Knockout

by K. A. Holt

  and sitting next to Mom.

  Timothy is always there

  with a crease between his eyes

  but a smile on his face.

  How is Timothy not coming?

  It has to be killing him

  as much as it’s killing me.

  Right?

  I feel dizzy.

  I realize

  he might never come to Cincinnati again.

  He’ll be at doctor school

  if he passes this stupid test

  and then Timothy will be gone

  poof

  and what will I do?

  And that makes me think of Xaviers

  which is, duh,

  a boarding school

  which means I’ll be there alone

  not just without Tam

  but

  without anyone.

  I grab the notebook off his desk.

  I write:

  He writes back:

  I take a minute to breathe

  because Timothy

  can be so dramatic

  jeeeeeeeeeez.

  He takes the pen:

  I slam

  the door

  because I do understand

  but

  I don’t have to like it.

  I’m still working on your mom,

  as far as boxing goes.

  Dad and me.

  One last visit

  before the trip.

  Oh

  I say.

  Well

  I wasn’t holding my

  breath.

  And then we both laugh

  because breathing jokes

  yeah

  so hilarious.

  Have a good trip, Sport.

  He says this out the window

  of his car

  so ready

  to drop me off.

  Sorry I’m not coming along.

  He looks at my shoes

  when he says those words

  and it’s weird because

  why would he even say them?

  He has never

  not once

  come to Cincinnati

  with us.

  Timothy hugs me tight.

  You’re going to do so fine.

  Better than fine.

  It’s what he always says

  before I go to the operating room

  but now he’s saying it

  in his bathrobe

  on the front porch.

  You’ll like it!

  No, really!

  Mom, just drive.

  Trust me.

  The Cat Tornadoes blare,

  and it’s weird

  hearing them out loud

  not jammed in my ears.

  The music expands

  rolls around us

  blows out the windows like a fog

  clearing up the day

  crisping up the moment

  making us sing so hard,

  except the sound from our mouths is drowned out.

  The music is too loud, too large.

  Mom’s mouth has a sideways clench,

  her eyes are almost slits

  as she drives

  as she squints

  against

  the sun.

  I tried handing her sunglasses

  she waved them off

  I don’t like how they dull the colors,

  she said,

  and it’s such a beautiful morning.

  So she keeps squinting,

  fighting against the glare

  saying no to the easy answer

  and I think

  it’s no wonder I’m her son.

  We stop a lot

  because the road is like a hypnotist

  making Mom sleepy

  even though I feed

  her candy

  and Cokes

  and jokes.

  Timothy usually drives

  half the time

  and goes too fast

  and makes us laugh

  and it’s weird

  without him here.

  I wish I could drive

  or think of something to say

  to keep her awake.

  It’s like a mother and son vacation

  Mom says

  in the convenience store

  with the floor

  covered in sticky spilled

  something.

  We can do fun stuff while we’re there

  Mom says.

  What about the zoo?

  You’re not too old for the zoo, are you?

  We walk back to the car

  and I think of the animals

  I used to love

  and how now

  my heart breaks

  because they don’t realize

  their home

  is a cage.

  House arrest

  for life.

  This old place

  I feel like we’ve been here

  a hundred times.

  Maybe we have.

  Dark green carpet

  turning light green

  where people have walked

  from the bathroom

  to the bedrooms

  to the kitchen

  and back.

  A hotel

  of apartments,

  shabby

  but fine,

  clean but old.

  One day

  maybe someone will say that about me:

  I bet he used to be

  really nice.

  I bet he used to be

  kind of fancy.

  Now he’s old

  but at least

  he’s clean.

  I smile,

  give a little wave

  to the baby

  in the elevator.

  His eyes droop—

  he looks so tired.

  His mom does, too.

  I point to my neck,

  I had a trach like you.

  I kneel down

  show him my scar.

  He has one hand on a bottle,

  he’s chewing it, smiling around it.

