Painless

by S. A. Harazin

  “My grandmother knows I can be trusted,” I say.

  “Is Luna coming over today?” Marcello asks.

  “No,” I say. I wish she was here. I’m not sure why, but I miss her. I like her. She fills up the emptiness—everything I do, she does with me.

  I usually wait for Luna to arrive. I sit at the window wearing shorts and a T-shirt. That way she can quickly look me over and then take a glance at my back. It’s like she really cares. Then she writes everything down. I had a red spot on my arm that she measured to see if it was growing.

  We hardly talk. I mean, what do you say to a girl who’s mainly interested in your wounds and body temperature? It’s a weird relationship.

  Cassandra takes another sip of water. “Spencer finally told me that you don’t feel pain. I understand why you need a personal assistant, but I don’t get why it’s a secret. Imagine how badass it would be if the doctors could develop a medicine to switch pain on and off in a normal person. I’d love to not feel pain.”

  “I wish I could feel pain,” I say.

  She snickers. “It’s not like you have cancer.”

  It’s not worth the effort to explain anything to her.

  Marcello raises his eyebrows. “Uh…actually CIPA is fatal. Most kids die before they turn three. David’s already beaten the odds.” He throws his empty water bottle into the bag for recycling. “Maybe David can fill in for Seth. I don’t think he’s coming.”

  I’d do that, but I’d turn into a rock onstage and not be able to move.

  Cassandra shakes her head right away, and I’m sort of relieved. A long time ago Spencer asked me if I wanted to be in the band he was starting. Nana said no. Crowded rooms get hot.

  “Oh no. Oh no,” I hear Spencer say. I glance his way. He’s talking on the phone and running his hand through his hair.

  Cassandra walks over to Spencer with her bottle of water. She holds it out to him, but he shakes his head.

  I get a funny feeling something bad has happened, but I’m not going to think about the possibilities. When you imagine something bad, you never know if you’re making it come true. Still, I can’t stop thinking about where Seth could be. Maybe he got a speeding ticket, and he was arrested. Or maybe Seth’s been grounded. No, that can’t be it. He’d call. He couldn’t call if he’s in jail. For some reason I’m hoping he’s in jail.

  Spencer slides his phone in his pocket and whispers to Cassandra. She covers her mouth with her hand. Then they walk over to us.

  “Has the gig been canceled?” Marcello asks.

  “Spencer called Seth’s phone but his mother answered,” Cassandra says.

  “Why?” Marcello asks.

  “He was in an accident last night.”

  My legs get weak. I lean against the bar and stare at Spencer’s worn-out sneakers.

  “Last night during the storm, a tree fell on his car while he was driving,” Spencer says.

  I look up and see Cassandra hugging Spencer.

  “What are you trying to say?” Marcello asks.

  “Seth is dead.”

  I close my eyes. The minutes or seconds before dying must’ve been awful for Seth.

  For a few minutes we stand around in shock and don’t know what to say. Then Marcello and I make eye contact. “You okay?” he asks, and I nod. I ask him if he’s okay, and he says yes.

  “Seth’s mom wants you to sing,” Spencer tells Marcello in a shaky voice. “And she wants you to play the piano,” he says to me, sniffing. “It’s a short service.”

  At Thanksgiving Seth brought over a pumpkin pie his mother made. Seth, Nana, and I ate it and drank glasses of milk. Then he and I played “The Entertainer” on the piano together. We were almost friends.

  Spencer tells Nana what’s going on. We choose “Hero” to play at Seth’s funeral, and then we play music in the basement, but nobody goes home until it’s totally dark outside.

  Seth wasn’t a hero, but I bet he could’ve become one if he had a chance.

  When I was younger, I’d imagine I could be some sort of hero because I don’t feel pain. One time Spencer and I were with Nana shopping for clothes. We stepped into the parking lot and saw what I thought was a guy pulling a woman into a van. I was only a few feet behind him so I grabbed the man from behind. Luckily, my arms have always been strong from swimming. Unluckily, the woman pointed a gun at me, and I almost peed in my pants. I heard people screaming. She took my wallet, jumped into the van, and squealed away.

  “Congratulations,” the guy said. “You have saved the universe. You’re a real superhero, helping that woman steal my van.”

  “Think of it this way,” Spencer later said. “He freaked out when all she wanted was his keys and wallet. You kept her from shooting the guy or herself. Know what I mean?”

  My fear of getting shot almost did me in. But then again, I wouldn’t have felt a thing if the woman had gone ahead and fired the gun.

  I sit at my desk and email Joe. I’ve been emailing him every day just like he asked me to do. I usually copy and paste the same email, and he hasn’t noticed. See, he doesn’t really care. But today is different. I tell him about Seth.

  Today I played the piano for Nana and watched Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune. I also read to her. Also, a friend died last night in an accident. His name was Seth.

  To my surprise, Joe replies right away. I’m sorry about your friend.

  Chapter 6

  I feel like it’s some sort of omen when the first thing Luna and I do outside of the house is go to a funeral. Spencer, Marcello, Cassandra, Luna, and I sit together.

  When it’s time, Spencer, Marcello, and I walk up to the front of the church. Seth is in the coffin looking better than ever.

  So far all the music has been religious, and people have been sobbing. My fingers are trembling and I’m shaking when I start playing “Hero.” I’m afraid people will be thinking, What the heck is that?

