by Richie Drenz
One thing that never failed to put a smile on Vance’s face during these rough times was his HYC meetings. On Sunday nights, after the meetings, he’d be so perky and happy. Only once I saw a gloom on Vance’s face after he came from one of his meetings. It was when he was sixteen; he was sitting in the sofa. I put down the ice tray I was filling with water by the kitchen sink, turned off the pipe, walked over to him and had a seat beside him. It had to be something really terrible that happened to get his spirit down after a meeting. I had to find out what it was. I touched him on his knee and asked,
“Why the sad face?”
CHAPTER 10
Vance Has A Good Friend
by: Leelia Lexings
“Nothing.” He shrugged his shoulder but he didn't look up from the floor he was looking at.
“Come on, I know you better than that, what’s wrong Vance?”
“I just don't understand people, it’s like they think you are obligated to them and if you say no, they hold it against you, like they gave you anything to put down or ....?”
“Hold on, hold on ... slow down.” I shuffled over closer to him and rested my other hand on his knee. “Now, who you say is it?”
“Is Beanie. Mi and him friendship cut off for good!”
"Why?... But he is the only friend you have.”
“Him is not a true friend.”
“He called you gay like the others?” He looked around at me and looked back at the floor. I felt bad and wished I hadn’t mentioned that.
“No. Is something else.”
“What?” He didn’t responded immediately, fisted both hands and sunk his knuckles in the mustard color cushions of the sofa to ease himself out and stand. I covered both his knee caps with my palms and applied some force to them, suggesting ‘don't get up as yet, I am talking to you.’ He took his hands off the cushions, remained seated and plaited his fingers between each other. Bobbed his head from side to side in deep consideration while talking,
“The man borrowing mi things to go beach and mi tell him no.” He stopped talking. Stared blankly. I asked,
“So?”
“And him vex with mi over mi own things.” He began pulling the buckle of his black leather band watch from his wrist. I hadn’t seen that watch in almost a year. Seemed like the friendship cut off for real, and Vance got back his belongings. But who else would Vance have as a hortical friend? - no one. I guessed he would be even more lonely now.
“So why you didn’t just lend him and done? That wouldn’t be better than to end the friendship?”
“You mad! Mi not lending no man mi brief to wear go no beach. No man can’t wear mi brief. Mi not into them things with no man. You must be mad. If him want vex and thing, make him vex. But mi not lending him mi brief to go sporting on beach.”
I wanted to keel over with laughter. I tried holding it back. But the laughter was too much. It just burst right out of me. I couldn’t believe I was laughing so brawling. Vance got angry and braced himself up out of the sofa. He turned to me and said in frustration,
“You taking serious things make joke!” I was breathing and taking deep gasps in between, trying to catch my breath as I answered
“No Vance,” I gasped for air, “No.” Gasped again, “But that’s funny still ... Mi can’t believe that hype boy like Beanie want borrow your brief to wear go beach. Is which one of your brief him want borrow?”
Vance hissed his teeth and walked off to his room. I was dying with laughter. What a dirty friend! Oh my godmother, Pinky would say ‘a dutty friend behaviour that.’ Oh boy.
The next day, Monday, Dr. Reid told Vance that the age of his death had moved from the age of thirty-six to thirty-two. Vance needed to be on medication. Dr. Reid had prescribed lanoxin, metoprolol and catopril. He told us that if he took these drugs it may help him to live longer and avoid his heart getting any worse. The cost of the medication for the year totalled roughly two thousand U.S. Mom wanted to help Vance and soon after she put her pride aside and got a job with her friend Micheal Douglas, a job that she’d normally frown on and rather stay home than doing. It wasn’t much but Mom had saved some money towards Vance’s medical bill. With all her efforts, it still wasn’t even close enough but ‘at least it was a start,’ she would say. She began working some overtime, coming in late just to get that extra dollar towards the bill but time was against her, as Vance was getting worse faster than she was saving her little dollar, dollars.
