Turtle Boy

by M. Evan Wolkenstein

  “I’m going to take you down to the cafeteria,” Roxanne says. “Rabbi Harris will meet us there.”

  I can’t think. I can barely walk. Roxanne leads me down the mile-long hallway, the walls swaying and wobbling around us.

  * * *

  • • •

  Now I’m sitting in the cafeteria, my hands around a hot chocolate. A cup of chamomile tea steams in front of Rabbi Harris. My shirt is soaked, and I’m swimming in sweat, and yet I shiver underneath my winter coat.

  “I’m really sorry,” says Rabbi Harris. “The receptionist was supposed to stop you so you wouldn’t get spooked like that. Did Roxanne explain what’s going on with RJ?”

  “He’s on a breathing machine,” I answer.

  “The doctors are keeping him asleep while he fights the infection,” he adds. “We’re hoping he’ll pull out of it. But, Will, there is no way to know.”

  This brings back the feeling from before. Woozy dizziness. I turn away from Rabbi Harris and lean down, putting my head between my knees. “Keep breathing, Will,” says Rabbi Harris. “Slow and steady. When’s your mom coming back for you?”

  “She’ll be back in”—I look at my watch—“forty-seven minutes.”

  “Okay,” he says. “This is going to sound far-out, but we’re going to review your Torah portion.”

  “Now?” I ask. “Here?”

  “Yes,” says Rabbi Harris. “Very much now and here.”

  I don’t have enough energy to object. From memory, and at a volume low enough that the doctors in their scrubs walking by with trays of food won’t hear me, I begin to sing the words of my parashah. The Hebrew and the repetitive melody calm me a little.

  “You want me to call you once RJ is out of intensive care?” Rabbi Harris asks, after I finish. He stands up to throw out his trash. “I know he’ll want to see you right away.”

  That reminds me: if RJ is in intensive care, there’s no one to take care of the turtle. Turtles shouldn’t go for more than three or four days without eating.

  “I have to go back to RJ’s room,” I say. “I…I need to water his palm tree. I told him I’d take care of it.”

  “You want me to go with you?” he asks.

  “No!” I blurt out. “No, thank you. I can do it.”

  We walk together to the elevator, and we push the buttons for floors seven and three. Rabbi Harris gets off before me and waves goodbye as the doors close.

  Now I’m riding the elevator alone, and with every successive floor, and as I walk the hall to RJ’s room, dread descends farther on me.

  His door is still open. I go inside, shut myself in, and pull back the curtain where the terrarium is.

  The turtle is basking under the heat lamp. It lifts its head as soon as it sees me, wagging it from side to side; it’s hungry. My hands shake as I open the container of freeze-dried crickets. Will, I say to myself. Relax. Everything is fine.

  I drop three crickets into the terrarium, and one falls on the floor. I bend over to pick it up, and I can’t get my fingers around it. I gnash my teeth and command my hand into position like the pinchers in a claw machine game. On the third try, success—I throw the cricket into the tank. The turtle scrambles over and snaps it up. I replace the curtain over the terrarium, step back, and take in my surroundings—a hospital room, alone. The bed, empty.

  A flash—not a memory, but a glimpse of the future: me in a bed like that, bloody bandages all over my face, and my jaw wired shut.

  Alone.

  * * *

  • • •

  I’m confused. I’m aware of sensations in my fingertips. I’m looking up at a face. It’s Denise, the grouchy nurse who takes RJ’s blood.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “You passed out,” says Denise. “Hold out your arm.”

  I do as I’m told, and I feel her sliding something—a blood pressure cuff—over my hand, wrist, and then upper arm. Pressure, pulsing, tingling.

  “Looks like you’re alive,” she remarks. “Hold this against your head. You took a bump when you fell.”

  She takes my hand and presses it against a crinkly cold pack on the side of my head. The sting of the ice collides with the dull ache in my skull.

  A minute later, Mom is there. She hugs me. Denise brings me an orange juice, the same kind that RJ freezes to make slushies, and gives Mom a few extra ice packs.

