If you ever have to go to the emergency room, avoid doing it on a Friday night. It’s like trying to get a seat at lunch when you’re the last person in the lunch line, except with drunks and angry people who’ve been in fights. It’s not a fun crowd.
Raj and I sit in the waiting room. Brianna went home, but Raj insisted on coming with me when the ambulance arrived. I’m grateful because I’m terrified and feel completely helpless.
“Maybe it was the hamburger?” Raj suggests.
“Do you think so?”
He looks mystified. “Maybe he was wrong about the whole well-done thing?”
My mom rushes through the doors of the emergency department.
“What happened?” she demands.
“I don’t know,” I say. “He just passed out in the restaurant.”
A nurse brings us back into the curtained room. My grandfather is hooked up to wires and surrounded by beeping monitors. He’d woken up briefly after the fall in the restaurant but was groggy in the ambulance. Now he’s asleep. With his eyes closed, it’s easy to believe he’s just a sick teenage boy.
A doctor wearing scrubs asks my mom questions.
“How old is your son?” he asks.
“My nephew,” my mom corrects him. “And he’s, um…”
“Fourteen,” I say. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Well,” the doctor says, “it’s looking like appendicitis. But we need to run some tests.”
“Will he need surgery?” my mom asks.
“If it’s appendicitis, he will. But let’s not put the cart before the horse. I need a little more information. Does he have any medical issues?”
My mom looks momentarily bewildered.
“Um, I think he has high blood pressure,” she says.
“That’s a little unusual,” the doctor says, and scribbles something down.
“And arthritis,” she adds.
The doctor raises an eyebrow. “Rheumatoid arthritis?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Anything else I should know about? Changes in diet?”
“He had a hamburger for dinner,” I say.
“It was well done,” Raj adds.
“Good to know,” the doctor says. “We’re going to get him admitted and will circle back to you when we have some more information.”
* * *
—
A little after one in the morning, the doctor informs us that it’s not appendicitis. But he wants to keep my grandfather overnight for observation, so they send us home.
My mom drops Raj off at his house.
“Thanks for staying with me,” I tell him.
“No prob,” he says. “Hope Melvin’s okay.”
“Me too. I’ll text you tomorrow.”
It’s not until I crawl into bed that I realize we never even made it to the movie.
* * *
—
The pediatric ward is ridiculously cheerful. It’s worse than the dentist’s office. There are jungle animals painted on the walls—giraffes and rhinos and elephants. There’s a play area with brightly colored furniture and an aquarium full of tropical fish. The nurses wear scrubs with flowers, and they have teddy bears on their stethoscopes.
I’m exhausted; I didn’t sleep well at all. I couldn’t stop worrying about my grandfather. As we get closer to his room, the feeling in the pit of my stomach gets worse.
But then I hear him shouting.
“I’m starving! I didn’t get to eat last night! Why can’t I have solid food for breakfast?”
He’s arguing with a nurse when we walk into his room.
“Jell-O is not breakfast!” my grandfather tells the nurse.
“This is what the attending physician ordered,” he replies.
“I guess he’s feeling better,” my mom murmurs under her breath.
A doctor walks in; it’s not the same guy as last night. He introduces himself and then turns to my mother, completely ignoring my grandfather.
“Well, we can’t find anything wrong with Melvin. His vitals are good. The lab results came back negative for everything. So we recommend you bring him in for a follow-up at the clinic in a week. And, of course, feel free to call if anything changes.”
“Excuse me! The patient is sitting right here,” my grandfather says in annoyance.
“Sorry,” the doctor says.
“So what caused this?” my mom asks.
“Most likely fatigue. It happens with teenagers. They run themselves down. We see it all the time. The abdominal pain was probably gas, since he’d just eaten.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” my mom says.
“Why don’t you go with the nurse and he can help you with the discharge paperwork?”
Everyone leaves the room, and then it’s just me and my grandfather.
My grandfather scoffs at the closed door. “And he calls himself a doctor? He looks like he’s barely out of college!”
“How do you really feel?” I ask him.
“Fantastic!”
It’s all so crazy. “So it was just gas?”
“Of course it wasn’t gas! It was my appendix!”
I’m completely confused. “But the doctor said it wasn’t your appendix.”
He taps his lower belly. “Trust me, it was my appendix.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I haven’t had an appendix since I was nineteen years old. And now I have one.”
My mouth drops open. “But—but—how?”
“I injected some of the axolotl,” he says.
“You did what?”
“Well, I assumed that since the fruit flies grew wings, the axolotl would grow back my missing tooth. But instead, it grew an appendix! Talk about an interesting result!”
I can’t believe it.
“What’s wrong with you? That was dangerous!”
He looks unconcerned. “Scientists take risks! Besides, I figured I had a fifty-fifty chance, like Carroll and Lazear.”
“Like who?”
