by Lisa Bunker
So on ZeroDay they’ll seal the chamber, and the electricity will build—it is going to take an astronomical number of volts—and the fans will suck all the air out of the room, and they’ll zap me to stop my heart, and then the Apparatus will do its interdimensional membrane reopening thing or whatever, which they think should take just a gazillionth of a second, and then, whoosh, the air gets pumped back in and the machine zaps me again to restart my heart, and a medical team comes running in case the heart-starting zap doesn’t work, and the Apparatus pops open and there I am, either separate or still fused, and either alive or dead. Of course we’re all hoping for separate and alive.
That’s how it’s supposed to go on the day. Yesterday was simpler. I peed one last time and then stripped down and gooped up, and then Dr. Yoon helped me climb up the long laddery steps. She wore plastic gloves that went all the way up over her elbows, to be able to grip my arm, she said, but also no doubt to keep the goop off herself. She’s such a tidy person, with such tidy clothes. Then she and this other technician/nurse person helped me lower myself into the Apparatus. It wasn’t quite as totally embarrassing as it could have been, being naked and slippery, because they were being so Scientific. It was a fiddly business, though, with bonks and pinches, and it took a long time because we were trying not to get goop everywhere.
Once I was finally in, though, I felt the same thing I have felt every other time, which is that the armatures fit so close that there’s no pressure anywhere. It’s like being weightless. All you can do is let go and float. I get kinda dreamy sometimes. I wouldn’t call it sleeping exactly, but my mind goes wandering off to the oddest places.
This time, at first, I’m tense and uncomfortable. I have an itch on my leg that there is no way to scratch—I can’t even wiggle it against something—so for a little while that bugs me. But then the floating feeling takes over and my mind begins to float too, more than I can ever remember before, and then I have this strange experience, or maybe vision is the right word? I’m not sure. Whatever it was, it was intense, so I want to try to describe it.
First I start thinking about how my body is totally encased by the Apparatus, right at the skin level, and then how the Apparatus is encased in the air around it, atom to atom, and then how the air in the cubical chamber is encased in the walls, which are thick metal and concrete.
Then I think about how if you were made of neutrinos and could pass through the walls, you would come to solid rock except in the straight-up direction, where you would break through quickly to the air of the atmosphere, but sideways and especially down there is the rock of the planet, and how if you went down far enough, you would get to where the rock is molten and swirling.
Then I zoom out even more so I can see the whole sphere of the planet, ginormous, with the tiny cube of the chamber hollowed out right under the surface in one place, and inside that the sphere of the Apparatus, and inside that the exact human shape of me.
Then I go swooping down inside myself and think about skin and muscles and bones and then the cells they are made of and then all the bits and pieces inside the cells, the DNA and whatever, and then I zoom in on one DNA molecule until I’m focusing on its single atoms, and then protons and neutrons and electrons (and hey, school turns out to be good for something—it gives you names for the parts of your hallucinations).
I don’t know anything about subatomic particles except having heard that they exist, so then, like a roller coaster hitting the bottom of a big hill and swooping up again, I go flying all the way back out, atoms molecules cells body Apparatus air chamber planet, and then on, atmosphere, space, more space, huge vast limitless expanses of space, other planets sun stars galaxies all whipping by until I can’t think any bigger. What’s past the biggest you can think?
And then swooping back in again, even faster, one long incredible fall through the human-shape of me and this time down past where I don’t know how to go any smaller and I find myself somehow looping around to out-past-too-big again, so that everything seems to fit inside the smallest place inside me and vice versa. And then for a while I’m not sure if I’m inside the universe or the universe is inside me. The only thing that seems for sure is that somewhere in all the dancing around of whatever it is that dances, there’s the human-shape of me, with either everything inside of it or it inside of everything, or somehow—don’t ask me how—both at the same time. Then I feel a hand touching my face and hear Dr. Yoon’s voice saying, “Felix, wake up.”
yes now felix see something
I thought I would hear from you. Well, I guess I did, but I don’t see what I saw, if you see what I mean.
saw dance felt dance felix dance
To which I respond, hm.