Pinky’s asthma took her again. Mommy had to spend all her savings to take care of it. Mom was left dead broke and back at square one while Vance wasn’t getting any better. She nor Dad could afford the medicine and Vance had no choice but to do without. Vance had some horrible chest pain that year but he still managed to smile a lot with everyone.
At seventeen, Dr. Reid told Mom that Vance’s heart was growing faster and getting worse than before because he wasn’t getting the medications he needed, and if he didn't get the medications every year it would only get worse and worse till death. The rapid growth had stolen two years from how soon he would die. He told Mom that Vance would now die at thirty. It was that year Mom made the difficult decision to send me to live with Michael Douglas and Qwan. She needed the money.
However, it wasn’t until Vance was eighteen that I successfully got some help for him with his medication. I got the money to help him from Qwan, two thousand U.S. that Qwan’s father, Micheal Douglas was questioning. He wasn’t happy about it, to say the least.
The medication had helped to retard the growth of his heart and slowed down its unusual growth drastically. By the grace of God, Vance’s heart didn’t grow much that year, but Dr. Reid told him he had developed a severe left ventricular dysfunction and one of his heart’s valves needed to be replaced. He added Vasotec to his prescription which, by itself, cost about another two thousand U.S. making his medication bill for the year just below four thousand U.S. dollars. Dr. Reid said that he’d die at twenty-six. Vance now had only eight years to live. From that moment Vance tried not to get attached to anyone. He had no girlfriends and the nickname calling got a lot worse.
Now it was rumoured, better yet taken as a given, that he was gay. And he had to be gay. In the ghetto at eighteen, no girlfriends and played no physical sport. He must be gay. Everyone now more prevalently called him Battyboy-Vance. Once coming from school he was clamoured in his back with a river stone. He didn’t see who threw it but he heard a voice that sounded like a grown man shouted,
“Battyboy-Vance! You must dead! Leave the place battyboy!”
Another stone was pelted into his thigh with a bigger rupture of pain than the one before . He ducked, cover his head and began running. He felt another river-stone shot into his side. He managed to ducked the one that was blasting directly to his head. Ever since that, Vance got scared of going on the road. He hated the road. Hating to go to school. Hating the unfair world. Hating life. The world hated him. He wanted to die.
Vance turned nineteen without having a girlfriend. He spent even more time in Ms. Merl’s garden than ever before. He spoke less and he spent more time organising and doing projects for the HYC. It wasn’t easy but I got the four thousand dollars from Qwan for his medication. Qwan had to let it be a secret from his father because he didn’t approve of the idea. Micheal Douglas would say it was not his responsibility. That I wasn’t his wife, he should not be stupid and give me that large amount of money, but I convinced Qwan to do it anyway but under the quiet. Dr. Reid told Mom Vance would die at twenty-four, only five years to live. After that news, Mom’s blood pressure went through the clouds.
.
Things finally began to look up, at twenty, Vance was taking his medication and it was his best year since he was twelve. His heartbeat didn't fluctuate beyond normal, no mild heart attacks, no dizziness, no complaints about chest pains. A couple of times well, he got out of the house, laced up his black and red football boots and played some Salad-A-Kick with Patrick. He and Beanie were friends again
and his life was getting to what we wanted it to be - normal. Vance was fit and kicking and Mom’s high blood pressure went down. He was skilful with the football and earned his respect on the football field. The other boys always wanted to pick him first on their side. Even before Patrick, who was the top footballer amongst them. Though Patrick was skill with the ball he was even more selfish with it. Patrick began to carry feelings against Vance for that. No one wanted to pick Beanie on their team. No one. Beanie was too slight. And when he ran too hard his knock knees always plunged him into the ground. Poor thing.
.
February, the 13th of this year, when Vance was one month from his twenty-first birthday he laced up his black and red boots and headed out to play some football with Patrick and the other boys. Before they had even shouted for him by the gate, he was ready and waiting. Mom had got used to the fact now that Vance played football every evening. She’d call me almost every evening when Vance went to play football just to say,
“Lee, Vance gone play football today!”