“James Carroll and Jesse Lazear. Two doctors who allowed themselves to be inoculated by mosquitoes infected with yellow fever. At the time, they were trying to figure out if yellow fever was spread by mosquitoes.”
“What happened?”
“They both got yellow fever, of course.”
“So they proved it?”
“Yes,” he says. “And Jesse Lazear died.”
I gasp. “He died?”
My grandfather’s brows furrow. “Of course he died! It was a fatal disease at the time. That’s why he was trying to figure out how it was spread.”
“What is wrong with you? What if you’d died?”
He waves me off. “It all worked out. Now, can you please go down to the cafeteria and get me something decent to eat? Pancakes or an egg sandwich?”
As I walk toward the door feeling dazed, he shouts after me.
“I’ll take waffles, too, if they have them! And bacon!”
“I saw Melvin between classes,” Raj says. “He looks okay.”
“Yeah,” I say. “He’s fine now.”
Although he did milk the whole hospital thing a little bit. He spent the rest of the weekend lying on the couch, saying he was exhausted. My mom even did his laundry for him. Maybe he should have gone into theater after all.
“I can’t believe it was just gas,” Raj says. “He looked like he was in so much pain.”
I want to say that’s because he was growing a brand-new appendix, but I don’t.
Raj looks around the lunch court. “Where is he, anyway?”
“The library, probably.”
“He sure spends a lot of time there,” Raj observes. “You think he has a crush on Mrs. Barrymore?”
“She’s near his real age,” Raj points out.
Which is true. But I can’t really see the crush part. My grandfather didn’t seem as if he was over my grandmother.
“Anyway, I heard the movie was great,” Raj says.
“It figures,” I say.
“Do you want to try again to see it?” he asks.
If Raj was cast in the play of my life, he’d be the hero. Not just because he’s tall, goth, and handsome. But because he’s loyal. He stayed by my side in that horrible emergency room when I was scared.
“I’d love that,” I say.
“Maybe this time it should be just us?” Raj suggests.
That sounds good to me.
* * *
—
My mom likes to stalk the racks of thrift shops for costumes for her plays. Sometimes she brings home stuff for me, too. Puffy blouses, bright vinyl belts, seventies-style skirts. They’re almost always too loud or too odd for me. I’m all about comfort: I like soft, I like fuzzy, and I hate anything too tight.
But when Friday night finally arrives, I find myself staring into my closet. For some reason I want to look interesting tonight. I decide to wear one of the thrift store finds: a silky shirt with a loose bow tie. It looks casual and dressed up at the same time. Like I’m not trying too hard, even though I am.
“You look lovely,” my mom says. “I knew that shirt was perfect for you.”
Ananda, Raj’s college-age brother, is home from school and drives us. He’s not a big talker. I once asked him why.
“Because somebody has to listen,” he told me.
Even though Ananda is quiet, the car is full of the sound of Raj and me chatting.
“Let’s make a bet,” Raj says. “Who’s going to survive the film: humans or zombies?”
“Team Zombie,” I say. I always stand with the monsters; they’re totally misunderstood.
“Okay, I’ll take the humans. What are we betting?”
That’s easy. “Barbecue chips for a week.”
Raj grins. “Nice one.”
We pull up at the multiplex.
“We’ll meet you out front after,” Raj tells his brother as we get out of the car. Ananda just nods.
Raj already has tickets, so we don’t have to wait in line. Inside, we get a big tub of popcorn (extra salt) and two sodas (root beer).
The poster outside our theater says BE PREPARED TO BE TERRIFIED!
“Are you prepared to be terrified?” Raj jokes.
“Bring it,” I say.
Then we step into the dark.
* * *
—
Part of the reason I love horror movies is that they don’t scare me. I grew up around stage makeup and fog machines. I know how to make fake blood and how to fall down dead onstage. Everything’s an illusion.
But this movie is actually terrifying. Although it has nothing to do with what’s happening on the screen.
Raj is holding my hand.
And it feels…weird.
I don’t know what to do. I’m right-handed, so how do I pick up my soda? What if I have to go to the bathroom? Also, his hand is kind of sweaty. I don’t remember Shakespeare mentioning this in any of his plays.
Halfway through the movie, Raj lets go of my hand and takes a sip of root beer.
And I’m relieved, which is confusing. What’s wrong with me? Shouldn’t I want him to hold my hand?
I keep my eyes fixed on the screen, waiting for him to take my hand again.
But he doesn’t.
I know I should be the one to take his hand.
But I don’t.
* * *
—
After the movie, we wait outside on a bench for Ananda to pick us up.
“So, uh, that movie was really good,” Raj says.
It was terrible. The zombie makeup wasn’t very scary. And why do the humans always hide in the basement? That’s the first place I’d look if I was a zombie.
“Yeah,” I agree.
