by Andrea Ring
“I’m so sorry to hear about your mother,” Dr. Rumson says.
“Thank you,” I say. “It’s been a difficult time.”
“Is that what you would like to speak to me about?”
I shake my head. “Not exactly. Well, maybe so, now that I think about it. I’m curious about souls.”
“Souls?”
“Yes. Do you believe in them?”
“Of course. The soul is the divine part of the human being, the part connected to God. When we die, our soul goes to Heaven, to be rejoined with the One who made us.”
“Do you believe the soul carries our memories and our personality?”
“A difficult question. Our memories, yes. Of who we loved, and who loved us. Of our experiences and relationship with God. Personality, I think, is not so important when we pass on.”
“But what if, say, someone were selfish. Or generous. Or a liar. Or honest. Wouldn’t that be important for God to know?”
“Those things are recorded in our actions, which directly affect our relationship with God. When a pie is cut, for example, we all salivate, we all hunger for the biggest piece of the pie, but do we take it? If we give that giant piece of pie to our mother, who loves pumpkin pie, we’re acting as God intended. We’re bringing ourselves closer to Him. If we take that piece of pie for ourselves, we move away from Him. We act, and God knows.”
“So God doesn’t know our thoughts?”
“He does,” Dr. Rumson says, “but He doesn’t care about them. He knows that since we’re trapped in these earthly bodies, sometimes we think all kinds of crazy things. That’s okay. It’s our actions that matter.”
I think about this. I tuck my legs underneath me in the chair and sit up on them to get a better view of the minister. “I’ve seen in movies where people go to confession and they confess unpure thoughts.”
“That is in the Catholic church, not in the Episcopalian. There are many different denominations of Christianity, and each interprets our religion differently. I don’t want to encourage you to think bad thoughts, but I don’t believe that God will punish you for them.”
“So how do you know that we all have a soul? I don’t feel like I have one.”
Dr. Rumson laughs. “Do you feel like you have a spleen? Kidneys? A gall bladder?”
“Yes.”
Grandma pokes me.
“I mean, we can take a human body apart and see those things. We know they’re there.”
“The Holy Scripture, the Bible, says we have a soul.”
“But I don’t see it, don’t feel it.”
“It’s called faith, Thomas. Some things cannot be known with our heads—we have to feel them with our hearts. If you study the Bible, and you pray, and you try to live your life the way God would want you to live it, you will feel His presence. You will know that He’s there, and that He loves you.”
“God wants me to live my life a certain way? How do I know what way that is?”
“God just wants you to be a good person and to be close to Him.”
“So the rest is up to me?”
“Yes,” Dr. Rumson says.
“On Sunday you said that God has a plan for each of us. How can He have a plan and at the same time let me choose?”
Dr. Rumson removes his wire-rimmed glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. “Even the adults in my congregation are not so challenging,” he says.
I feel abashed. I look at Grandma, and she gives me a smile of encouragement. “I’m sorry if I’m being a nuisance,” I tell him.
He laughs. “You are anything but. I wish everyone were as thoughtful as you about their faith. I’ve always thought the strongest faith comes when you question and doubt, and God still makes His presence known.” He replaces the glasses on his nose. “God’s plan for all of us is to live a good, selfless life, close to Him. That’s it. The particulars are up to you. You can be a doctor or an electrician. You can have children of your own or be a doting uncle. You can come to church three times a week, or you can pray to God every night in your bed. Your choice.”
“You mean I don’t have to come to church to be a Christian?” I say, surprised.
“I’d like you to. It will strengthen your relationship with God and give you a sense of community. It’s a very real sign of our faith. But it’s not necessary. God knows what’s in your heart. He’s always with you.”
“Dr. Rumson,” I say, “here’s the thing: I wasn’t raised to believe in God. My mother said that religion was a crutch for the weak. She said that there was too much evil in the world for God to exist. She taught me to believe in myself, and she was a good person. She always tried to do the right thing.”
