31
Friday, July 15, 1977
Chemo day. Shit.
First a drive to Las Vegas. Then waiting. Then the obligatory poking and prodding. The checking of the blood to make sure the chemo hasn’t hit me so hard I can’t take more. They’ve got me on some new drugs, so they are watching my blood levels like a hawk.
I’m a bit distracted by my new haircut. It’s a short buzzcut that Mom did with the clippers, the kind of haircut I used to get at the beginning of the summer when I was a kid. The kind of haircut a boy that is getting chemo and expecting his hair to fall out gets. I lean into the distraction, feeling the scorching Vegas sun on my scalp as we walk into Dr. Wright’s office, feeling the suddenly overwhelming sensation of a slight, dry breeze on my head, each hair feeling a much different sensation and my brain letting the unusual signal through.
As the nurse draws blood, I rub my free hand on my head enjoying the fuzzy, tingling feeling. It’s new and it’s not horrible and it’s something that doesn’t begin with a capital C.
The blood draw is kinda useless, though. My mom had drawn blood on Thursday morning and had it evaluated at the hospital. As the nurse is drawing my blood, I ponder this, because it’s not normal.
We’ve done it for years when I’ve been in treatment. Mom brings a little kit home with her, draws my blood on the way to work, and has the results by dinner. I don’t even have to go to the doctor’s office, we do it at the kitchen table. I’ve come to accept it, but it isn’t normal.
It makes me think of Doctor Rogers and Mom, which makes my stomach clench up. Maybe she can do this because she has the head of the ER as a boyfriend. I kinda freak out a bit, all this stuff is still unresolved, still unspoken, still hanging in the air.
“You okay, dear?” Nurse Wendy asks.
I look up from my blood flowing into the vial and smile at her. She’s real nice, like pretty much everyone is at Doctor Wright’s office. Nurse Wendy was around for my last adventure in chemo-land, so I’ve seen her quite a bit. “I’m fine. Just… you know…”
She smiles with her mouth but her eyes are sad. The “you know” is that if my blood levels are good, I will be toddling over to Sunrise Children’s Hospital to do my time in the chemo room. “You know” is more than enough at this point.
“You’re a fighter, Aaron,” she says. “You’re going to kick this.”
I do my best to smile, but I don’t feel it. The terminal nature of our adventure on Earth makes me a little less than optimistic. As Jim Morison said, “None here get out alive.” And this is my third strike with the mighty leukemia.
So yeah, as you can tell I’m on the pessimistic end of the pendulum. I have days like that, and this has been one.
32
Sunday, July 17, 1977
Finally starting to feel human again. I could describe the nausea and puking. I could detail the low energy and the goddamn metallic taste that won’t go away. I could go on and on, but that would be boring and depressing. Suffice it to say that after several chemo days in bed or in the bathroom, I am starting to feel human again. And I’m in a mood.
At breakfast, I’m poking at my oatmeal—plain, don’t think I can tolerate anything fancy—and look at my parents. My dad has his head in the newspaper as usual, the crackle of the pages turning loud in the silence. My mother has dark circles under her eyes and is staring out the patio door into the backyard.
The sky is heavy and it’s raining. This is not some lovely monsoon that sweeps in for an afternoon, comes down hard, and is then gone. This is a big storm that looks like it’s here to stay, bringing a blanket of grey with it.
The patter of the rain, the clack of spoon against bowl, and the crinkling of the newspaper are the only sounds. Everyone lost in their own thoughts, hiding in their own worlds.
Enough. I’ve had enough.
“I can’t take this anymore,” I say.
The newspaper comes down and my dad is staring. My mom straightens and puts her hands in her lap and looks at me too.
“What is it, son?” Dad asks.
“This,” I say, waving my hand around the table. “Us. All the things that have been secret. All the things we don’t talk about. I can’t take it anymore.”
I think my agitation is partially chemo related, but if so, then I’m glad for it. The silence went on too long. The conversation was being avoided by everyone. It was too damn much.