…
Yeah, I don’t know what else to say about it either. Just that it was intense.
Anyway, once the Fitting was done, it was time to get cleaned up and have some food and go home. Food was this awkward crappy meal sitting at a table in a little kitchen sort of place. Mom had her lips pressed shut and that tense line between her eyes, and Bea was listening to her headphones with her eyes closed, which left me still feeling trippy and elsewhere, Dr. Gordon staring down at his sandwich, and Dr. Yoon not being able to get any of us to talk. Everyone was quiet on the drive home, too, and as soon as we got home we all went to our separate places in the house. It’s not much of a house—just another modest bungalow in the faceless suburbia of the world—but at least it’s big enough for each of us to have a separate place. Thank goodness for that.
I keep thinking about that swoopy dreamy time, how there was inside me and outside me and the me-shaped boundary between the two, and now that’s mixed up in my head with Bea’s sinfonia, the middle voice … the threeness of things … it’s all very strange, but my brain can’t seem to leave it alone. That said, it has gotten way late and I am completely exhausted. Sleep.
17 Days to Go
One of the things that happens when you have a piano-genius sister is you have to go to all these concerts. Bea plays piano for everything at her school: choir, the spring musical, jazz band, singers and violinists, anyone who needs an accompanist. And then there are her own recitals too. I don’t mind most of the time. I like the music. The part that’s less fun is when Zyx gets excited and I start flailing in my seat. The people around me hold their heads forward so carefully, and it’s like they’re shouting, I’m not looking at you, I’m not looking at you, see how nonchalantly I’m not looking at you? It’s way worse than if they just looked. But, whatever. I’m used to it, mostly, I guess.
So that’s what today was about, an afternoon concert at Littlefield High. When we arrived Bea peeled off in the direction of the beeps and blats of people warming up in the band room, and Mom and Grandy and I (Grandy with purse and clunky jewelry, it being Sunday) continued on into the auditorium.
As soon as we step inside the doors I see the back of Hector’s head, and immediately I want the exactly opposite things of sitting right next to him and staying as far away from him as possible. It’s not up to me, though, because Grandy is in the lead and picks seats right inside the door, halfway across the auditorium from Hector. From where we are sitting, all I can do is watch him move his head. He turns it to the left a lot to talk to the woman sitting next to him, so I figure she must be his mom—Mrs. Dandicat. (Yes, of course I know his last name.) She has freckles and rusty-red hair. Hector also talks with the man sitting past her, who I figure must be his dad. He’s tall and handsome, and his face is even darker than Hector’s.
Kids with instruments start coming out onto the stage and then the lights go down and the music starts, but I can’t tell you much about it, because aside from thinking about all the people being so careful not to look at me, my brain all of a sudden gets an idea. We have a plan for Grandy to take me and Bea to MainahCon, and what occurs to me is, would Hector maybe possibly like to join us?
After the concert our two families leave in opposite directions, so it looks lik
e there’s no chance of such a question being asked today, but I’m wrong about that, because we have a family tradition that after concerts Bea gets ice cream to celebrate. It’s always at this little corner shop on one end of the main street downtown. It has old wooden ice cream signs with the paint peeling off, a random kite hanging from the ceiling, steamed-up windows, and this sweet rich smell like the air is made of sugar. Inside, what with the big drink machine humming in one corner and the tableful of high school girls yakking in another, there is room for us and one other family, and the other family, ahead of us in line, is the Dandicats again. All four Dandicats, because Hector’s brother plays trombone in the jazz band. And of course Bea is with us now too, so we make quite a crowd.