Dr. Rumson says softly, “Even the best of us can be misguided.”
I nod slowly. “I just don’t think I’m ready to remember her that way.”
“I can understand that.”
I sit back on my knees and sigh. “I think that’s it for now.”
“Can we speak again?” Dr. Rumson asks as he rises. “Next week, same time?”
Grandma stands and looks down at me. “What do you think?”
“Yeah, a week,” I say. “I don’t think I’ll be mad at you by then.”
They exchange an awkward smile, and we bid the good minister goodbye.
Chapter Twenty-One
I berate myself all through the afternoon and on into dinner and after dinner and even as I lie in bed for not having foreseen the outcome of my meeting with Dr. Rumson.
Mom’s in Hell, or she’s in Heaven, or she’s dust.
Mom is gone.
I cry myself to sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Tessa walks home with me from school, and we’re both licking lollipops we earned for picking up ten pieces of trash and depositing them properly in the garbage can before the bell rang.
“Is your dad home yet?” Tessa asks me.
“Nope.”
“Did you Skype him last night?”
“No.” I let Grandma handle that, at least after I gave her a three-hour tutorial on how to accept Dad’s calls.
“He didn’t call?”
“He did,” I say, licking. “I missed it.”
“What a fail,” Tessa says, using some new phrase her brothers taught her. “I love Skype. You can see yourself, just like the other person can see you. I love being on the computer.”
“Yeah, it’s fun,” I say.
“Maybe we can Skype somebody when we get home.”
“Well, they have to accept our call, but we could try it. Who?”
“How about my brothers?”
“Okay. We’ll do it.”
We get home, have a snack, and get on the computer. Tessa knows her brothers’ numbers, and we try to call them, but they don’t pick up. She even calls her house, asking them to answer, but they’re not interested.
“Fail,” she says with a sigh. “Gigantic fail. Isn’t there anyone else?”
My list of Skype contacts includes exactly one person: Dad.
“No, no one else,” I say, rising from my chair.
“Oh, here,” Tessa says, pointing at the screen. “Your dad. Let’s call your dad.”
“He’s really busy, Tessa, and I don’t think we should bother him.”
Tessa’s eyes go from excited to disappointed to ashamed.
“Oh, yeah. I’m sorry,” she says.
Damn it. I cannot stand to see that look in her eyes, and I didn’t mean to make her feel bad.
I sit back down. “We’ll try. He probably won’t answer.”
Tessa squeals and hugs my arm. God, I’m a sucker.
I call up Dad, fully expecting nothing to happen.
He answers on the third ring.
“Thomas…is everything alright?”
He looks ill. His skin is pale except for the purple bruises under his eyes, and he’s wearing a white t-shirt, wrinkled and stretched-out around the collar.
“Hi, Mr. Van Zandt!” Tessa says, waving a
t the screen.
“Tessa,” Dad says, and he seems to perk up a bit. “Hey. What are you guys up to?”
“Not much. We tried to Skype my brothers, but they didn’t want to talk. So we decided to talk to you.”
“So I’m your second choice, huh?”
Tessa laughs.
“Are you guys having fun?”
Tessa looks at me.
“Yes, sir, we are. We just got home from school.”
“We got lollipops for being good helpers,” Tessa adds.
“What are you…up to, Dad?” I ask
“Oh, just work, you know…trying to tie up loose ends so I can get out of here.”
“Are you…coming home soon?” I ask carefully.
“Two more weeks, I think. I’m finishing my last assignment.”
“Is that like homework?” Tessa asks.
Dad laughs. “Exactly like. And I better get back to it.”
“Okay, bye!” Tessa says, waving again.
“Bye, you two. Be good for Grandma. Take care, Thomas.”
I swallow. “You, too.”