My mom crosses her arms and takes a deep breath, like she’s bracing for impact or something. Dad licks his lips and won’t look at me.
I almost laugh. This is my family. We are courteous and kind, but we stuff a lot down and never talk about it. Hope that if we pretend it’s not there long enough, it will go away.
But it doesn’t, does it?
“Perhaps it would help if you would be more specific,” Dad says.
I blink a few times, take a deep breath, and let it rip. “One,” I say holding up my index finger. “You and Mom and how you’re together just to care for your sick child. Two, your sexual orientation.” I had done some reading since my dad revealed his preference for males and hope that I said that right. “Three, I can see ghosts and Mom believes me for reasons unstated. Four, I’m on my third occurrence of Cancer, and we know how the odds go. Five, I laid everything out about Lionel and wanting to help him and you shut me down with one word and we haven’t discussed it since.” I pause and take a deep breath, all the fingers on my right hand pointing skyward. Was there more? If so, I couldn’t think of any of it.
The rattling of the rain on the roof is now the only sound. It’s not enough. Mom swallows hard and Dad is now the one staring out into the backyard.
“It’s Sunday,” I say quietly. “I would appreciate it if we could talk about some of this.”
I believe that the realization of my transient nature has given me courage. Courage to ask Helena out. Courage to “start the conversation” with my parents. Courage to actually hear what they have to say.
In some ways it’s a shame. I wish I had had the courage when I was well. But as in all things in life, even Cancer has its gifts. The gift of courage and a sense of urgency.
“Let’s start with the ‘no,’“ Dad begins. “That one is easy. I said no because the idea of you trying to track down a murderer is unacceptable because of its inherent dangerous nature. Even if you were healthy, I would have said no. The other night I didn’t elaborate because I thought the danger part of it obvious and your mother needed me.”
We have relocated to the living room. I am once again in that somewhat uncomfortable rocker across from my parents sitting on the floral-print couch.
I take a deep breath, considering my words, trying to meet my dad’s logical tone. “We had a plan,” I say. “I thought I explained it. We were going to interview his closest friends. That’s it. No accusations, just some simple questions in a public place. Lionel would be along and watching, maybe able to see something we couldn’t.”
My mom’s eyes widen just a touch. “Is… is he here?” she asks, looking around.
I do my closed and covered eye routine and look around. I see the now familiar flash of light out of my peripheral vision. “Yes he is. I think he’s with me most of the time now.”
My father clears his throat, steering things back to the original question. “I did hear your plan, son. And while I appreciate the care, a person clever enough to commit a murder and get away with it could see through your ruse.”
I have a huge lump in my throat remembering how easily Vincent Long had seen through our “ruse.”
“But don’t we have an obligation as humans to reduce the suffering of others when we can?” I ask Dad.
“Of course we do,” Dad says. “But we have to consider the potential cost to ourselves as well as the benefit to the other party.”
I open my mouth up to speak and Dad holds his hand up, stopping me. I lean back in the rocking chair, the wooden dowels pressing uncomfortably into my back.
&nbs
p; “The potential cost to you,” he continues, “of finding a murderer is too high. You must agree.”
Dad was in “logic” mode. I had to meet him there. Mom was just watching us, her head moving back and forth like someone watching tennis.
“I think you’ve underestimated the benefit,” I say. “Not only can we relieve Lionel’s suffering, we can potentially save lives.”
“Lives?” Dad asks.
“Yes. This person, this murderer, is probably still here in Cedar City. They killed once, they might kill again. We can bring peace to Lionel and maybe save a life or lives.”
Dad pauses, his eyes distant, clearly thinking, and then a small smile finds his lips. “You’ve made some good points,” he says. “And I’m proud of how clear and articulate you are. But the answer is still ‘no.’ We cannot have you putting yourself in harm’s way, especially now.”
