The Third Mushroom

by Jennifer L. Holm

  We had a crispy corn dog inside joke when we were younger.

  “So that dinner was pretty crazy, huh?” she says. “I thought Melvin was dying or something.”

  “Just really bad gas,” I tell her.

  “He’s not into me, right?” she asks.

  “It’s not personal. He’s not interested in anybody.”

  Brianna shakes her head and sighs.

  We sit quietly for a moment and watch the action on the lunch court like it’s a movie. There’s a tall, thin boy balancing a tray in one hand and a phone in the other. He stares at his phone as he navigates the crowd. Or doesn’t. Because he walks right into another kid, knocking his tray to the ground. The food splatters everywhere.

  Brianna and I can’t help ourselves: we crack up laughing. It’s terrible. But a kid dropping food never gets old.

  “I thought he was kind of cute until he dropped the tray,” Brianna says.

  “Raj and I went on a date,” I say suddenly.

  She looks at me.

  “I figured you liked him,” she says.

  “It’s all a mess, though,” I tell her.

  “Why? What happened?”

  “That’s just it. Nothing really happened. We went to a movie and now we’re not talking. It just felt weird.”

  “Oh,” she says sympathetically. “That’s too bad.”

  I realize what else is weird: I’m talking to my old best friend about my new best friend, who I’m not talking to at the moment.

  “Sometimes I miss being in elementary school,” Brianna confesses. “Everything was easier.”

  I know exactly what she means.

  “Remember kindergarten?” I ask. “We didn’t even have homework! All we did was play and eat animal crackers.”

  “Animal crackers were the best! Why don’t we eat them anymore?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I guess it’s some dumb rule. No animal crackers when you grow up.”

  She grins at me. “You know what? I’m going to bring some animal crackers for us tomorrow.”

  “Think they’ll taste the same?”

  Brianna points to my tray of chicken nuggets. “Anything will taste better than that.”

  And we both laugh.

  I might be able to sleep through an earthquake, but apparently I can’t sleep through a cat meowing.

  The sound pulls me right out of a dream. It was a weird one, anyway. I dreamt I was at school and I was wandering around an empty lunch court. I couldn’t decide where to sit, and I was so lonely. Maybe it was actually a nightmare.

  I look around and see Jonas sitting by my closed bedroom door.

  “Do you want to get out?” I ask him, and then realize he’s not the one making all the noise. The meowing is coming from the other side of the door.

  I open the door and reveal the culprit: the orange tabby.

  “Isn’t it a little early for this?” I ask the cat.

  The cat doesn’t seem to care; he brushes up against my bare leg.

  “This isn’t your house, you know,” I say as I walk to the kitchen, the two cats trailing behind me.

  I give Jonas his morning wet food, and the orange cat watches as he eats. I feel a little guilty about not giving the other cat any food, but I think he’ll probably just move in if I do.

  “I have to go to school. What are you guys going to do today?” I ask them.

  The orange tabby cat turns tail and makes a run for the cat door, and Jonas darts after him. They slip outside.

  “I guess that’s my answer.”

  * * *

  —

  The bus is packed after school. And naturally, the only empty seat is next to Raj. I guess the whole goth thing can be kind of intimidating.

  When I walk past him, I pretend I don’t see the seat. I don’t stop until I reach the back of the bus. Of course, my grandfather is only too happy to grab the empty seat.

  I hold on to the pole and watch them as they talk. My grandfather waves his hands as Raj listens. What’s going on? What are they talking about? What am I missing? I feel completely left out.

  The two of them chat until Raj gets off.

  Finally, it’s our stop, and my grandfather and I get off the bus and walk home.

  “So, Raj told me he’s made it to the finals in the chess competition,” my grandfather says. “I’m impressed, even if he does insist on putting holes in his nose.”

  I shrug but don’t say anything. I can’t believe he knows more about Raj than I do.

  “What’s going on with you?” my grandfather asks me.

  “Nothing,” I say.

  “Is this the Puberty?”

  “It’s not the Puberty! I don’t want to talk about it.”

  He studies me for a moment.

  “Fine,” he says, and it’s silence the rest of the way home.

  Jonas is lying in the sun on the bottom porch step when we walk up the driveway. The orange tabby tom is next to Jonas, grooming him.

  “What adventures have you boys been up to today?” I ask them.

  Jonas blinks at me.

  “Come inside and I’ll give both of you a snack.”

  I unlock the front door and open it. The orange tabby cat darts inside.

  My grandfather is staring at Jonas, an odd expression on his face.

  “Come on, Jonas,” I say.

  At the sound of my voice, Jonas lifts his head. His front paws scramble and he tries to drag himself up the step, but his hind legs just lie there. He gives me a confused, tired look.

  My grandfather goes still.

  “Ellie,” he says in an urgent voice. “Call your mother.”

  * * *

  —

  The receptionist comes around the desk and shouts for a veterinarian when we walk in the door of the animal hospital carrying Jonas wrapped in a towel. They take him to the back right away.