  His other hand touches my scar

  then the elevator dings,

  our floor.

  Mom squeezes the other mom’s hand

  as we walk out the door,

  so many feelings

  in one elevator ride.

  I wish we could tell them he’ll be OK

  I wish we could be sure.

  We always come to the zoo

  if it’s 8,846,365 degrees

  or if it’s too cold to breathe,

  we always come here.

  The giraffes are my favorite

  and I love the polar bears

  and the lions, always sleeping

  and the penguins

  dancing to their own tunes.

  The hospital gives us free tickets.

  Sometimes we come before

  everything.

  Sometimes we come after

  everything.

  Sometimes I eat a pretzel and

  run around.

  Sometimes I’m too tired and

  get wheeled around.

  But we

  always

  come.

  So here we are,

  but this time

  just me and Mom.

  It feels a little empty

  and unfamiliar

  not having Timothy.

  This hospital is part of me.

  I’ve been coming here

  once

  twice

  sometimes three times

  every year,

  forever.

  I look out the big windows

  so many flags

  in a half

  circle,

  the pickup zone

  for when it’s time to go home.

  I can see the flags bloom

  from the waiting room

  wind whipping them big

  wind whipping
them small

  my heart also whipping

  big and small

  as I’m called

  down the hall.

  No I don’t want those socks

  to cover my cold toes.

  No I don’t need a doll

  to see where IVs go.

  No I don’t want a TV

  to watch baby shows.

  I do need Spaceship Blanket, though

  and only Mom knows.

  Dad was never gonna come

  obviously

  I did think maybe he’d call

  or text

  but he hasn’t.

  Spaceship Blanket

  hidden under my gown

  covering my legs,

  keeping me safe.

  I put a sticker on it,

  the one with my name

  patient number

  birthday

  date.

  The sticker that’s on everything

  you want to get back

  after surgery

  after recovery

  when it’s time to go home.

  I know

  they’ll find it

  hidden under my gown

  and when I wake up

  it will be by my face

  in case

  I need it

  to calm down.

  I’m not so brave

  I’m not so old

  to not feel happy to see it

  when I open my eyes.

  They’re ready to wheel me out.

  I hear a ding,

  my phone

  in Mom’s bag.

  I reach in

  pull it out

  Breathin easy?

  a text

  from Dad.

  I smile

  I didn’t even know

  he knew

  we say that.

  No text from Timothy.

  No call either.

  Did he forget the day?

  Did he not remember?

  Before I open my eyes

  I am awake.

  My throat hurts bad,

  scratched raw

  from tubes

  and probes.

  The room tilts

  my stomach flip-flops.

  The toughest part of being knocked out?

  When you have to wake up.

  I try to move my hands

  so I can move Spaceship Blanket

  in case I barf.

  Maybe I moan.

  Maybe I’m moving too much.

  I feel hands on me

  soft voices

  Oh look! He’s up.

  I try to talk

  but my throat is too dry.

  Levi.

  Levi.

  Open your eyes.

  I push through the fog

  wade through the storm

  swim up from the bottom

  try to surface, re-form.

  And then when I make my eyes

  open, I feel them go wide

  because on the other side

  of the bed is Timothy

  holding his journal

  where he’s written in big letters:

  How?

  is the first word I manage to stammer

  as Timothy

  hands me

  blue juice

  and a straw.

  I take a sip.

  My throat comes alive.

  How? I say again.

  I bought a plane ticket,

  just one way.

  I couldn’t stand being at home.

  Dr. Sawyer smiles.

  Waking up, Levi?

  I nod.

  Look at that oxygen level!

  He taps the monitor.

  It blinks

  99 percent.

  That,

  he says,

  is a thing of beauty.

  Just like this.

  He holds out two photos,

  pink circles, gooey and gross.

  This is your airway before

  and after.

  Just had to get my laser

  and zap the scar tissue

  here

  and

  here

  and

  here.

