The Year of the Buttered Cat

by Susan Haas

  In the lobby, a woman strode toward me, her arms spread wide, “Buttercup!”

  I shrieked.

  Celeste led us back through the convention area and into the banquet hall. She showed Dad and the others to the front row, then took me and Mom up a lift behind the stage.

  “The awards aren’t given until the end. When it’s time, I’ll go on first and introduce you, then you two can come out. Are you nervous?”

  Tongue out.

  “I’ll tell you a secret. A sign-language interpreter will be on stage translating the program. Watch her instead of thinking about your speech.”

  By the time the assembly started, nearly every seat was filled. When my nerves cranked up, I watched the interpreter turn spoken words into hand gestures. She reminded me of Rumpelstiltskin, weaving straw into gold.

  Finally, it was our turn. I don’t remember Celeste’s speech word for word, but it was basically what Hannah said at our tea party, about how she had seen me work through so many obstacles.

  As Mom rolled me onstage, I scanned the crowd for familiar faces, but the bright lights made it hard to see anything. I finally was able to make out the front row. My family. They were all sitting up straight on the edges of their seats, watching me. Even Tucker was right side up. Dad smiled big and Hannah gave me a little wave.

  Celeste presented me with a trophy, then took it back so Mom could hold Haha. Thankfully, the device found my eyes in like two seconds. My words filled the banquet hall:

  When Celeste told me I was getting this award I was surprised, and I wondered why. I knew it wasn’t because I’m good at assistive technology. I’m not.

  I also knew it wasn’t because I like assistive technology. I don’t. I think the reason they gave me this is because of what assistive technology means to me.

  Assistive Technology means people care about me.

  My trips to the Center are like this: Celeste says she has another device to try. She pushes me up to a table, and I can’t make it work. I cry. She says it’s okay and makes me laugh. Then she tells me she’ll go back and find something else. We both know we’ve been working on this forever, but she always comes back. And when she does, I know she cares.

  At home, my family and friends try to make using my device into a game so I can forget how much work it is, and I know they care.

  When Mom or Hannah holds me so I can spell, and it takes forever but they still do it, I know they care.

  Every piece of assistive technology tells me someone thought about me and people like me and that they cared. They know my life and my voice matters.

  Someday, I’ll do things the regular way and won’t need assistive technology, but until then, it’s nice to know that there are people who care, because it makes all the difference.

  Thank you.

  It was awesome to have Haha read my speech because it meant I got to experience it with the audience. I saw the smiles and nods and knew today, my tiny, plain house was just right. I wanted to do this again, to watch people react to what Lexi Haas, author, had to say.

  When it finished, I activated Kasey’s sound file, and the voice of Donkey from Shrek filled the auditorium:

  “I just know before this is over, I’m gonna need a whole lot of serious therapy.”

  The crowd laughed and clapped as Mom wheeled me across the stage. On the way off, I goosed the translator.

  Celeste was now standing at the curtain with my trophy. She lifted an eyebrow but then smiled. We stared at each other for a second, and in that moment, I knew I had discovered my fourth gift.

  Persistence. My fourth gift is persistence.

  The fourth of my five gifts. I was nearly there.

  There was no time to let that sink in. Instead, I soaked up the applause. There would be months, probably years, before the cheering was for me again. It was okay, though, because I knew if cheers were what I wanted, I had the determination, the stubbornness, the persistence to figure out how to get them.

  When we reached the side of the stage, Mom turned my wheelchair so I could have a good view of my audience.

  I scanned the crowd, side to side, up and down, until … There, by the back wall. The rest of the audience had settled, but a woman and two girls—one tiny and blonde, the other tall and dark-haired—stood clapping and cheering. I squealed.

  When the ceremony was over, my family was waiting in the lobby. Everyone ran over to hug me.

  “Great job, Lexi!” Hannah said.

  The others chimed in with, “Yeah, great job!” and, “Awesome speech!” and I knew they meant it.