And she’d never get tired of calling me and repeating that to me. She always sounded so happy every single time that she was on the phone telling me. She’d go on and on with much chirp in her voice to say,
“God is on our side. I can’t believe he has stopped wearing his cap! People not calling him those dirty names anymore. It’s like God answered all my prayers Lee. What a blessing.”
It was more than a rainbow, I was seeing a thousand bright colors in Mommy’s voice. I knew very soon he’d have a girlfriend before it even happened because even his swag had turned up. It was just really awesome seeing him getting back to a normal life and having fun. He got a heart attack on the football field that day. He was hospitalized. Induced into a coma for six days. Strung up to a drip for twelve. He lost two week’s memory. But he told us he remembered clearly the big fist he got in his chest and that he would get his revenge on the person who did it. He didn’t want to call the name of who it was. We insisted on him telling us who it was.
“You sure is someone thump you Vance? You sure?” Mom asked.
"Yes, mi sure. After mi not a baboon Mom, mi remember everything good.”
“But remember you lost two week’s memory, so how can you remember that?”
“I don’t know, I just do.” Vance’s voice was slow and weak. He looked away to the ceiling.
“Tell us is who.” Mom face looked as if it was falling apart. She didn’t look as if she really wanted to know who it was for revenge, she was just insisting to know more out of curiosity, just an automation to her questions and insistence. Surely, she looked too filled with sorrow to be angry. I had an idea who it was. He was always number one on the football field and now that Vance was getting more respect than he, he resorted to playing him dirty. I didn’t think he knew this would be the outcome though, because he didn’t know about Vance’s heart problem. So I asked,
“It’s Patrick, don't?”
"No.”
"It’s not Patrick?”
"No.”
Mom touched Vance on his shoulder, tugged him a bit.
“Look on mi, is who then?”
“Everything cool Mom.”
Pinky’s voice sound as if she wanted to retaliate at who it was when she urged him,
“Vance just call the name nuh, please.”
“Just cool nuh, mi have my plans, everything good.”
“Vance is who?” Mom’s loud voice caught the attention of several persons in the ward. Vance looked to Mom, paused in silence for a while staring in her watery eyes and slowly muttered his answer.
“It’s Beanie.” His closest and only friend.
On visits after that, Vance would spend most of the time apologising to Mom for what he was putting her through. Over the six days that Vance was in the coma, Dr. Reid had put Mom on catopril too but it was for her high blood pressure. Dr. Reid suggested that we take Mom to therapy, because the whole ordeal had terribly traumatized her. We could not afford her the therapy. Mom had to do without.
.
It was Thursday afternoon when the four of us, me, Mom, Dad and Pinky gathered around Dr. Reid in a semi-circle. Pinky was at the end of the semi-circle furthest away from the bed avoiding to touch the bed or anything to do with hospital. Pinky always felt nauseous every time she had to step foot into a hospital and scorned everything in there. For some reason she just hated hospital. Dr. Reid stuck a black pen in the top of a clipboard that he had in his hand, took off his colorless latex glove and dumped them into the big square pocket of his white doctor jacket. Dad spoke to Dr. Reid,
“So how things look Doc?”
Everyone was listening and watching out for Dr. Reid’s news. It could be something bad as Vance seemed to be deteriorating more and more every year, but since steady taking of his medication, we had all witnessed his progress and hoped things had either stabilised. Or would get even better over time, maybe add a couple more years to his life, moving it up from twenty-four. Though we all were brimmed with worry, we still had that gut feeling that things were going to get better, it’s something we could feel.
Dr. Reid breathed out, looked down, adjusted his stethoscope around his neck and mouthed.
“Well ...” he used both hands to adjust his stethoscope once more and in a small continuous motion, rocking his head both sides, as if shaking a slow no with his head as he responded, “Vance ain't doing so good.”
“What you mean?”
Mom asked before he could utter another word, her hand instinctively went to holding on to Dr. Reid’s hand as if pleading with him to tell her that it is not so; things weren’t worse. It wasn’t getting any worse; it couldn’t be. Her fingers clung to his wrist, Dr. Reid took a moment to sort out the best way to say what he had to say. Mom tugged on his wrist and Dr. Reid could see the emotion in her eyes, felt how disturbingly tense she was in her grip, she could have a breakdown, right there, right now. She asked again but in a more hollow and terrified voice, as if she was unsure she wanted to hear or not.