We spend the rest of the afternoon molding homemade play dough. I found the recipe on the Internet, and Grandma made a batch earlier today. It doesn’t feel right, like the stuff you buy. It’s grainier, and less stiff. If I mold something tall, it tends to fall over. Fail, as Tessa would say.
Tessa leaves, we have dinner, and Grandma goes to take the trash out while I clear the table. She opens the door and screams at the top of her lungs. I drop the plates on the counter and run out to her.
“Grandma! What is it?”
She is standing at the doorway, looking down. On the mat is a dead mouse.
“Yew,” I say, grimacing. “Another present from Mr. Sprinkles?”
Grandma clutches the doorjamb. “It would appear so. That damn cat is going to give me a heart attack.”
I have a sudden idea.
“Here, I’ll get it. You go on and do the dishes.” I take the bag of trash from her hands and push her along.
“Don’t touch it, Thomas, not with your bare hands.”
“I won’t.”
“Get the dustpan from the pantry. You can scoop it up into the trash bag.”
I dutifully follow her instructions, but instead of putting the trash bag in the large trash bin, I stash it behind a bush on the side of the house.
I help Grandma clear the rest of the dishes. Then I begin to worry about ants getting to the mouse, or maybe Mr. Sprinkles nosing around in the trash bag. I find a shoebox in my room, tell Grandma I’m going to throw it away, and rush back out to my bush. I carefully tip the mouse into the box, put the trash bag in the bin, and wonder where I can put the box where it will be undisturbed.
I could put it in Grandma’s car—no ants. But it might smell. Anywhere in the yard is a bad idea. Maybe in a tree? No, ants can climb, and we have squirrels and raccoons and opossums. Damn it, my time is running out.
“Thomas?”
“Coming!”
I decide to bring the box back in the house with me.
“Sorry,” I say, holding up the box. “I was debating whether or not to get rid of this thing. But I think I thought of a use for it.”
“Okay,” she says with a puzzled smile. “Gimme a kiss before you scamper off.”
Scamper. Like the mouse. I giggle. And kiss Grandma on the cheek good night.
I get in my pajamas and take out a pencil and notebook. I need to make plans.
I’ll need wires for sure. Batteries, probably nine volt, because I don’t want to mess with anything stronger. Alligator clips, which I have in the garage on my workbench. My soldering iron. I’ve never used it without Dad before, but I know how it works. A transformer. Might have to take something apart to get one—I’ll have to look in the garage. A switch. Got that.
All set.
I’ll try electricity first and see what happens. Probably nothing, but the idea’s stuck in my head and it won’t leave until I try it. But when it fails, I’ll move on to Experiment 2: Needle and Thread.
Materials? Tweezers of different sizes and shapes, found in Mom’s bathroom drawers. Needles, from the sewing kit in my scarce-used travel bag. Alcohol, and maybe use of the oven, to sterilize my tools. Paper towels, several rolls, to mop up blood. Cotton balls and sterile gauze might be better (look in first aid kit under kitchen sink). Soldering iron, to cauterize (pretty sure that will work).
To do? Collect items this week. Study any surgery footage I can find on the Internet. Remember to calm nerves and cut off all nerve sensation before proceeding. Find a way to be alone.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I cannot get Grandma to leave me alone for an extended period of time. Even if I’m doing homework and ask her not to disturb me, she pokes her white-haired head in every fifteen minutes to see if I need a snack or to ask me if I need to use the potty. Sheesh.
I finally realize that I just have to go ahead with my electricity experiment before the damn mouse rots. But if I’m going to get caught, it would be better to have the smell of Mickey barbecue in the garage instead of my room.
I set everything up on my workbench in small bursts of five-minute activity. Then I tell Grandma I’m going to build a light circuit out in the garage, for a science project.
“Oh, how exciting,” she says. “I always loved science. May I help?”
“Um, I don’t think so,” I say. “I’m supposed to do it myself.”
“Oh, I’ll just watch.”
“Well, I was thinking, I might work up quite an appetite. Maybe you could make that beef stew of yours that you made a couple weeks ago.”