  Then, out of nowhere, Anna and Elle were practically on top of me, jumping up and down.

  “Lexi that was amazing!”

  “Ouch! You’re on my foot! I wanna say hi too. Move over or I’m telling!”

  I laughed hard and threw my arms out. I had missed them so much.

  “How in the world did you find out about this?” Mom asked.

  “We got an invitation in the mail,” Ms. Trejo said. “Didn’t you send that?”

  “It was from Lexi,” Kasey said. “She wrote it!”

  Everyone looked at me. I smiled.

  Ms. Trejo cleared her throat. “Anna, Elle, do you want to tell Lexi why you haven’t seen her this summer?”

  “It was her fault,” Elle said. “Anna told. I told her not to but—”

  “I didn’t mean to,” Anna said. “It slipped out.”

  Mom looked confused.

  Ms. Trejo shook her head. “So, it turns out that the girls were listening to Harry Potter books in Lexi’s room.”

  “Oh! So that’s what you three were up to. Those are Lexi’s favorites,” Mom said.

  Mrs. Trejo leaned in. “They weren’t supposed to. Dean and I had told them they weren’t allowed to read them yet.”

  Mom bit her lip.

  I looked away, too ashamed to meet Ms. Trejo’s eyes. This rule was obviously important to them. To their family and to the way they operated as a unit. And I had ignored it. I had bypassed it without a second thought. For weeks, I had been so angry because my friends had not bothered to understand me. I felt like such a hypocrite.

  “We weren’t reading; we were listening,” Elle interrupted. “And it woulda been fine if Anna had kept her big mouth shut.”

  Anna looked at her feet.

  “They’re great stories,” Ms. Trejo continued. “And the first ones are fine, but we’re just a little concerned about how dark the later books get. We wanted them to be a little older.”

  Mom put a hand on Ms. Trejo’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Their punishment was that they weren’t allowed to get together with Lexi for a month,” Ms. Trejo continued. “I should have called you to talk about it, but you know how life gets.”

  Mom nodded and smiled.

  Despite my lingering shame, I squealed and threw out my arms. Nothing in the world felt better than this. Not hearing my speech. Not soaking in the applause. Not even discovering my fourth gift. Nothing felt as good as knowing that all this time, my friends had wanted to be with me.

  Ms. Trejo shrugged. “I thought about calling you to come have dinner with the group after Bible study some time, but I know that’s not really your thing. Anyway, a month turned into two, and the next thing I knew we got Lexi’s invitation in the mail. There was no way we could miss this!”

  We stayed in the lobby, laughing and chatting. It didn’t matter one nickel that I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t have gotten a word in between those two.

  Finally, Tucker grabbed my trophy, held it to his chest, and said, “I’d like to thank the Academy!”

  Kasey play-wrestled it from him and told him if he wanted his own trophy, he had to earn it.

  Dad sighed. “We should probably leave before we’re asked to leave.”

  Anna and Elle hugged me. Ms. Trejo and Mom made plans for us to get together—after I had served my sentence for what Dad called, “aiding and abetting a crime.”

&nb
sp; That night, I lay in bed thinking about the day. It had definitely been another bam! day. A great one. I now knew my fourth gift! Sure, my deadline was closing in, but there was still time. And, best of all, Anna and Elle were back! I squeezed my imaginary rock and the familiar rough edges pressed into my palm. Everything was gonna be okay.

  On the other side of my wall, Dad’s guitar was strumming “Summertime.” I sang along in my head.

  “I finally made the call to Richmond this afternoon,” Mom said, cutting in. She took a deep breath, so deep I could hear it through the wall. “But not because of what was stolen. I made it because of what was left.”

  The last chord uncurled and hung in the air, fresh and sweet like a new leaf.

  When it had finally settled, Dad said, softly, “I guess we had the same thought watching her today. There’s so much going on in her head, but the challenges she’ll face to be heard and understood …”

  His voice drifted off for a minute then returned, stronger. “We owe her this. It’s time to see if we can do devious.”