  “Ice twenty to thirty minutes, every three to four hours,” she says.

  “Let’s get you home,” says Mom, taking my arm to lead me away.

  It’s dark in my room. Mom comes in and says it’s time to come down for dinner. I don’t want to go.

  “Will, you can’t hide up here,” she says. “You’re coming downstairs, and we’re going to talk.”

  She says it firmly, and I don’t feel like fighting. I follow her downstairs. We’re silent through half the meal. I don’t eat much. Finally, she speaks.

  “Someone had a rough day today,” she says, way too brightly. “The last time you passed out like that was when Dr. Haffetz told us about the surgery.”

  “Can we not talk about the surgery?” I ask.

  “Hospitals can be scary places.”

  “I said, I don’t want to talk about the surgery.” I drop my fork onto my plate with a clank. Then I go further: “I don’t want to do it. The surgery. I can’t do it. No more hospitals.”

  “Will,” she says, “you’ve been visiting RJ since the start of the school year. Until yesterday, you’ve been absolutely fine, and you’ll be okay in December too. You had an upsetting experience, but you’ll move past it.”

  “No, I won’t,” I say. “I can’t do it. No surgery.”

  My legs are starting to feel rubbery. I need to get to my room. I hurry for the stairs and haul myself up by the railing, hand over hand.

  “Will! Stop!”

  “Leave me alone!” I shout, slamming my door.

  A moment later, a loud knock. “Will, I’m coming in.”

  She opens the door.

  “Get out!” I yell.

  She’s standing by the bed, next to where I’ve thrown myself.

  “We have to stick together, Will,” she says. “Stay with me here, okay? What’s happening to RJ is scary. I understand that. And the surgery is scary. But you are going to be all right.”

  “Dad wasn’t all right,” I say. “He went into the hospital to have a stupid hernia operation, and he didn’t wake up!”

  “Is that what this is about?” she asks. “You’re afraid something bad will happen to you?”

  “People go into the hospital and they don’t come out,” I say.

  “Yes, they do come out,” says Mom. “They do all the time. We’ll never completely understand why your dad didn’t make it out of surgery, but that kind of thing is really, really rare, Will. It’s so rare, it almost never happens. It won’t happen to you, I promise.”

  I can’t handle this. I turn my face and push it into my pillow.

  “Will, listen,” Mom says. “This isn’t like a dentist appointment you can just cancel and reschedule. It needs to be during your winter break so you can heal and get back to school.”

  “I don’t care, cancel it,” I say, my face still smushed into the pillow. “Cancel it.”

  Rabbi Harris stops me on my way into Hebrew class to tell me that RJ has stabilized. He’s out of intensive care, and he’s taking visitors.

  “He asked about you, Will,” says Rabbi Harris, maybe seeing something in my expression. “He’d love to see you.”

  I nod and head to my desk.

  Idiot, I tell myself. My friend is alive, but I’m afraid to go see him? What kind of person am I?

  * * *

  • • •

  An hour and a half later, Rabbi Harris and I are riding the ele
vator to RJ’s room. I know this isn’t going to be easy. Rabbi Harris ate three Hostess pies on the way to the hospital. I’ve learned to tell how RJ is doing based on how many pies Rabbi Harris eats; when he reached for the third pie, my pulse quickened and my stomach began to swirl.

  Now we’re at RJ’s door. We go inside without knocking.

  RJ’s head is on the pillow—eyes closed, mouth open. A new bank of monitors shows moving lines, climbing and falling. His glasses are gone.

  Immediately, I’m struck by a powerful memory like a punch to the gut. It fills my whole body.

  I see Dad, lying in a hospital bed, tubes and wires all over. He’s holding Mom’s hand. I’m small—small enough that my face is bed-high. Mom brings me forward, closer to Dad, tugging on my arm.

  Then, just like that, it’s over. I’m back in the room with RJ and Rabbi Harris.