“What you mean?”
“Well..” He rubbed the back of his neck then squeezed on it. “How do I put this? Your son has suffered some mild brain damage, there’s a chance he may not be able to perform some daily activities. I’ve a neurological therapist I can recommend you to.”
Where would we get the money? I thought. I went on to ask Dr. Reid,
“How much will that cost?” he directed his eyes to my face.
“I can’t say, you’ll have to call Ms. Winters about that.” He shifted his eyes and steadied them into Mom’s, “If your son suffers a next attack... well ... he won’t make it.” Mom’s eyes got feeble and she was blinking a lot as if she were trying to clear cloudy tears that were forming around the ball of her eyes. My tears were already raining. “But if he gets the ICD implanted, it can reduce the risk of him having another attack, he is really lucky this time, less than five percent of people survive a SCA, I mean a Sudden Cardio Attack, but his heart is growing so fast that, ...” He looked over to Vance’s bed, then at the bag of drip then lowered his voice, “That if he doesn’t get his heart reduced soon, he’s going to .... you know... He won’t make it ... And because his heart has gotten so bad with the heart valve needing to be replaced, the cost for his surgery and ICD, we now looking at a new cost.” I didn’t have any control over the words that jumped out my mouth, they just did
“Jesus! How much more again?”
“Well, an additional nine thousand.”
“Forty thousand that in all?” I was calculating aloud in my head and Dr. Reid nodded his head confirming my calculations.
“How soon is soon?” I asked, while I slowly pulled Mom’s sorrow-filled hand off Dr. Reid’s wrist. My hand supportively hugged around her fingers, curled them into a soft fist wrapped by mine.
“Maybe next six months ... I don't think he will make it for this Christmas without a surgery.”
No one replied, Dr. Reid fidgeted with his steth
oscope, making it long to one end then pulling it back around his neck to make it long at the opposite end. He was looking at Mom when he asked
“Can’t you get the money anywhere at all for the surgery? A loan, anything?”
Mom had a breakdown. Her crying went to a louder cry, then to a bawling then to hollering, then to falling on the floor. Dad tried to pick her up; she pushed him away. I lifted her from the floor, her arm around my shoulder, hugged her to me tight and wrapped my hand tighter around her fist I had formed. Placed it up on my shoulder. Pinky cried on Dad’s shoulder. Mommy’s monstrous noise woke a lot of sleeping patients and drew a lot of the nurses’ eyes over to us. She also woke Vance. He sat up, saw the whole family crying. He ripped out the drip from his veins.Rran out the hospital in his plain blue pyjamas with the needles still plugged into his arms. No shoes on. Ran.
.
The following Sunday I knelt on one knee, held Qwan’s hand and proposed to Qwan on the stairs of Sovereign Cineplex. The busy crowd took time out to watch a woman proposing to a man, on one knee, instead of the other way around.
Vance wasn’t a man of much words but that Sunday he was even more silent than regular. Mom was talking to him but he wasn’t hearing her most of the time. His mind was in a different place. By the fall of evening, Vance got ready and left for HYC or so we all thought. No one knew he sneaked out with the kitchen knife in the waist of his pants. No one knew he was heading for Beanie’s house. No one knew he was pushed over the edge. No one knew if he would stab Beanie to death.. No one knew.
CHAPTER 11
Ice cream for Pinky?
by: Leelia Lexings
I just honestly didn’t expect Vance to say that; his response was,
“Mi don't really want nothing from Qwan enuh. Mi don’t chat up to him, and mi prefer if him avoid mi.”
Was madness a side-effect of cardiomyophia? ’Cause Vance must be losing it. Whose money was buying his medication since he was eighteen? Maybe Vance was tired of fighting and now was embracing death, accepting it, hating life. I tried calculating where was this coming from but I couldn’t finish the thought,
