A Boy a Girl and a Ghost

by Robert J. McCarter

  There’s silence between us for three breaths, thick and heavy. I can hear the ticking of the little wooden clock on the mantle, it’s surprisingly clear. I think we’re in shock. I can’t believe I said what I said, and I don’t think they can either.

  That pretending to be my dad got me talking, but I don’t know if it was for the best.

  And then all of the sudden everything breaks. My mother is yelling, but it’s not anger, it’s her pain that I hear as she tells me she loves me, that it’s complicated, and that I don’t understand. I’m crying, great wracking sobs gushing out of me for the family I thought I had but don’t. My father is talking rapidly, I don’t know exactly what he’s saying but it’s along the lines that this is not my mother’s fault.

  And then it’s silent again.

  We are all such a mess. A trauma, like my family has just experienced, is kind of like a serious physical injury. I took a pretty good spill on my bike when I was ten, before the big-C came visiting. Billy and I had found a nice hill near his home and had set up a ramp at the bottom of it and were jumping our bikes off it.

  It’s on this little dirt road behind his development. Over and over we go tearing down the hill and fling ourselves and our bikes over that ramp and into the air. When you hit the end of the ramp, you’ve got to pull up hard on the handlebars, so you come down on your back wheel.

  On that last jump, I pulled up extra hard, but my right hand slipped a little bit and the force from my left hand jerked my front wheel hard and to the left. I came down on my back wheel just fine, but when my front wheel connected, it was perpendicular to my back wheel. I went flying over the handlebars and tumbled onto the dirt, my bike rolling over me.

  I lay there stunned, looking up at that crystal-clear blue sky we get around here so often. My breath was coming in ragged gasps and my heart pounding in my ears was nearly deafening.

  I heard Billy shout as he ran toward me calling my name and saying “shit” over and over again.

  As I lay there, I was weirdly calm. I wanted to jump right up and shake it off, show Billy I’m okay, but somehow I didn’t have the will.

  As it turned out, I had some scrapes and bruises, but nothing was broken. When Billy got me standing, I could hardly walk. I couldn’t pretend it didn’t happen and was still limping by the time I walked my bike home and couldn’t hide it from my parents.

  Sitting in the silence, in the living room with my parents, I remember that incident. Our family was in that place where I was on that day, lying on my back, staring at the sky, unsure of how badly I was hurt.

  It is clear that my family is scraped and bruised. That we will be “limping” for a while. That this is too much to walk off and hide.

  But is anything broken?

  As the silence lengthens, I know that this wreck is worse than the one I did on my bike. That this time something is broken. That my family will never be the same.

  “Helena?” I ask quietly. I’m in the pantry sitting on a five-gallon bucket filled with flour—my mom likes to bake—having just called Helena’s number. I’m so glad she wrote it on my hand, there is no way I would have remembered it today and probably didn’t have enough of a brain to think to look in the phone book.

  “Hey, Wade,” she says. “How bad was it?”

  “Bad.”

  “You wanna tell me about it?” Her voice is its husky self, but it’s much more serious than usual. It’s like she’s a different person now that the proverbial shit has hit the fan. I am coming to appreciate the serious Helena.

  “I’m grounded, like, forever, and we didn’t really talk about ‘it.’“

  She sighs. “That’s not good. Things can’t get better until you do. What did you talk about?”

  I shrug. “My irresponsibility… Actually, there was a lot of horribly awkward silences. And some crying. We all tried to get the conversation started, but it never happened.”

  She’s silent, I can hear her chewing on her gum on the other end. It’s funny, but I almost smell her cigarette and gum breath.

  “I think they’re only together because of me,” I say.

  “And let me guess? You feel guilty about that.”

  “Yeah, Helena. I do.”

  “Well don’t,” she says, a hard edge to her voice. “They’re the adults. They made this choice. And they made it because they love you.”

  “Yeah… I get that, I do. But it feels…” I trail off, not knowing what to say.

