by Rob Harrell
I suddenly feel like walls are closing in on me, even though I’m outside.
Abby steps closer, carefully, like she’s approaching a wild animal. Then she moves to hug me, but I can’t right now. I step back, give her arm a squeeze, and walk away.
I don’t look back, and Abby doesn’t follow.
It’s a long walk to my house, but I’m okay with that. It’s dark. There are a lot of people out—parents, kids, various ghouls—and I’m glad my face is hidden in shadows. I go back and forth between crying and fuming a few times. Sometimes both at the same time.
By the time I get home, I’m sniffling, but I’ve mostly pulled myself together. I go straight into the garage and grab my dad’s stained old CD player from the workbench. I open the top and take out Journey’s Greatest Hits, whatever that is, and leave it on one of his work towels.
My dad and Linda look up as I stomp through the kitchen with the CD player, the power cord rattling across the floor behind me. I know my dad wants to ask why I’m home early, but the look on my face stops him. Or maybe Abby’s mom called them.
In my room, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror—big dumb hat and all—and I really want to scream. I’m not sure who to be mad at, so I’m just mad. At the world. At myself for having stupid cancer.
I throw my hat at the wall and toss my backpack on the bed. I dig out Frank’s CD and my earbuds. It’s a minor miracle, but once I untangle them, they fit into the boom box’s ancient jack.
Twenty seconds later, I’m on the bed, pillow over my head and awash in Ripe Sponge. I listen to that first song four times—my muscles slowly relaxing—before I move on to the second.
Then the third.
Fourteen songs about horny vampires and tragic love stories. Life on the road, teenage rebels, angry loners, and songs with screamed lyrics I mostly don’t understand. Some of those are my favorites. The guitars seem to say what I’m feeling the best.
The guitars.
Stuttering rhythm lines. Wailing solos. Even the finger-picked ballads strike a nerve. Not to sound weird, but it’s like a whole new language.
One I didn’t know I needed until now.
By the time I fall asleep, I’ve listened to the entire mix at least three times.
12
THROCKTON
This seems like a good time to talk about how I met Dr. Throckton—the Man with All the Answers.
The morning after Dr. Popsicle told me they were going to take my eye and then blind me, I had no desire to get out of bed. None. But I did lie there looking at things in my room—toys, action figures—trying to memorize them. For later.
Like, if I went blind, would I remember what Homer Simpson looked like? Or would my memory of him slowly morph over time into some weird mutant Homer?
Then my eyes fell on the framed picture of my mom on the dresser. I went over to get it and lay there for half an hour trying to memorize every detail. Every curl in her hair. I couldn’t forget. I wouldn’t.
I mostly remember her from this picture. I was just about to turn five when she died, so one of the main things I remember is the feeling of lying next to her on the couch while she was sketching. She always smelled like fresh laundry. I could seriously go for some lying-next-to-Mom about now.
Then I went to my closet and pulled out a small leather photo album. My mom put it together for me before she died. It’s full of photos of us together. Some with my dad too. Some are just of her.
The two of us at Kings Island, a person in a Scooby-Doo costume standing between us. Her feeding baby me, some kind of yellow stuff all over my face. One of my mom, her head back and her hair messed up, laughing so hard she has tears on her cheeks.
For some reason I try to only pull this out on rare occasions, like her birthday. It makes it more special.
I stared at her face in all those photos and wondered how she’d felt when she had cancer. It was like we had a new, unfortunate connection, and I may have missed her more right then than I ever have.
I found one of all three of us on the front steps. I look three or four. My mom’s mouth was smiling, but I couldn’t stop looking at her eyes. Were they smiling as well? Did she know she was sick when it was taken? Was there just a hint of fear in her eyes? Or worry? It was hard to say for sure, but there was something so warm and human there, I didn’t want to stop looking for answers in them.