I sigh. I am determined to do this thing, to help Lionel. I’m disappointed because I will have to continue lying to my parents. It’s my life, shouldn’t I be able to decide what risks to take? I know I’m a minor and all, but my circumstances are not exactly normal.
I’m about to launch into another topic when nausea hits me hard. Like a big wave smacking you down, it crashes on me and sends me metaphorically tumbling. Then it sends me literally running to the bathroom where my meager breakfast comes back up.
My mom tends to me with what appears to be a practiced ease. She’s a nurse and this is round number three, so she knows what to do. But I know it’s not easy for her, she looks tired all the time now that I’m back in treatments.
As I squat on the tiled bathroom floor panting and sweating a bit, the acid from my stomach having wreaked havoc on the back of my throat, I ponder my mother.
I have established that I don’t really understand her. But I do know that she worries. I do know my illness is sometimes harder for her than it is for me.
So, I have a realization while sitting there, my mother in the doorway in case I need something. When it comes to Lionel and his murder, it’s better this way. Better that it be done covertly and without my parents’ consent or knowledge.
My disease asks enough of her. It’s not reasonable to ask her to endorse her ill son looking for a murderer.
I smile briefly, proud of my revelation. But it only lasts a moment and then I’m puking my guts out again.
I like Pastor West. I don’t agree with him theologically, but I like him. He makes a visit to our house around 4 p.m.
I’ve spent most of the day in my room after the puke-a-thon and have recently relocated to the living room couch. I’m thumbing through the collection of Mark Twain short stories. The one Dad had Lionel look at when I was proving I could see him. But I’m not getting much reading done. I feel like I’m running a bit of a fever—it was only half a degree when my mom checked—and I feel all fluey and gross.
On days like this, hydration is the name of the game. That and staying sane. We haven’t had any more serious conversations. Everyone is in “take care of Aaron” mode, including me.
“How are you doing, Aaron?” Pastor West asks after he lowers his bulk into the rocking chair. I’m sprawled on the couch with flannel pajamas on and a quilt over my legs—I’ve also had the chills on and off all day.
He had spoken quietly to my parents for a few minutes before coming in to talk to me. I ponder what to answer and decide to go with the truth. “Terrible,” I say, but I do add a smile.
He gets up and looks at the rocker and then at me. “Do you mind if I slide this a bit closer?” The rocker is on the other side of the room from the couch under the big picture window.
I shrug and he relocates himself.
“Are we about to have a theological discussion?” I ask. I am curious about his need for closeness, which I suspect is about intimacy.
He smiles and brushes at his thinning brown hair. “If you would like, but that was not the main reason for my visit.”
I take a sip of my chamomile tea.
“I just wanted to tell you that I’ve found a home for your swing set.” He smiles and nods towards the backyard. “Joe and Ann Edwards, they run the Sunrise Bakery, not far from your bookstore. Perhaps you know them.”
I’m suddenly hot and I throw the quilt off and sit up. Joe and Ann Edwards. Two of Lionel’s close friends. My heart is thumping hard and the pastor’s sweet-smelling cologne is making me feel nauseous again. I swallow hard, trying to force the nausea down. I don’t want to have to run to the toilet and miss this.
“I… I didn’t know they had kids,” I say.
“They didn’t,” he says. “It’s quite tragic.” He leans back in the rocker, his eyes distant for a moment. “Ann’s sister, Ellen, recently died in a head-on collision that also killed her husband. They left behind a child, Silvia. She’s six and will be coming to live with the Edwards soon.”
I belch loudly and excuse myself. I don’t feel well at all but it’s clear this is important. “When did this happen?”
Pastor West takes a deep breath and continues. “This happened about nine months ago. Silvia went to live with her other aunt—Ann’s other sister Kim—up in Salt Lake City. But that hasn’t worked out very well. Kim is… well… she’s got some problems, not exactly the stablest person in the world. I think it was obvious to Ann early on that they would need to take the child, but it’s taken them some time to work things out. What with the bakery and all.”
Nine months ago was when all this happened. I struggled to remember how long ago Lionel died… Did I even know? Could this be related?