  I watch as Rabbi Harris leans over RJ and puts a palm on his cheek. RJ stays asleep. Rabbi Harris gestures to the cake-chair. Obediently, I sit down. I’m still rattled from the memory.

  Or is it something I made up?

  I lean forward over my lap, my arms clenched around my stomach. Rabbi Harris drapes his coat over the back of a rolling chair. The chair has never been here before; he must be spending more time in the room with RJ.

  I wonder if I can sneak a peek at the Blanding’s turtle without Rabbi Harris noticing.

  I pull back the curtain. The turtle ambles toward the light. I won’t be able to clean out the terrarium while Rabbi Harris is here, though.

  “How’s the turtle?” asks Rabbi Harris.

  His voice startles me so badly, I flinch and drop the curtain back into place.

  “What?” I ask. “What turtle?”

  “The one you generously provided RJ with,” he says, without looking up from his book. “He told me about it, back when he was going in for surgery. He needed someone to know that he has a pet hiding in here.”

  “Am I in trouble?” I ask.

  “No,” says Rabbi Harris, now looking at me. “RJ’s morale is more important than whatever rules they have here about pets. I’d say he needs to know it’s there.”

  “RJ needs the turtle?” I ask, incredulous.

  “Absolutely,” he says. “And I’ll tell you a secret. RJ isn’t religious in the typical sense. But he confided in me that he feels like the turtle is a guardian angel.”

  This is the strangest thing I’ve ever heard.

  “He even talks to it,” says Rabbi Harris. “Sometimes, just before I open the door, I can hear him, deep in conversation. When you’re as sick as RJ is, it can be very comforting to feel like something good and pure and sweet is watching over you.”

  “But it’s just a turtle,” I say. “It can’t do anything for him.”

  “I know that,” says Rabbi Harris. “And RJ knows that. But the thing that’s actually watching over RJ isn’t the turtle at all.”

  I believe in science. I don’t believe in angels. I’m not sure I believe in God. How does a turtle in his room make him feel like there’s something good watching over him?

  “It’s not the turtle,” says Rabbi Harris. “It’s the person who gave him the turtle. The turtle is just the reminder.”

  He stops talking, and it takes me a moment to realize he means me. I’m the one who’s watching over RJ.

  I’m the guardian angel.

  This is too much for me to handle.

  “I need the bathroom,” I say. I leave the room fast and walk down the hall.

  I’m not an angel.

  * * *

  • • •

  A while later, after walking up and down every hall and guzzling five cups of water, I return to RJ’s room. He’s awake. He’s sitting up, but his glasses are still off.

  He looks terrible, and that makes me scared—gray in the face, and his voice is dry and quiet. He has a breathing tube in his nose.

  “I’m going to let you guys hang out,” says Rabbi Harris. He steps closer to me and says quietly, “Ten minutes.”

  He leaves and closes the door behind him. I want to tell RJ about the talent show, but he looks so tired, so weak, I’m not sure he would even care.

  “Hey, RJ,” I say, testing the waters. “We can cross another thing off the list. I did the talent show.”

  “Really?” he asks quietly, his eyes widening. He sits up in bed, grabs his glasses, and puts them on. “Did you use my set?”

  “Yes, and I added a few of my own things,” I say, growing more excited. “A suitcase for a bass drum.”

  “Tell me everything,” he says. “Here, help me with this pillow.”

  “Well, I was maybe fifth to go,” I say, adjusting the pillow while RJ leans forward. “I was totally nervous, but my friends Max and Shirah were there. When my name got called—Manzilla—I went down to the stage and set up the drums. I had Mrs. Barnes’s mask on.”

  “Awesome,” says RJ, clearly amused. “The audience must have been like ‘What the hell is going on?’ ”

  “Totally,” I say. “They turned on the microphones, and when I hit the bass drum, you could feel the kick, right in the chest. The pots and pans sounded awesome, too—really sharp and clear.”