Near the back of the album, I’ve tucked a small note under the protective plastic. My mom wrote it—or wrote it for me—just after I turned four, when we were putting away our Christmas tree. (A fake tree. My dad’s allergic.)
We found it the year after she died. Or at least my dad says we did. I don’t really remember. It was in the bottom of the tree box in a red envelope.
My dad explained to me at some point that my mom sat down with me and wrote this. It was something she had done as a kid and was hoping I’d make a tradition: When you take the tree down, slip a note in there for your future self.
I’ve done it every year since.
He also told me my mom was in remission when she wrote this, so the cheery tone was real.
I lay there and read the note a few times until my eyes got all watery and then I carefully put it back in its protected spot.
Eventually, I got out of bed and put the photo album back. I spent a long time in the mirror trying to imagine myself with a fake eye. I mean, I already felt weird with just a hat and a bald spot. How was I going to . . . Was I gonna look like the Phantom of the Opera? Would I scare small children?
I made a mental note to look up facial prosthetics, but I wasn’t exactly rushing to the computer. I was pretty sure I wouldn’t like what I saw.
My dad and Linda were at the kitchen table. Linda was next to my dad, rubbing his back as they sat and read their Kindles. Probably reading the books Dr. Popsicle recommended. When I walked in, they quickly set them aside and gave me their full, concerned attention.
“Hey, bud.” My dad jumped up, wiping his eyes and looking away. For the first time, I realized he was at least as scared as I was.
“Want some breakfast? I can make hole-in-ones! Or scrambled?”
I shook my head, looking around the kitchen. Again, I was memorizing. I couldn’t stop. We’d lived in this house since before I could remember—if I looked over at that frog-shaped cookie jar, was there a chance it would be the last time I’d see it?
“I’m not really hungry.” The thought of eggs made me feel carsick.
He nodded. “Okay. Sure. Wanna go do something? You name it.”
“I don’t think . . . Is it okay if I just go down and play a video game?”
“Absolutely.” He gave me a weak smile. “You do you. I have some people that should be calling me back. We may take you for a second opinion. To another doctor. Or . . .”
Linda reached over and rubbed my arm. “You just go take it easy, okay? Yell up if you want me to bring you anything.” She smiled. “Anything.”
I went to the basement but didn’t put on a game. I just ended up lying on my back. Thinking. Zoning out. I may have drifted in and out of sleep a couple of times.
At some point I got up and tried navigating around the furniture with my eyes closed. A Blindness Test Run. The more I felt my way around, the more the panic tightened up in my chest.
That lasted until I racked myself pretty good on a bar stool.
That was enough practice for the day, so I went into Annihilation: Moon zone.
A little before noon, my dad’s phone rang, and a few minutes later I heard the door to the basement open.
My dad came down the steps quickly, and when I turned, I saw something like hope on his face. He was still holding the phone.
“Who was that?” I asked, not really expecting much.
My dad took a shuddery, deep breath. “That was Dr. Sheffler. He has someone we need to talk with.”
At 3:18 that afternoon, I met Dr. Throckton. As he came into the room, I spotted a partially eaten Pop-Tart stic
king out of his coat pocket.
He was carrying a clipboard, a couple of folders, and a Scrabble mug dripping coffee. His hair was messed up—which gave him a mad scientist vibe—but when he introduced himself, he was all business.
He shook my hand first. “You must be Ross. Thank you for coming to see me.” He looked over at my dad and Linda. “I’m glad Dr. Sheffler insisted we meet. And thank you for having the scans sent over.” Back to me. “Ross, you have a very interesting case.”
Dr. Throckton was apparently some sort of miracle worker with proton radiotherapy. I was really hoping so, at this point.
He foot-hooked his stool over in that effortless way they must teach in med school. Rolled over to a computer and waggled the mouse to wake up the screen. It filled with a black-and-white scan of a brain. My brain. And my eyeballs. My tumor.
My dad couldn’t take the suspense. “So do you think you can help?”
