provides the only light in the room. “If it’s nothing, Why do I have to deal With it now?” I’m having difficulty catching my breath. “Why can’t I just Wait until my parents get back?”
“I’m sure the hospital just Wants to rule some things out.”
“That’s exactly What the intern said!” I gasp.
“Right,” he confirms With utter calm. “They just Want to perform a couple of examination procedures… .” His voice trails off for a moment. “Hey, are you Watching the news right now?”
“No. Why?”
“Something happened at that diner you guys always go to. You know, the one on Seventh Avenue? The Circle Eat?”
The spinning computer screen freezes before my eyes. “What?”
“Yeah, it’s on channel two. Are you near a TV? You should really check this out. It’s live… . It looks like there are tons of cops there. Wait. They’re hauling some guy away. Hey! He looks a little like you—”
BZZZT!
It’s the front door buzzer.
“Ted?”
“I gotta go,” I mutter. “I’m sorry, Mr. Singer. Thanks. Bye.” I hang up.
BZZZT! BZZZT! BZZZZT!
The buzzing is very insistent. It has an odd effect: it turns my limbs to gelatin. A thought has occurred to me. Yes, as I sit in that dark, terrible bedroom (practically a tomb!), a horrid Worst-case scenario has materialized: Leo ran off to get a real gun. And then he returned to the diner to shoot Mark. And now the cops have come here to tell me that my best friend—
BZZZT!
“Whoa!”
Vertigo sends me toppling to the floor.
Ouch.
I bang my side. It’s cool, though. I’m coping. For the first time ever—despite my condition—I’m confronting trauma head-on. I stagger down the hall and through the pitch-black living room into the foyer, collapsing against the Talk button.
“Hello?” I Whisper.
“Burger!”
Thank God. It’s Mark’s voice, blaring from the White plastic speaker. But it’s so distorted I can barely understand him.
“Dude, We have to talk!” he says. “It’s Mark and Nikki! You’re in trouble!”
Trouble? I stand there, numb and frozen.
“Burger? You there?”
I lift a shaky arm and press the button again. “Yeah, Mark, I’m here.”
“You have to let us up, dude. Now! I don’t Want to freak you out, but see, Leo really flipped his lid—and—and—”
Mark is stammering. He never stammers. I’m the one Who stammers.
“Leo poisoned the fries!” Nikki Wails. “You’ve been poisoned, Ted! You’ve been poisoned!”
Epiphany
I surprise myself.
I’m super-relaxed. I’m beyond super-relaxed. I’m Zen-like. I’m pretty sure I know Why, too. Denial is the first stage of “the five stages of grief.” (Or so my psych teacher taught me.) The great thing is, knowing I’m in denial doesn’t even detract from its soothing, medicinal relief. Mark and Nikki are fairly impressed. They must have been expecting me to freak out. They’re certainly freaking out. But I’m slouched comfortably on the living room couch as they pace in front of me.
“Leo came back,” Mark starts in. “Like, twenty minutes after you left.”
“He told everybody he synthesized some sort of poison at home,” Nikki says.
“See, he got kicked out of graduate school. He Was there for chemistry—”
“He got kicked out the Week before he Was fired—”
“He said it Was the same kind of poison that occurs naturally in blowfish—”
“You know, that poison sushi? It’s colorless and odorless—”
“He mixed his own homemade stuff into his last batch of fries—”
“It makes you sicker and sicker, and it only takes twenty-four hours—”
“Twenty-four hours! After that, your body just shuts down and you die—”
“There’s nothing you can do! Doctors can’t even help—”
Jeez. I can’t tell Which one of them is talking anymore. They’ve started shouting. Their voices are a jumble, bouncing around between my ringing ears.
Unfortunately, I feel the denial Wearing off quicker than I Would have liked. Now I’m entering the second stage of grief. And if memory serves correctly … Actually I don’t remember What the second stage is. Forgetfulness?
Mark and Nikki stop pacing. They draw the same deep, anxious breaths.
“I really think you should come With us, Burger,” Mark states. “Just come back to the hospital. Get yourself checked out. Okay?”
“But you just said there’s nothing the doctors can do. Right?”
“That’s What Leo said,” Nikki argues, her voice quavering.
I blink at her. I’
m at a loss. I ask myself: Do I really Want to go back to St. Vincent’s?
No. No, I don’t. Even though I’ve been poisoned … Poisoned! Holy—
Forget it. I’m calm. And I have to milk this calmness for all its Worth. Calm, calm, calm. If I go back to St. Vincent’s, I’ll definitely lose Whatever tenuous grip I have on the calmness. I’ll have to deal With that obese security guard again, for starters. No calmness there. Then I’ll have to sit in the Waiting room. Yikes. Then I’ll have to call my parents to secure their permission to get my stomach pumped, or blood transfused, or Whatever. And if I can’t get in touch With them, my best friend’s father Will have to sub as my legal guardian, Which means he’ll have to grant permission to some random surgeon (Who I’m sure Would much rather be at home in the suburbs having dinner With his Wife and kids) to perform Whatever desperate “procedures” can be done to save me When there’s no chance, no chance at all… .
Ugh. Who Would Want to spend their last hours like that? Not me.
“Burger!” Mark shouts at me. “Come on, dude. This is your life!”
“My life?” I echo blankly. “My life?”
It is my life, isn’t it?
That’s When it hits me. My God.
He’s right. Until he said the Words, I didn’t even look at it that Way. I only looked at it in terms of the sniveling coward I am… .
Mark is a genius. More than that.
He just triggered an epiphany.
Now I know exactly What needs to be done. Exactly. I mean, really; it can’t get any more perfect, right? I have a list, don’t I? Mark posed the question himself, before he even knew I Was poisoned: “Have you ever really lived, Burger?” NO! Of course not! It Was a sign! A sign from above! Because now I have a chance, an opportunity—a single, glorious, twenty-four-hour period to be brave, like Mark—to make up for my mistakes, my laziness… .
10 Things to Do Before I Die Page 5