  “Like shit, right? It feels like shit, like you are causing your parents pain and that’s the last thing you want to do.”

  “Umm… Yeah,” I say. “How… how did you know?”

  She laughs, it’s thick and deep and lightens my mood just a touch. “Human condition, kid. Human condition. People like you start with guilt, blame yourself.”

  “You… How do you know all this?”

  “Self-defense,” she says quietly. “My mom’s nuts. I had to learn about what makes us tick to survive. That and quite a few years with a therapist.”

  I want to say something. I know she’s just shared something really intimate. But I can’t get any words out.

  She laughs, this time it’s too high and a bit shrill. “You know, your mom coming at you with a knife does warrant a little talk therapy. You pick up things. Some people point the blame inwards, some outwards. You’re clearly the former.”

  “I… I’m sorry, so sorry.”

  “Old news, Wade. And tonight’s about you. So what else? You haven’t told me all of it yet.”

  I take a deep breath. She’s right. “My mother left. She says she’ll be back in the morning.”

  There’s silence on the other end of the phone. It’s pretty dark here in the pantry, and that is comforting to me, but her silence is making me nervous.

  “After she left,” I continue, “I asked my dad if she’s going to go be with Doctor Rogers. He just nodded and went and poured himself some scotch. He hardly ever drinks and this drink went down fast. But…” I trail off. It’s all I can get out.

  “I’m sorry, Wade. But this might be a good thing. That they don’t have to hide now might be a good thing.”

  “Oh, but they are still hiding something,” I say, my voice too high.

  “What?”

  “My mother, when she left, said something to my father. She said, ‘This is not my fault. I didn’t start this. You explain it to him.’“

  “And did he?” she asks. “Did he explain it?”

  “No. I asked him what she meant as he was nursing his drink, staring out the front window to the street Mom had just driven our car away on. He just said I had had enough for one day.”

  Helena is silent for a while before saying, “You can handle this. I’ll be here if you need me.”

  When she says that, the tears start flowing again. I thank her, make an excuse, and get off the phone. I don’t want her to hear me cry. She’s seen enough out of me for one day.

  And maybe my dad was right. I have had enough for one day, but the day isn’t through with me yet.

  When I get to my room, I’m shocked to see Lionel standing there. He’s got a deep frown on his face that looks even deeper because of his thick, old-fashioned mustache.

  I sigh. “What is it?” I whisper.

  He goes over to my desk and points at the drawer I keep the Ouija papers in. I sigh again and pull them out and get my diary and start recording his conversation.

  “I AM SORRY” he points out on the Ouija papers.

  “You saw all that?” I write, thinking he’s referring to my train-wreck of a day.

  “ENOUGH.”

  “But, I didn’t see you.”

  “I DIDN’T WANT YOU TO.”

  I’m taken aback by that. I can’t see him if he doesn’t want me to? Then what about all those flashes I see in the graveyard. Is the reason I don’t see more because they don’t want me too?

  And then my mind slips back to the last conversation I had with Lionel. After he had t
old me the names of his friends and I asked him why I could see him.

  I write in my diary for a bit, it takes some time to get it out. “Last time you were here you lied to me. You said my illness wasn’t why I could see you. I saw your face. You believe that is the reason.”

  “SORRY.”

  I write, “I need to know the truth. Is my leukemia coming back?”

  I don’t have any idea where this courage is coming from to ask this question. My life is in such a shambles now, why in the world would I ask a question like that? But I need to know. It’s something primal in me. If this fight against Cancer is going to start again, I want to know as soon as possible, so I can…

  Wow. So I can… what? What would I do if I knew it was coming back? How would I act? How would it change my life? If it does come back, that would be my “third strike.” Each reoccurrence gets tougher to deal with, your odds of survival go down. I don’t know if the third time means “out,” but the mere thought of it scares the hell out of me.

  But I can see freaking ghosts! That changes everything, doesn’t it?