As soon as my mom and Hector’s mom see each other, they say hello and start chatting. Apparently they know each other a little, from volunteering at the library, by their talk. Great. Just what I need. Then the moms are saying everyone’s names, and Hector does the tiniest eye-roll when he nods after his name, like, how funny that nobody knows we already know each other, which in spite of the monster awkwardness almost makes me laugh. When Hector’s dad talks he has an accent, and Mom remarks on it and then she’s talking French with him and he smiles for the first time and my heart goes flip because his smile looks like Hector’s smile.
While the French is going on, I try to get my face to lift up to the position that a person’s face would usually be in if that person was maybe going to ask someone else a question, but it stays stubbornly down until the French stops, and that happens because Bea suddenly points at Hector’s shirt and says, “Hey, Morning Hill.” So I look, and sure enough, he’s wearing a podcast fandom shirt. I don’t listen to Morning Hill, but Bea loves it.
Hector’s face lights up and he starts to answer, but then it’s his turn to tell the ice cream person what he wants. He orders a pistachio cone. Bea gets him talking again after, though, so then the Dandicats are standing and listening to the two of them geek out about their favorite podcast while our family orders, and I still can’t speak. Then just when the ice cream person asks me for my order, Hector tells Bea that he’s going to MainahCon, so then I can’t think of anything to ask the ice cream person for but pistachio, because Hector asked for it, even though I’ve never had it before.
So now for a second it seems like everything is going to be OK, because I found out he’s going even if I couldn’t make myself ask, but then the ice cream person hands me my cone and I take too big a first bite and then practically collapse onto the floor from a combination of brain freeze and Zyx freaking out about the flavor. It’s been a long time since you’ve done that.
zyx love pistachio
You think I don’t know that? But I’d forgotten how excited you could get about new flavors. It was like the old days, right after the accident. Sometimes I sure do wish you could figure out how to tone it down.
question mark
You made it look like I was having a seizure. And before I could even stand up straight again they were leaving, and the ice cream fell out of my cone, and Hector gave me a look like I was pitiful and ridiculous.
not
Oh, all of a sudden you’re an expert on human facial expressions? That’s a laugh.
not
Oh, shut up. Whatever you mean. But at least now I know he’s going to the con. So maybe I’ll see him there. Even if he has decided that I’m a freak after all. Gah.
16 Days to Go
I saw Hector again at school today, in the library, and we talked, and … and, I have no idea what is going on. I guess he wants to be friends, but beyond that does he … I mean, is he … and, what are these three dots things called, again?
ellipses
Yes … that’s … right … thanks … ellipses. Like the egg-shaped things that are not … quite … circles. Cool. And, yeah, I’m totally avoiding saying the next thing about Hector. But, honesty in writing—that’s another thing from today, from talking again to Ms. C, which I should tell about too. And maybe I should just describe from the beginning again. OK, doing that.
I didn’t get a lot of sleep, which meant that even though lockup wasn’t quite as bad as usual, it was still unpleasant waking up. Lights seemed too bright and voices seemed too loud, and it lasted into school, so in study hall I took the option to go to the library. I was thinking that I would sit in one of the carrels at the back and rest, but as soon as I walked through the door I saw Hector at the table over by the window, and he glanced up and saw me too. He didn’t exactly jump up and wave, but I don’t think he’s that kind of person. He just tilted his head and looked at me. Zyx seemed far down inside, the way vo is sometimes … Zyx, are you there?
yes am there
Oh, good. Doing OK?
question mark
Never mind. Just checking. Anyway, Zyx was deep, so I was able to hold still and look back, and after a second he made a motion with his head like, What do you suppose would happen if you came over here and sat down? In my mind I balanced embarrassment about the ice cream incident against wanting to suggest meeting at the con. Wanting to suggest won, so I went over. Zyx, help with words again?
yes
Thanks.
Hector: “Hi.”
Me: “Hi.”
Silence.
Well, that was simple. No need for help remembering there. But we did speak again. Or he did, because my brain was going wanga wanga wanga and I couldn’t make my mouth work. “You OK?”