Another wave of nausea hits, I really can’t take his cologne, I think it’s Aqua Velva. I cover my mouth, mumble an “Excuse me,” and run to the downstairs bathroom and slam the door behind me. I throw open the seat and kneel in front of the toilet.
I have the dry heaves, but nothing comes out. This is worse than actually puking. It doesn’t last long, though.
When I get out of the bathroom, Pastor West is gone and the rocking chair is back in its place. I go back to the couch but can’t read and can’t rest either. I need to talk to Lionel. I need it to be dark.
Later in the afternoon, I try calling Helena, but she’s not home. It’s family day for her, so I didn’t really expect to reach her, I just want to talk to someone about this.
I opt out of dinner, Mom brings me some broth in my room, which I do manage to get down, and I wait for darkness. Usually I love the long days of summer, but I want it to be dark. Lionel and I need to have a conversation.
I don’t feel good, but I have this nervous energy, so I slowly clean my room a bit more while I wait. Comics in their correct place, the collectables in little plastic sleeves. Check. All my books properly dusted and protected from the dreaded dust mites, especially the collectables (I’ve got a signed first edition of Jonathan Livingston Seagull). Check. My wooden desk all straightened up. Check. The blue carpet is a bit dirty, but I don’t get the vacuum, I don’t think the folks will be too happy with me cleaning right now after the pukey day I’ve had.
And then it gets dark. Finally. But I don’t pull out my Ouija papers. My parents are still awake and I don’t want any questions. I do, though, pile up the pillows on my bed so I can lean comfortably against them, get out my diary and start doing yes/no questions with Lionel. I whisper real quietly and find that he can hear me just fine.
“How long ago did you die?” I whisper.
He holds up eight fingers and my heart begins pounding again.
“Eight months ago?”
He nods.
“Did you know about Silvia and Ann’s sister’s death?”
He nods, a sad look on his face. Of course he knew, they were close.
“How did Ann take it?”
He scrunches his face and see-saws his palms back and forth.
“So not good?”
Lionel shakes his head.
I pause, considering. I really need the Ouija papers so we can have a real conversatio
n, but I just can’t risk it. I know in my gut that this is related to his murder, but I don’t know how. I also need to talk to the Edwards, but I am so seriously grounded, and after today’s conversation about solving murders, I know they will be keeping a closer eye on me.
“I think they are involved,” I whisper. “The Edwards, I mean.”
His eyes widen and he shakes his head rapidly, his bottom lip sticking out a touch. He doesn’t agree, but the idea obviously makes him uncomfortable.
His mouth opens to speak, and then I think he remembers I can’t hear him and he closes it. He looks around the room, his eyes wide like a caged animal. He then opens his mouth to speak again, but closes it, looking so frustrated. He waves at me and then disappears.
I fall asleep on top of my fluffy royal blue comforter and wake up when it’s close to midnight and find a blanket has been put on top of me. My parents must have checked on me, I’m betting on my mom. I use the bathroom and am wholly grateful it’s for a normal use of the commode. After I get out, I listen carefully—all is quite in the house.
I walk quietly downstairs, grab the phone and take it into the pantry, closing the door behind me. It smells like flour and tea, which my stomach doesn’t rebel at. The phone has lit numbers so it’s easy to dial Helena.
“Hello,” she says, picking up on the third ring.
“It’s me,” I whisper.
“Oh. Hi ‘me.’ What’s up?”
“It’s the Edwards… At least I think it is. There is something there, I just know it. We have to go talk to them. We have to.” My voice is rushing out, my whisper getting a bit loud. I don’t want to wake the folks up.
“Okay, okay. Slow down there, cowboy. You’re not making any sense.”
I take a deep breath and tell her of my conversation with Pastor West. Of how Lionel died a month after Ann’s niece was orphaned. Of how uncomfortable Lionel got when I brought up the possibility of their involvement.
A Boy a Girl and a Ghost Page 22