  My mother and grandfather and I sit in the waiting room with other pet owners and their animals. The waiting room is over-the-top cutesy with posters of playful puppies and baskets of kittens. The whole thing has a horrible feeling of déjà vu. This is like the animal version of my grandfather’s visit to the emergency room.

  Finally, they let us go back to see Jonas. The examination room has that same antiseptic smell as the hospital. My cat is lying on a stainless steel table with an IV, and he doesn’t even look up when we come in.

  The veterinarian is wearing scrubs decorated with puppies.

  “He’s in shock, and there are neurological issues,” she tells us. “When did you last see him?”

  “This morning,” I say. “He was fine this morning!”

  “He may have fallen from a high floor,” the doctor says.

  “We live in a one-story house,” my mom says tearfully.

  “And we have a cat door!” I add.

  The doctor looks thoughtful. “Then he was most likely hit by a car. We see this sort of thing a lot when animals experience traumatic injuries.”

  My mom squeezes my hand.

  The veterinarian gives Jonas a considering look.

  “He definitely has some paralysis in his back legs, so we need to run some more tests. We’ll give you a call after the tests are finished, and we can assess next steps then.”

  On the drive home, I stare out the window. How did this happen? Everything changed in the blink of an eye.

  My mom tries to be optimistic.

  “That vet seemed very smart,” she says. “I feel like Jonas is in good hands.”

  But my grandfather, who always has an opinion, says nothing.

  The next day at school, everything is a fog. I go through the motions, but I don’t pay attention. How can I possibly care about math when Jonas is hurt? I hold it together unti
l I get to last period, science. And then I see Mr. Ham’s tie: it has cats on it.

  I go to the bathroom and throw up.

  Mr. Ham sends me to the school nurse, who lets me lie on the couch-bed and gives me some water. I tell her what happened and she’s sympathetic. She works weekends at the emergency room.

  “Sometimes these things turn around,” she says. “Don’t give up just yet.”

  Part of me is still hopeful when we go to the animal hospital after school. But when I see the look on the vet’s face, that hope is smashed, and all the glue in the world can’t put it back together.

  “I’m so sorry,” the vet says. “I’m afraid it doesn’t look good.”

  “His spinal cord?” my grandfather asks, and he sounds like a doctor.

  “Yes,” she says.

  “I suspected as much,” my grandfather murmurs.

  My mom’s breath hitches on a sob.

  “Can I see him?” I whisper.

  “Of course,” the vet says.

  Jonas is lying in a padded cage, his eyes closed. He doesn’t even look like he’s breathing. He’s got an IV in his paw.

  “How long?” my mom asks.

  “It’s hard to say. In a case like this, he may linger a day or two,” the vet says. “Or we can put him to sleep.”

  “I don’t understand!” I say.

  The doctor gives me a practiced look. “We can manage his pain and hydrate him, but he’s not going to improve. His spinal cord is badly damaged.”

  My mom makes a small sound. She looks like she’s going to start crying.

  “What about antibiotics?” I ask. “Like penicillin?”

  The doctor just looks at me.

  This is all happening too fast. I can’t take it in.

  “You want to put him to sleep?” I burst out. I look at Jonas. “He’s a fighter. I know he is!”

  “We’ll have to discuss it,” my mom says.

  Then the doctor says in a terribly kind voice, “Take all the time you need.”

  * * *

  —

  My mom drops my grandfather and me off at home. She has dress rehearsal tonight, so she has to go back to school, especially after canceling last night.

  “This is awful timing all around,” she says.

  I nod like I understand. But I don’t. How can there be a good time for something like this?

  My mother says, “We’ll make a decision in the morning. I’ll call and check on you.”

  Then it’s just me and my grandfather. I’m full of nervous energy. I can’t bear to sit still; I need to be busy.

  “I’m going to make dinner,” I say.

  “Good idea,” my grandfather replies.

  The kitchen is a mess. It’s been completely neglected in the last twenty-four hours. I unload the dishwasher, scrub the dirty pots and pans, and wipe down the counter. The cleaner the kitchen gets, the calmer I feel.

  Then I pull the overflowing trash bag out of the container and carry it to the garage. My eyes fall on the deep freezer in the corner, and suddenly it’s so obvious.

  My grandfather’s sitting on the couch when I walk into the den.

  “The axolotl,” I say.

  He sighs heavily as if he’s been waiting for me to say this.

  “It grew wings and an appendix. Would it regrow a spine?”

  “I don’t know,” he admits.

  But I do know.

  “Please!”

  “Ellie,” he cautions me. “You need to think about this very carefully. There’s no guarantee it will work. And it may actually hurt Jonas. Animals can’t tell us when they’re in pain.”

  I flinch at the thought of Jonas suffering. But I don’t know what to do. Should we try—and maybe cause Jonas pain—in the hope that he’ll live? Or do we just let Jonas live out his last days and then let him die? I suddenly understand better what my grandfather and mother went through with my grandmother, because these are impossible choices. Everything is horrible.