We’re like people from a different country. We don’t understand each other. We don’t speak the same language anymore.
On the drive home, the car is quiet. It’s awkward. Even Ananda senses it.
“So, uh, how was the movie?” he asks.
I know things are really bad if Ananda is actually talking.
“Great,” I say.
“Great,” Raj echoes.
We pull up to my house.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say politely.
“See you tomorrow,” Raj says.
I don’t see Raj the next day at school. Because I avoid him.
And he avoids me.
If we pass between classes, we stare straight ahead, never acknowledging each other.
It’s as if we’ve turned into real-life zombies.
The worst part about all of this friends-maybe-more-maybe-not awkwardness is that Raj is the one I would usually talk to when I’m upset. But now I can’t. Because we’re not talking.
Instead of going to the lunch court, I grab a granola bar from the vending machine and go to the science lab. I pretend I’m working on my science project so I don’t have to see Raj. The fruit flies with wings seem a little sluggish, like they’re depressed. I feel their pain.
This is what my life has come to: hanging out with fruit flies.
Mr. Ham is usually next door grading papers when I’m in the lab, but today he’s here.
“That doesn’t look very filling,” he says, eyeing my granola bar.
“It’s not,” I admit.
He has a huge piece of lasagna. It looks delicious.
“Here,” he says, and cuts his lasagna in half. “Have some.”
“Thanks,” I tell him.
We eat for a few minutes. The lasagna is amazing. It’s got chicken and spinach and is smothered in cheese.
“So, I bought advance tickets for The Tempest,” he says.
“My mom will be really happy,” I say. It’s hard to get a sold-out show in high school. Sometimes she makes her students go to the show as part of their grade.
“It’s funny,” he says. “I wanted to go into theater when I was in college.”
“Really? Why didn’t you?”
He looks thoughtful. “I asked too many questions. Why was the director using a single spotlight? Why was the art department using fake trees when we could have bought a real ficus? I drove everyone nuts.”
I could see that. Even though a play is a collaboration, it will fall apart with too many captains.
“About that time, I really got into science, and I knew it was for me. Because science is all about asking questions.”
“I like that about science, too,” I say.
The bell rings and I stand up.
“Well, thanks for lunch. It was really good,” I tell him.
“It was a new recipe I’ve been playing around with. The portobello mushrooms work much better than tofu.”
My mouth drops open. “Mushrooms?”
“Yes,” he tells me. “The big chunks you ate? Those were mushrooms.”
I’m completely bewildered. The lasagna didn’t taste like mushrooms; it tasted delicious.
“I thought it was chicken,” I say.
“Oh, no.” He laughs. “I’m trying to be vegetarian these days.”
Who isn’t?
* * *
—
After a few days, the science lab gets old. I follow in my grandfather’s footsteps and go to the library at lunchtime. The library has a smattering of students, most of them working on the computers. I expect to see my grandfather doing the same thing but instead discover him shelving books with Mrs. Barrymore. I find myself creeping up b
ehind one of the tall bookcases to eavesdrop.
“Now, this was a good movie,” he says, holding up a book. I see the title: To Kill a Mockingbird.
“Gregory Peck will always be Atticus Finch to me. My late husband loved that movie,” Mrs. Barrymore says fondly.
My grandfather looks curious. “So, why haven’t you remarried?”
Most grown-ups would probably say something like “That’s kind of personal” or “None of your business,” but Mrs. Barrymore answers him.
“To be honest, I’ve needed some time to get over my husband’s death.”
“Yes, I can see that,” he says.
“He’d been sick for a long time. He had Parkinson’s,” Mrs. Barrymore says. “It was hard.”
I may not have two PhDs, but even I can tell from her voice that it was worse than hard.
Then my grandfather says, “When my…grandmother died from cancer, my grandfather had a hard time moving on. He said he felt lost.”
Mrs. Barrymore sighs and looks a little sad. “I know exactly what he meant. I kept my husband’s toothbrush in our bathroom for a long time. Isn’t that silly?”
“It doesn’t sound silly to me.”
“How is your grandfather now?” Mrs. Barrymore asks.
He answers carefully. “I think he’s a little lonely.”
“I feel the same way,” she says.
* * *
—
Even though I packed my lunch the night before, I forget to bring it to school in the morning rush. I can’t bear the thought of eating another vending-machine granola bar, so I break down and go to the lunch court.
Once I have my tray, I don’t know where to sit. Raj isn’t at our usual spot—some kids I don’t know have camped out at it. In fact, I don’t see Raj at all.
But I do see Brianna. She’s sitting by herself, scrolling through her phone. I head to her table.
“Can I sit here?” I ask.
She smiles widely. “Ellie! Of course!”
The hot lunch today is chicken nuggets. I take a bite. They’re hard and cold. “Yuck.”
“Not as good as crispy corn dogs?” she teases.
The Third Mushroom Page 7