  Lionel is quiet as all these thoughts pass through my mind. He’s watching me closely, seeing the many emotions on my face. He’s got his hands clasped in front of him, as if he is holding himself back from pointing at the Ouija paper and has a deadly serious look on his slim face.

  I look at him and nod for him to continue.

  “IT IS COMPLICATED,” he points.

  “So take your time. Tell me. Please.”

  He pauses again, his lips pursed. He takes what looks like a deep breath and nods.

  “I WILL TELL YOU IF YOU PROMISE TO HELP ME TO FIND MY KILLER.”

  My stomach suddenly feels heavy. It’s clear from that answer that I’m not going to like what he has to say. I feel tears stinging my eyes yet again. How much of this can anyone take?

  “I promise,” I write in my diary and hold it up for him. “I will do whatever I can.”

  He nods and starts pointing at the Ouija papers. “WE SENSE SOMETHING ABOUT YOU THAT IS DIFFERENT. THAT YOU CAN SEE US IS EVIDENCE OF THAT. AND WE CAN ALSO SENSE THINGS HAPPENING IN YOUR BODY.”

  He pauses and points at me. First my thighs and then my chest. That would be the bone marrow in my thighs and sternum, where leukemia would definitely take hold.

  “IT’S NOT MUCH RIGHT NOW. WE SENSE TINY DARK PLACES IN THERE. I WOULD GUESS IT IS THE CANCER TRYING TO COME BACK.”

  I’m staring at him blinking, yet more tears flowing. Part of me is fascinated that he can sense these things. I’m also distracted by his use of “WE.” I only see him clearly, is he referring to other ghosts? I close my eyes tight and swivel my head around, but don’t catch any flashes of light.

  But it’s all too much. This day is way, way too much.

  “Thank you for telling me the truth,” I write. “I would like to be alone now.”

  I watch as Lionel flies out my window. I think of going back downstairs and calling Helena. But I don’t think this is something I can speak of yet.

  When I turn off the one small light I had on to illuminate the Ouija papers and my diary, the darkness and the glow-in-the dark stars on my ceiling aren’t as comforting as usual. I crawl into bed feeling very, very small, and much to my surprise, quickly fall asleep.

  Part 4

  A Family and Secrets

  21

  Friday, July 1, 1977

  When I wake up, for one single breath, I’m not quite with it and I don’t remember all that has just happened. I just stare at my sloped ceiling, at the star stickers there. In the morning light, they are inert, but I still like them.

  And then I remember. My mom and Doctor Rogers. My hiding from my family. Helena and our trip to see her mother. The dark spots the ghosts see in my body that may be my cancer “trying to come back.” The secret my father has yet to tell me.

  It’s like a tsunami of emotions crashing on me. I am feeling so much, and all at once, that it’s just a jumbled mess.

  My breathing is shallow and my heart is thumping in my chest. I try to suck in air, but I can’t get much in. I feel like I can’t breathe, and I panic.

  I bolt up in bed and a strangled cry escapes me. It’s not much, but my father must have heard me, because he is soon there, sitting on my bed, holding me.

  “It’s okay, son. It’s okay,” he says as he rocks me gently.

  “I… Can’t… Breathe…” I gasp out.

  He holds me away from him, his eyes locking onto mine. “You’re having a panic attack. Just breathe slow. You’re okay.”

  Except I don’t feel okay. I start to struggle, to try to get out of his grip, but he holds me tightly. I’m eyeing the door. I want to escape.

  “Aaron! Look at me.”

  I look at my father and really see him. He looks exhausted, with heavy bags under his eyes. He hasn’t shaved and he doesn’t look like his normal calm, collected self.

  “Stop fighting,” he says. “Take slow breaths. I’m right here. You’re okay.”

  My heart is pounding so hard and the adrenaline flowing through my veins makes me want to bolt, but I do what he says. I focus on his grey eyes and ever so slowly start to calm down. He’s breathing in this real exaggerated way, slow deep breaths. I try to copy him, and things start to work better. I start to feel like I can breathe again.