  Then I look at the couch, at the empty fuzzy blanket, and imagine my cat curled up there. I know in my heart that I can’t just let him die without trying. So I say the words I know will sway my grandfather.

  “I would do anything to save Jonas,” I say.

  My grandfather closes his eyes and nods.

  * * *

  —

  We take a cab to the animal hospital, and my grandfather does the talking when we get there. He explains that we want to take Jonas for one last night at home and that my mom is waiting outside for us in the car. The vet doesn’t seem the least bit surprised.

  “A lot of people do this,” she tells us. “I always encourage it. It’s a chance to say good-bye.”

  Then we’re back in the cab, this time with my cat. My feelings waver between worry and hope.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I tell Jonas.

  At home, I take Jonas out of his cage and put him on a pile of towels with his favorite blanket from the couch on top. He looks confused but doesn’t even twitch when my grandfather injects the axolotl through a syringe into the base of his spine.

  After it’s over, my grandfather orders Chinese food for dinner. I’m actually hungry for the first time since all this started. I try to feed Jonas a little chicken, but he ignores it.

  My mom calls to check in on us, and my grandfather tells her everything’s fine. We move into the den and sit on the couch with Jonas on the blanket and watch TV. The lawyer show is comforting because I don’t have to pay attention to know what’s going on.

  An owl hoots somewhere outside, the sound carrying through the open window.

  For the first time, Jonas lifts his head.

  “Is it okay to take him outside?” I ask my grandfather.

  “It’s fine,” he assures me.

  We sit with Jonas on the deck. It’s a clear night, the sky a blanket of stars.

  “Is that a comet?” I ask, pointing up at a light moving fast across the sky.

  “It’s moving too fast. That’s probably a satellite. Also, comets have tails.”

  “Like cats,” I say.

  We don’t say anything for a minute. My cat seems content to be outside and looks around at every noise.

  Then my grandfather says abruptly, “She called it ‘minding the heavens.’ ”

  “Who did?” I ask.

  “Caroline Herschel called her observations of the night sky ‘minding the heavens.’ I always liked the sound of that phrase.”

  I see what he means. It makes something scientific sound almost magical.

  “I like it, too,” I say.

  The three of us sit there until my mother comes home, the soft night air around us as we mind the heavens.

  When I wake up, bright streaks of light are spilling around the edges of my blinds, giving my room a warm glow. It’s morning. The sun is shining. A fresh day. I feel hopeful. Then I look down at the floor and see Jonas.

  He’s breathing funny. Panting. Like a dog.

  I go over to him and say, “Jonas, what’s wrong?”

  But he just pants, his mouth open, his pink tongue sticking out, and I know this isn’t right.

  “Grandpa!” I shout.

  My grandfather is there a moment later. He’s already dressed for school.

  “Ellie?”

  “Something’s wrong with Jonas!”

  My grandfather gently rubs the side of my cat’s belly.

  “He’s in respiratory distress,” he says. “It happens with spinal injuries.”

  “So it didn’t work?”

  He strokes his hand gently along the back of Jonas’s spine near the tail and then touches the bottom of a back paw. My cat doesn’t move. The whole back of Jonas’s body is limp as a rag.

  My
grandfather looks at me, and although his face is young, his eyes are old.

  “Ellie,” he says, “there was too much damage to his spine.”

  “Can’t we just give it more time?” I ask desperately.

  “Time can’t fix this,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

  I look at Jonas panting.

  And I’m sorry, too.

  * * *

  —

  Everyone is very helpful. The receptionist helps my mother fill out the paperwork, and the assistant brings me tissues. The vet comes out and asks if we have any questions about what’s going to happen.

  But the questions I have, no one can answer: Why is my cat dying? How can everybody be so calm about it?

  They bring us into the little examination room. There’s a tray with shots. Someone’s put a thick plush blanket on the stainless steel table. Jonas is already lying there, his eyes shut.

  “Hi, Jonas,” I whisper, but he doesn’t seem to hear me.

  “Do you want to stay with him?” the vet asks me.

  I look at Jonas lying there and then at the vet. I’m not brave like those scientists who infected themselves with the yellow fever virus. I’m a complete coward. I shake my head.

  “It’s all right. I’ll stay,” my grandfather says in a gruff voice.

  “We both will,” my mother adds.

  My grandfather looks at her and then nods.

  “Go wait outside, sweetie,” my mom tells me.

  I rush out of the room without looking back.

  My grandfather croons to Jonas, “It’ll be okay, old fella.”

  For once, I don’t hope for a Happening. I want everything to be boring and normal again. I wish I was in school. I’d be in second-period math, and I’d be so happy to take a test right about now. I would give anything not to be sitting here pretending to read old magazines.

  I want time to slow down, to reverse, to go backward. But the clock on the wall is cruel. The minutes tick by—one, two, three, four. Before the minute hand revolves another time, my grandfather walks out with my mother, his arm around her back, supporting her. Tears run down her face.

  And I know my cat is gone forever.