  Now you’re good as new, Levi.

  I could roll a bowling ball

  through your throat.

  Ouch, I say.

  He laughs.

  Everything really does look great.

  He takes Mom’s hand.

  I know you were worried,

  but this was routine.

  No big deal.

  After those zaps,

  Levi has one of the

  biggest

  clearest

  reconstructed airways

  I’ve ever seen.

  He turns to me now,

  his smile taking up his whole face.

  You’ve always been such a fighter.

  And I hear

  you’re fighting still

  but this time in the ring?

  I nod.

  And you’re thinking of going away to school?

  I nod again.

  Your mom wanted me to tell you:

  I don’t see any problem with that.

  Either one.

  I really don’t.

  Just keep in touch

  for your regular checkups.

  He shakes my hand.

  I shake his back.

  Thank you for letting me be your doctor, Levi.

  And good luck, Timothy.

  Good luck, Annie.

  All my best to you all.

  And now

  We can still . . . ?

  My heart pounds,

  hope bubbles up

  catches in my

  giant throat.

  Visit Xaviers

  on the way home?

  Yes, Levi.

  A promise is a promise.

  Mom lays her head on my chest

  and I can’t quite tell

  if she’s happy

  or sad.

  And then

  we are in a

  big

  strange

  new

  Xaviers

  world.

  Dr. Strong

  (for real!

  That’s her name!)

  shakes my hand

  and Mom’s

  and Timothy’s, too.

  She’s the principal person,

  the leader of the school.

  What a perfect

  superhero name she has.

  So supercool.

  Thank you for setting up this tour.

  Timothy is so polite.

  Mom says nothing.

  I think in her eyes

  I see dollar signs

  spinning

  like in a cartoon.

  A whole classroom with pedals under the desks

  for when your body says go

  but your teacher says stay.

  The desks don’t actually move

  but your feet do

  they just move and move and move

  like they are powering the electricity to your brain

  and to your fingers

  like you are plugged in

  with so much energy

  flowing through your wires

  that thoughts

  fly out

  like

  Students live on campus,

  Dr. Strong says,

  for the full effect

  of the Academy.

  If you live nearby

  of course you can go home on weekends

  and always holidays

  and you can get a pass for special occasions.

  Timothy’s hands are in his pockets.

  Mom’s eyes are so wide

  I think her head

  is going to

  explode.

  Can we see the dorms?

  I feel like I am asking to see a king cobra

  or a live alligator.

  I have never though
t of anything more exotic

  than living away from home.

  Small room

  two beds

  two desks

  one sink

  big window.

  Bathroom

  down

  the

  hall.

  One whole room

  for a stranger and me.

  I don’t know what to think.

  I can barely imagine . . .

  a tiny room as my home?

  A roommate I don’t even know?

  No Timothy watching over me?

  No Mom at all?

  One last thing . . .

  Dr. Strong

  (still her name!!)

  pushes open two big doors,

  we walk into the gym,

  and in the corner . . .

  It’s a boxing ring.

  My heart sings

  as I run over

  grab some headgear

  grab some gloves

  jump in the ring

  before anyone can say a thing

  and it feels like coming home

  as I jab the air

  whoosh my breath

  dance my dance

  until I sweat

  until I realize they’re staring

  Mom and Timothy

  Dr. Strong

  and some coach I don’t know.

  I drop the gloves

  take off the headgear

  say

  Sorry about that

  it’s just . . . been a while

  since I was in the ring.

  A big smile spreads across the coach’s face.

  Dr. Strong nods.

  And Mom and Timothy?

  Look so surprised that I bet,

  I just bet,

  I could knock them both out

  not with a left hook

  but with a sneeze.

  I’m not saying I will die

  if I don’t go to this school

  but probably?

  I will die.

  Before her front door

  even opens

  all the way

  I say:

  Did you do it?

  Did you poop in a hole?