I can see Grandma blush. “You like my beef stew?”
“Mmmm, hmmm,” I say, trying not to lie.
“But you hardly touched it. I didn’t think you liked it all.”
“My stomach was off that day, so I couldn’t really enjoy it. But my stomach’s fine now.”
“Well, then,” she says, puffing out her chest. “You go be a scientist, and I will go be a chef.”
“Thank you, Grandma,” I say.
She smiles and heads to the kitchen. I make a beeline for the mouse.
It’s been two days, and the mouse doesn’t look so bad, but he smells like sewer rot. Ugh. But I planned for this. I slip a paper mask over my face and secure the elastic behind my ears.
I think about opening the mouse up and connecting the alligator clips directly to its heart or brain. But the mouse isn’t fresh enough. And intellectually, I know this won’t work. So I simply attach the clips to both of its forepaws and hit the switch.
Nothing visible happens. I hit the switch again. Nothing. I hit the switch on and off, back and forth, about fifty times. The mouse’s paws begin to smoke.
Enough.
I unhook the mouse and put him back in the box. The box goes in the trash bin. I’m tidying my workbench when Grandma opens the garage door and peeks in.
“Yum. Someone must be grilling.”
Step number one for Needle and Thread: Can I incorporate something not of my body into my body?
First, I need to know if I can feel an object inside of me. I already know I can feel bacteria and viruses, but they integrate seamlessly on their own, attaching themselves to my cells. What about a foreign body that’s inside me, but not actually connected to any of my cells?
I lock myself in the bathroom. I insert a cotton swab into my ear canal, far enough that it’s uncomfortable. I close my eyes. I can feel the cotton tickling the cilia, the little hairs in my ear. I can feel that the cotton is close to my eardrum, but that’s all the information I can gather.
Next, I take a marble out of my pocket. It is small and blue and smooth. I thought about using a coin, but knowing that the object must come out once it goes in, I wanted something smooth and easily passable.
I wash the marble in the sink with hot water and anti-ba
cterial soap. I pop it in my mouth, far back on my tongue, and swallow. There’s a moment where I feel like I’m choking, then I force my throat muscles to contract, and I chase the marble with a gulp of water. It slides down smoothly and drops into my stomach.
Bile immediately floods my stomach with no prompting from me. I doubt it will have any effect on a glass marble. I try to feel my stomach. I sense a hard glob resting on the bottom left of my stomach lining. I sense the water I swallowed. There’s a bit of mostly digested food—probably the apple I ate after school. But I don’t feel the marble as a marble. It could be anything.
I force my body to expel the contents of my stomach into my intestines and beyond. It’s interesting. I’ve never actually followed the path of my food before. I squat on the toilet and let everything come out. I suppose I won’t be gaining any nutrients from the apple.
I examine the contents of the toilet for curiosity’s sake. Mushy, liquidy apple, complete with bright green peel. One blue mottled marble. I’m tempted to rescue the marble but decide against it. I’m not a squeamish person, but poo marbles are just gross. I flush it away.
Grandma’s stew is bubbling happily on the stove when I come out. She gives me a heaping bowlful, and I hold my nose and dig in. It’s for a worthy cause.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Grandma has a doctor’s appointment today.
“Just a checkup,” she says.
“Why do you need a checkup?” I ask while I pack my lunch. “Just feel inside yourself.”
“We are not infallible, Thomas, and we are not doctors. It doesn’t hurt to check in with an expert.”
“I think we’re pretty much experts on our own bodies.”
“That kind of arrogance will get you in trouble. I’m an old lady. I’ll take the help.”
I hug her. “Whatever will keep you here with me.”
I have my third presentation to give today, this time on the lungs. Grandma bought me a package of balloons, and at recess, I open the package and set a single balloon on each person’s desk. I’ve learned that when my presentations are interactive, the kids are more engaged.