  My father cooks pancakes for breakfast and my mother is not home yet. It’s weird, having just the two of us at breakfast. A lot of nurses work weird shifts, but my mother has—since I first got sick—managed more normal shifts so she could be with us for breakfast and dinner.

  I miss her. Badly. It just doesn’t feel right.

  “How are you feeling?” Dad asks as he puts a perfectly cooked pancake on my plate.

  I pour the syrup on, smelling the sugary sweetness, and cut a piece with my fork. “I’m okay,” I say. It feels like a lie, but really, I guess I am okay. I’m alive. I can breathe. No present emergency. Doesn’t that qualify as okay?

  I scratch my leg where Lionel pointed last night. Where one of the dark spots is they “sensed.” It’s a silly gesture. It’s not my muscles that are involved if there’s Cancer, it’s the bone marrow. But I feel funny about my leg, as if it’s plotting against me or something.

  Breakfast is quiet. Just the sound of forks on the plates and the smell of Dad’s coffee.

  “Where’s Mom?” I finally ask as I’m clearing the table and Dad’s starting on the dishes.

  “She called while you were in the shower. She went in early. We’ll see her tonight.”

  “I want to go see her,” I say. “Now.”

  He turns, the faucet running, soap covering his hands. His brow is furrowed and he doesn’t speak but stares at me, his face a question.

  “I want to make sure that the thing this morning was just a panic attack,” I say. It’s a lie, but I can’t speak my fear yet.

  He nods and goes back to his dishes. He washes a few more and then says, “Okay. Go get ready.”

  He doesn’t think it was anything but a panic attack. And I really don’t either. I’ve had a few over the years brought on by either the diagnosis or treatments I’ve been through. It has been a few years, and this morning I forgot what they were like in my… well… panic.

  He probably thinks I just want to see my mother, and I do. But I am worried about the dark spots Lionel talked about. If I can just figure out a way to get them to take me seriously about it without thinking I’m crazy.

  I hate the smell of hospitals—all medical facilities, really. That antiseptic tang just puts my nerves on edge. Too many bad memories. Too much pain. And way too much time spent in them.

  My dad walks me in through the ER entrance and leaves me in the waiting room and goes back to find my mother. He’s gone long enough for me to get nervous, to worry that they are having a long conversation about me. But, it could easily be that she’s just busy.

  When she comes out, she’s dressed in pale blue scrubs and walking fas
t, her jaw set, her eyes sharp. I know that look. I’ve seen it a thousand times before. It’s the mother ready to protect her ill child. My dad is a few paces behind her, his hands shoved into his brown slacks.

  “How are you feeling, Aaron?” she says as she squats down in front of me.

  I grab her and hold her tight. “I’m real sorry about yesterday,” I whisper. I mean it this time. The anger is gone and I’m just afraid now.

  She hugs me back and when we part I see the tears welled up in her blue eyes. “Tell me what’s going on.” When it comes to me and my medical “issues,” she has a one-track mind.

  “Couldn’t breathe this morning. I… Well… Dad thinks it was a panic attack. Probably was… but…”

  “But what, dear?”

  My heart is beating loud again and my mouth is suddenly dry. I’ve been healthy these last seven months. I’ve been good. I don’t want to utter the C-word. I don’t want to cause a panic. But, I’ve got to know, and I’ve got to utter my fear to get the test done.

  I take a deep breath and sit up straight. “I’m afraid that it’s coming back.”

  My mother’s eyes widen. “Any symptoms?” she asks. “Fatigue, strange bruising, fever?” She puts the back of her hand to my forehead.

  “No. I just… It’s just a feeling.”

  She bites her lip and continues to look me over. She’s feeling the lymph nodes in my neck, searching my arms for tiny pinpoint bruises called petechiae, but she doesn’t find anything.

  She stands and takes a deep breath, and for the first time in a while I notice my father. He’s standing a pace behind her with his arms crossed, a deep frown on his face. Is he worried I have cancer or that I’m pulling something to get the attention away from what I did yesterday? I can’t tell.