  Their voices faded. My head spun with the words. It’s time to see if we can do devious.

  That was it. My deadline was here. Maybe I didn’t have all my gifts yet, but there was one thing I knew for sure. I was the sort of girl who made things happen. I was Lexi Haas, author. There would be no more waiting for wind to catch my sails. It was time to take out the oars and row. I had to use my words to uncover their devious scheme.

  I spent a restless night planning how to confront Mom.

  CHAPTER 40

  Age 13, 7 hours until surgery

  After all the excitement of the evening, we’re finally settled in our room. Gus ate his dinner in twelve seconds flat—we timed it—and is now stretched out on my bed with his legs in the air.

  Dad says, “You look a little tense, Gus. Can I get anything to help you relax?”

  Gus lolls his head to the side. He smiles and thumps his tail like he wants to say, “Sure! A soda would be awesome. Extra ice and a straw, please.”

  I’ve already written to Anna and Elle, and FaceTimed with Kali, Kasey, and Hannah. Now, Dad is calling Tucker.

  He holds his phone so I can see.

  “Whadup?” Tucker says. He leans in so I get a super close up of his nose, and I laugh.

  “We’re getting ready for bed,” Dad says. “Tomorrow will be a long day.”

  “Are you ready, Lex?”

  Tongue out.

  “No words tonight?”

  Tongue out.

  “It’s been a long day,” Mom says. She tells him about the fire alarm, the MRI, and dancing with Steve.

  “We’ve also been fielding messages from concerned Facebook friends all day,” Dad adds.

  “What kinds of messages?”

  Dad pulls out his phone and reads them out loud.

  Tucker smiles. “Whadaya think, Lex? Did the messages help?”

  “Help? How could messages about infections and pain help someone who’s about to have surgery?” Mom asks.

  Tucker shrugs. “This is Lexi. She’s gotta—you know—think through stuff. Even if it’s hard stuff.”

  For a long second, Tucker and I lock eyes.

  “Oh!” Mom says, as if she is just remembering to add some other minor detail. “She also got to message with the Trejo girls. It was good to hear from real friends.”

  Yes, real friends. The best.

  “That’s cool. Well, good luck tomorrow, kiddo. I’ll be there in ten days so get ready. You didn’t see Captain America, did you?”

  I try to not smile. Tucker points a finger.

  “You did!”

  Guilty.

  “You promised to wait! Well, you’re just gonna have to sit through it again.”

  We say goodnight. Mom lifts me into bed. I close my eyes, and Dad reads me more good luck messages, but I’m thinking about what Tucker said. Did the messages help?

  I didn’t want to admit it but yeah, they kinda had. They reminded me of the crazy amount of preparation we’ve done. Last surgery, we fumbled through blindly. I was first—the very first—and that meant there was no one who could tell us what to expect. This time, we’re ready.

  If someone had straight-up told me the things those messages made me think about, I would have been ticked. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not great at taking advice. I don’t want other people to tell me about my gifts, or to decide if I should have an operation that can at best can offer “possibly.”

  Of course, I’d never tell Tucker or he’d get a big head, but I’m glad he understands this about me. Maybe my Facebook friends understand too.

  Right now, I have to put everything out of my head. It suddenly feels like morning is stalking me.

  Deep breath in. My story. Breath out.

  CHAPTER 41

  Age 6, The Year of the Buttered Cat

  The next morning, I tried to tell Mom I wanted to write, but she was distracted on her computer for hours. I simmered and waited. Kali fed me breakfast and lunch. I wondered if Mom was avoiding me or if she was researching more of her devious plan.

  Late afternoon, Mom finally asked me what I’d like to do. I pointed to my cookie sheet.

  Mom sighed. “I don’t know, Lexi, I’ve been sitting all day. Wouldn’t you like to go for a walk?”

  I arched and squealed.

  “Okay, okay, no walk.”

  I pointed again.

  “Do you have something you need to say?”

  Tongue out.

  We sat together on my beanbag. The phone rang.