The way he asks it, I hear in his voice the same thing I heard when he asked me what’s wrong with me, which is that he really cares, and that surprises me because I was so sure about the “Omigod, what a freak” look, but maybe not after all, so I say, “Yeah, thanks. Worst brain freeze ever”—which is only a little lie—“but I’m fine.”
He nods, and it seems like we’re done with that. More silence. His face doesn’t say shut up even a little, though, so then to my own surprise I say, “Do you ever get the feeling like your head is full of dark clouds?”
“I guess, maybe. You mean, like, sad?”
“Um, sorta. Sad with a side of doom.”
Then an amazing thing happens: he laughs. He does it quietly, because we’re in the library, but it’s such a wonderful sound, and I love the way the corners of his eyes get a little spray of wrinkles around them when he does it. I just love looking at him and listening to him and being with him, you know?
yes know
Gah. That was, whadayacall, a rhetorical question.
question mark
Never mind. Just keep quiet, will you?
…
Thank you. Going on now. What’s next is Hector says, “Do you feel that way now?”
“Yeah, some. Kinda medium. Not as bad as sometimes.”
“How come?”
And there I am again, wanting really badly to tell him everything. In about two seconds I whip through the same routine as before: the Story, which I hate, the Powers, can’t tell, and then again also the realization that the Story is better than nothing, because it does have parts of the truth in it. A big scary thing is going to happen soon. I can say that much at least.
While I’m taking my two seconds I see his face doing the pulling-away thing again, and again he says, “Never mind, sorry I asked,” but this time I handle it better.
“No, it’s OK,” I say. “It’s just that, um … not many people know.” He waits for me to go on, so I tell him the rest of the Story. “You know about the traumatic brain injury.” He nods. “Well, now I have … it caused a tumor in my brain.” Saying the lie makes me squirm, but I keep going. “And, they say … they have to … well, anyway, in a few weeks I have to go …” I wave my hand. My body is shaking.
His face changes again and, wouldn’t you know, another look I love. What’s the word? Compassion. “Surgery?” he says.
“The Procedure,” I say, and getting to say it makes my voice crack.
He makes a move with his hand like reaching out to
touch me, but then stops. “Are they going to …” he says, and with his fingertip he makes a slicing motion in the air over his forehead.
“Uh, something like that. It’s complicated.”
“Whoa.” He looks away for a second, I guess imagining the scene. He looks back. “Is it going to hurt?”
I shrug.
“Are you scared?”
“What do you think?” I say, which is weird, because usually I’m only sarcastic at home. The skin over his eyes furrows up and his chin goes hard, and, Nelson, I seem to love everything about this boy’s face. “Sorry,” I say, before he can say anything. “Yeah, I’m scared. I’m scared to death.” Saying it like that I can feel how true it is, and I duck my head, because my throat has squeezed shut and my eyes have gone swimmy.
This time he does touch me, just a hand on the sleeve of my shirt for a second, touch and gone. “Well, that sucks,” he says, and the tone of his voice is no more than like, Shoot, we missed the bus, and I look up, and now he’s doing this one-eyebrow-raised thing like, I see your sarcasm and raise you one. Then I laugh, and one tear squirts out of each eye, and he smiles, and his nose does this crinkly thing that, gah, I’m getting boring on the subject.
you love
Yeah, but I’m going to stop mentioning each thing. Let’s just say I think he’s totally beautiful, OK?
ok
Rhetorical … oh, never mind. ANYWAY. Right at the tear-squirt moment I really REALLY want to be talking about ANYTHING else, so I open my mouth without any idea what I am going to say, and what I say is, “I want to ask you something.” I do?
We have gotten pretty close to each other, bending in a little to keep our talk quiet, but now he leans back and moves one arm in front of him. “OK?” he says.
The con, the con, goes part of my brain, but what comes out is something else I realize I have been wondering: “What did you mean when you said the other day that I’m the only one who talks to you?”