  RJ is listening and nodding, and his mouth is locked into a kind of half smile, half “wow.” He sits back in bed, blinking toward the ceiling, as if savoring the talent show within the muscles of his own body. As for me, I’m reliving the moment when the whole audience saw my face. If not for the drums, for the shield of noise that protected me, I probably would have fled.

  “It’s done,” I say after a few moments. “We can cross it off the list.”

  RJ nods and says, “Yes. That is so amazing.”

  This makes me really happy. I’ve now helped RJ with five things on his list. I wonder how many are left, and with a nervous flush, I worry that maybe the list is complete.

  RJ tips his head back against his pillow and seems about to say something, but then he pauses, coughs twice, and says, “I’m gonna catch some z’s, okay?”

  Before I can say another word, he’s quiet and still. If there is another task, I won’t learn about it today.

  It’s the last day of school before Thanksgiving break, and it’s snowing. When the first flakes fell from the mess of gray overhead, kids jumped out of their seats and ran to the window. Mr. Firenze yelled at them to sit down. I didn’t bother getting up. Who cares about snow when your friend is dying? I have no hope for RJ. The only thing I could ever hope for is the Back 40, and even that might be lost.

  The minute the final bell rings, I grab my coat and backpack. I need to be alone. I need the Back 40. I run down the stairs and out the back door toward the parking lot. I’m hit by the polar blast of the winter wind.

  The chain-link gate is open. That’s odd. I run through and clamber up the dirt mound which is frozen solid, and I can see straight down to a row of construction trailers. Someone’s down there, dressed in a heavy coat and a hunter’s cap.

  Instantly, I’m running down the hill, shouting, “Ms. Kuper!”

  She looks up at me and waves a gloved hand.

  “What’s happening” I ask, breathing hard. “Did you save the Back 40?”

  “I met with officials in Madison,” she says, “to see if I could convince them that the Back 40 is essential to our science program.”

  “And?”

  “I did my best, Will,” she says. “But it didn’t work. They want to proceed with the sale.”

  “No,” I say in disbelief.

  We’re both quiet for a very long time. Somewhere, a couple of cardinals are calling to each other: One cries, “Cheer, cheer, cheer,” and the other replies, “Birdie, birdie, birdie.” It strikes me as tragic that they should have such a happy song when their home is about to be demolished.

 
“Isn’t there anything else we can do?” I ask.

  At that moment, a rustling comes from the trees, and from between the leafless trunks near the pond comes a figure, limping. It’s Mr. Firenze in a heavy green parka with a fur-trimmed hood.

  “Can’t say you didn’t warn me,” he says. “Slipped on the ice.” He lifts his head so the hood isn’t blocking his eyes. “Hello, Will. Didn’t see you there.”

  “I’m giving him the update,” says Ms. Kuper.

  “Well, yes,” he says, rubbing the side of his leg. “It’s not a rosy one.”

  “We do have one last shot,” says Ms. Kuper. “The county has made up its mind to sell the Back 40, but there are state and federal laws that would protect this land in a very specific set of circumstances.”

  I have no idea what she’s talking about, and Ms. Kuper picks up on that.

  “We’d need to prove one of two things,” says Ms. Kuper. “First, we could prove that this area is a corridor for migration—that wildlife uses the Back 40 to migrate from one larger area to the next.”

  “Well, that’s never going to happen,” I say. “It’s basically an island—it’s not connected to anything else.”

  “And the second possibility,” she continues, “is that we prove the Back 40 is home to an endangered species.”

  Endangered species?

  “Ms. Kuper,” I say, knowing she’ll be upset with me. “Back in September, Max and I were out here, and we caught a Blanding’s turtle.”

  Mr. Firenze looks at Ms. Kuper for a reaction. Her face is blank.

  “A Blanding’s turtle,” she says. “You’re sure it was a Blanding’s turtle?”

  “Hey,” I say, putting up my two palms in a gesture of pride, as if to say, Am I Turtle Boy or not?

  “And what did you do with this Blanding’s turtle?” she asks.

  I don’t say anything. She knows.

  “So, Will, are you telling me that your illegal wildlife collection included an endangered species?”