“Oh, yeah.” Throckton took a sip of his coffee. “I can save Ross’s eye.”
We all sat there for a second.
“You mean the good eye? Or the other one? I don’t . . .”
He smiled. “I mean both of ’em.” Then he turned to me. “Don’t let them take your eye, Ross.”
Dr. Throckton shot immediately to the position of Favorite Person Ever for All Time and earned the nickname the Man with All the Answers. My dad and I still call him that.
Then he began to talk. And explain. And within five minutes, I knew I was in a room with the smartest person I’d ever met. He took us through the scans—little cross sections of my brain and eyes and the tumor—and talked about them until they made sense. He explained all about proton radiotherapy in a way that made me feel smarter just hearing it. It turns out it’s different from traditional radiation. With protons, they can zap just the things they want to zap, and not the stuff they don’t. Like my “good” eye.
“Now, Ross, you will lose the sight in your right eye. But we won’t remove it. Or the orbit.”
I thought about that for a few seconds. I could deal with that. Especially given the alternative.
“I’m okay with one blind eye, I guess.”
Throckton nodded. “I thought you would be. Given the alternative.”
He looked relieved that I’d taken it so well. “And it’ll take a while for the vision in that eye to go. It’s not an instant thing.”
“Okay. But not in the good eye.”
He nodded. “Not the good eye. We’ll protect that one with our life.”
And just like that, we had a new plan.
Have surgery. (A much less severe one that left my eye intact.)
Recover.
Get zapped a couple months later.
I walked out of there like a boss. I was going to go through a difficult surgery and eight weeks of radiation and lose the sight in one of my eyes . . . and yet I felt like a million bucks.
13
PLAY THAT FUNKY MUSIC
The day after the Bad Halloween—or the Night of the Memes—is a Saturday, and my radiation is scheduled for nine a.m. I’m awake and dressed by eight thirty, waiting on the stairs for my dad. He doesn’t ask what happened the night before, but I feel the curiosity coming off him in waves.
My mind is surprisingly focused, given how incredibly upset I was the night before.
The waiting room is empty, so I sit with my jaw set and listen to the aquariums bubble for what feels like forever. When I finally hear the electric doors open, I’m off the couch moving. Frank comes through, smiling.
“Ross! Did you—”
I cut him off. “Can you teach me guitar?”
He stops, his smile shifting. He looks off for a second, thinking.
“Umm . . . I suppose so? I mean . . . I’ve never taught anyone . . . but I could try.” He squints at me, puzzled. “What’s up? You okay?”
I waggle my head and my hand. “Not really. No. Also, I don’t have a guitar.”
Frank nods for a few seconds. “That’s okay. I’ve got you covered.”
“So, okay.” I breathe. Crack a couple knuckles. It feels like blood is flowing back into my body for the first time since Abby told me about the memes.
“So, okay.” He’s still nodding. Small, thoughtful nods.
“C’mon.”
After my treatment, I text my dad, so he can come inside and talk with Frank.
The niceties out of the way, I get straight to business. I put on my most serious face. “Dad, I’ve asked Frank to teach me guitar.”
My dad looks back and forth at us, his eyebrows up. “I . . . Guitar? Okay . . . You give guitar lessons?”
“Nope. Never even thought about it.” Frank shakes his head. “But I play. A lot. And I guess I’m willing to give the teaching part a try. I mean, I’ll have to check that it’s okay with the bosses here, but . . . yeah.”
My dad looks back at me, caught off guard. Even though Abby’s been after me to take up an instrument for a couple of years, I’ve never shown the slightest interest. And I hated every second when we had to play the recorder in fifth grade.
We end up sitting in the waiting room while my dad and Frank sip coffee, discussing how this would work. I can tell my dad is unsure about this bearded, shaggy-haired tech at first, but Frank gets him laughing a few times—like I knew he would—and I can see my dad relax. Frank suggests we both come by his house the next day after Ripe Sponge gets done with their practice.