  “Can anyone get that?”

  No answer.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  She slipped out and ran to the kitchen, leaving me slumped sideways.

  “Oh, hi, Anne! Thanks for calling back!”

  She was off, chatting happily. “Right back” wasn’t happening.

  My long simmer finally came to a boil. I began to cry. Once started, the emotions rushed over me, and I was helpless to stop them. I howled like a wounded animal.

  Mom flew into the den. “Lexi! Are you okay? Does something hurt?”

  She searched my arms and legs. I continued to arch and screech.

  Finally, she said, “Is this because you needed to tell me something?”

  Tongue out. I sniffed.

  “I’m sorry.” She hugged me close until I quieted.

  She pulled my cookie sheet to us. I pulled down letters as fast as I could.

  Don’t do devious! I know you’re planning devious!

  Mom was silent. I was sure she knew the gig was up, that I had overheard her plans. I looked at her, daring her to deny it, but she seemed genuinely confused.

  I wrote, I heard you and Dad talking about devious.

  Mom’s eyes widened. I waited for the stammer of an apology, the fumbling of words as she tried to explain, but instead, there was a hint of a smile.

  She hugged me. I struggled free.

  “Lexi, I think you misunderstood, but I also think you deserve to know. What you heard was not devious. It was DBS. It’s short for Deep Brain Stimulation, and it’s a surgery Dad and I want to look into for you. In fact, we’re scheduled for a consultation in Richmond next week.”

  I let that sink in for a long moment then wrote, What is it?

  “DBS is a tiny implant they put into the brain to help cells fire normally. In your case, we’re hoping it might give you better control of your muscles so you can do more things on your own.”

  Questions swirled in my head. Will DBS help me walk? Talk? And when my body comes in, what then? Do they take the DBS out?

  But when I reached forward, what I asked was, What things?

  Mom sighed. “That’s the part we don’t know. I’ve been watching and researching DBS for a couple of years now. There’s still so much we don’t know about how it works or even what it can potentially do.”

  Then, as if she read my mind, she said, “Lexi, we don’t know if it can help you walk and t
alk. It’s way too early to even guess about those things. First, we have to find out if the doctors will agree to give it a try.”

  We sat on the floor for several minutes, still and quiet.

  Finally, Mom said, “I was going to talk to you about it before the appointment.”

  I believed her.

  “Right now, we aren’t committed to anything more than finding out about it. Are you up for that?”

  I stuck out my tongue slowly, and Mom hugged me.

  CHAPTER 42

  Age 6, The Year of the Buttered Cat

  The week before my doctor’s appointment in Richmond, Kali and Kasey started back to school. It was time for homeschool to get started, but Mom was too distracted to even take us shopping for supplies. There was a lot of planning, but for the first time I didn’t have to hear it through the wall. Mom and Dad and I talked about it together. We decided Mom and I would make the five-hour drive by ourselves and that we would stay in a hotel the night after my appointment.

  The morning of the trip, Mom woke me before sunrise. Dad followed us to the car, lugging a suitcase and a cooler of snacks and sandwiches. He kissed us and made Mom promise to text or call when we got there. He stood barefoot in the driveway with Luke and The Cat and waved as we pulled away.

  The drive felt a little like my life history in rewind. We passed through Chapel Hill and then up I-95 into my birth state of Virginia. As we rolled across the border, I remembered a TV show Kali and I watched once about animals that migrate back to where they were born. Sea turtles, Canada geese, Atlantic puffins, and me.

  I laughed out loud. Mom adjusted her rearview mirror so she could see me. I could see her smiling eyes in the mirror.

  “Not much longer.”

  The scenery changed from pine trees to suburbs to city. Mom pointed to a tall building with VCU in yellow letters just off the highway.

  “That’s it!” she said, and I squealed.

  Mom pulled up to the valet in front of the hospital. I had this weird feeling that I had been there before. It wasn’t exactly a flashback. It was that prickly jumble of new and familiar.