“Ripe Sponge?”
Frank gives his head a sad shake and holds up a hand. “Yeah, That’s . . . Good band, horrible name. It’s a long story.”
“Fair enough.” My dad looks over at me. “What are these lessons going to cost?” He seems more amused than concerned.
Frank finishes a sip and swallows quickly. “No, no. Let’s try a couple first. On me. I may very well be terrible at this. But if not, we’ll figure something out.”
And just like that, it’s settled.
That night Abby has some big dinner with her family planned. Her dad got them reservations at Abby’s favorite place. (An old steak place called Janko’s Little Zagreb, with steaks the size of a hubcap. I mentioned she’s not a dainty eater.) Her dad said they’re having a Family Meeting. Whatever that means.
We text a couple of times when they’re on their way to Janko’s, mostly about how Destroy All Monsters is on at eleven on some obscure channel. She agrees to text me after dinner.
I hang out in my room and listen to the mix, trying to run through the faces of all the kids in my school. Who’d be the type to make those memes?
I don’t have many suspects, but one face keeps popping into my mind.
Jimmy (aka Mr. Spit).
If there’s a kid with a legendary mean streak in our school, that’s the guy.
I must fall asleep, because at some point I’m jolted awake by my phone buzzing. It’s Abby, which is really weird. She communicates by text almost exclusively. Occasionally she’ll FaceTime, but she literally never uses her phone as a phone. So something is off.
I answer, and the first thing I hear is a loud, snotty sniff on the other end. I think she’s crying, and my heart stops.
“Abby? What’s wrong?”
She sniffs a couple more times and blows her nose. “Rossss.”
Something isn’t good.
“I . . . I have news. Bad news, okay?”
I bolt upright in bed. “Is everybody okay?”
“Yeah, it’s not like that.” As she speaks, I realize she isn’t crying quite as hard as I thought, but it sounds like she was recently. “Do . . . do you remember my dad was talking with his brother? About that job in Minnesota, working with him?”
Now I see the punch coming, in slow motion, but there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
I take as deep a breath as my lungs will let me. “Yeah.”
“He’s, um . . . he’s taking it. We’re moving. To Saint Paul. Where my uncle’s family is.” She caps it with a little sad intake of air.
I’m stunned.
Her dad has talked, off and on, about going to work with his brother—some kind of software business that is doing really well—but it’s always just been dinner table chatter. Not something that might actually happen.
I start to speak, and it’s hard to get words around the rock that’s suddenly stuck in my throat. “Wh-when?”
She sniffs. “Christmas break. Like, as soon as we’re done with school. They put it off till then for me and school, or else we’d be going now.”
“Christmas break? That’s, like, two months from now!”
She lets out a small “Yep” and I let that sink in.
“Wait. Seriously? This isn’t one of your—”
“Seriously.” She cuts me off. “Pinky swear, unfortunately.”
I scoot back so I can lean against the headboard. I’m looking around my room, searching for the right thing to say.
“I don’t. Want that.” It sounds stupid and awkward as it comes out.
Abby lets out a sad little sound. Like a sigh mixed with a groan. “I know. I don’t either.”
Am I gonna barf? I may barf. A horrifying thought occurs to me. “Oh, man. First Isaac. Now you. I’m gonna have to make new friends.”
She laughs, kind of. “Right? Me too. I’ll be going to my cousin’s school, but still.”
Abby has a cousin in St. Paul her same age named April. Super popular. Cheerleader. All that.
“You’ll be fine. You’ve got April and all her friends.”
Abby sighs. “April’s a twit. You’ve met her.”
She’s right. April is a twit.
“Also, don’t lump me with Isaac.” Another sniff. I can tell her nose is almost stuffed shut. “This move isn’t my choice.”
“Sorry.”
We sit in total silence for a couple of minutes, which is a long time in phone silence. The rest of my public-school career yawns out in front of me like a huge, best-friendless question mark. Abby’s too.