  I block everything out except the reason I’m here. It’s to play a song for a guy named Seth who liked pumpkin pie, milk, and playing “The Entertainer” on the piano so passionately that you’d think there would be no tomorrow. But there really was no tomorrow for Seth.

  After the song ends, I go back to my seat next to Luna. She rests her face against my shoulder.

  I go online to find new information about how long a person with CIPA could live.

  Age twenty-five.

  Dr. Goodman was telling the truth.

  I’ve got eight years maybe. That’s almost a lifetime if I stop wasting time.

  I lie in my bed, arms and legs stretched out, and I stare at the ceiling.

  Spencer and I once watched this movie called Rudy. It’s about this kid who dreams about playing football at Notre Dame. He’s poverty stricken and dyslexic, and after a lot of rejection, he gets to play for a few minutes at the end of the last game of the season. It’s an awesome movie.

  I think about how I want to live the next few years. I have the money, but I don’t have the know-how. I don’t even know how to go shopping, but shopping won’t be on my bucket list. That’s what the Internet is for.

  The clock’s ticking.

  The first thing on my list will be learn to drive.

  After I learn to drive and get my license, I’ll go anywhere I want to go. I’ll drive to the beach or just down a scenic road. I will email Joe and tell him. He’ll be surprised and relieved that he doesn’t need to worry about what’s going to happen to me, and I’ll be free.

  Chapter 7

  My grandpa once let me drive his John Deere tractor. I was going as fast as I could across the yard, the wind blowing my hair, my grandpa laughing, my hands controlling the big red monster.

  “Look at me! I’m a superhero!” I yelled to Grandpa.

  When he was alive, I wasn’t scared of anything.

>   Suddenly I heard Nana. “Oh my god. Oh my god. He’s going to run over something or kill himself.”

  I looked her way.

  “I’m Superman!”

  “Watch out!” she yelled.

  I hit a tree. My head hit the steering wheel, and I saw stars. I threw up. I got a concussion, but I don’t think it was my first.

  I learned that when your head hits in just the right spot, you get two black eyes. Driving the tractor was worth the concussion and the black eyes. The stars were beautiful.

  I go online and search for how to drive. I read the instructions and then download the driving test handbook to my reader.

  I’m reading in my bed when Luna arrives.

  “Are you sick?”

  “No, and I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do.”

  “I didn’t know you knew how to read books without pictures,” Luna says.

  “I read three books a week.”

  “What are you reading?”

  “Driver’s handbook.”

  “I haven’t heard of that one,” she says. “What’s it about?”

  I kind of laugh. “It’s about using your blinker when you make a turn.”

  “Oh.” She pulls a book from her backpack and lies on the other bed.

  “What are you reading?” I ask.

  “Siddhartha. He goes on a spiritual journey to find the meaning of life.”

  My ears perk up. “Where did he find it?”

  Luna smiles. “The journey led to the discovery. It took until he was old and near death.”

  I don’t have years and years to make discoveries.

  And I don’t read books I have a hard time understanding.

  “Have you read ‘Allegory of the Cave’?” I ask.

  “No. What’s it about?”

  My mouth gets stuck in the open position. Embarrass­ment is what I get for trying to act smart. There’s no way out. I can’t run and hide. Luna’s waiting for me to answer.

  “Well, uh, people who have been prisoners since birth are bound so they can only face a wall in a cave. Statues stand on top of the wall and a fire behind the prisoners makes shadows appear on the wall.” I shrug. “The prisoners believe that the shadows are reality. A prisoner is freed, and when he turns around and sees the fire, he experiences pain from the light. He has to be dragged out of the cave, and the sunlight blinds him even more than the fire did. After a while he finally sees the trees and flowers and everything that’s real.”

  “Enlightenment,” she says. “He sees reality and truth.”

  “Yeah. I have a Kindle you can have,” I say. “It’s old, but you wouldn’t have to carry all those books around with you.”

  “No, thanks.” She turns a page and another one falls out.

  I lean down, pick up the yellowed page, and hand it to her.

  She gets back to reading, her face serious as if she’s lost somewhere in the story. I’d be lost too, but it’d be because my brain would be saying, “Ugh. What’s happening?”

  I kind of lied about reading “Allegory of the Cave.” Nana read it to me. She read hundreds of books to me before her eyes went bad. Nana said I needed to exercise my brain. I’m afraid if I don’t, my brain will deteriorate like Charlie’s brain did in Flowers for Algernon. He couldn’t do anything about it, but if he had somebody like Nana, he would’ve been better off.

  I hope I don’t lose my brain, and I want to be smarter.

  Even the driver’s handbook is confusing, filled with ads for driving schools and messages from the governor and other people.

  I take a deep breath and smell Luna’s perfume. I glance at her. Her body’s stretched out, and she’s lying on her stomach.

  “Stop watching me,” she says.

  I was only looking at her for a few seconds.

  She shuts her book. “If you’re going to stare at me, we should go downstairs,” she says, looking away from me. “This feels too weird.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “It feels weird to me too. I’m used to Spencer being here. This was like his second home, but it was time for him to move on. Most everybody does when they finish high school or college.”

  “What about you?”

  I shrug.

  “Listen,” she says. “I can teach you to drive. I like doing things I’ve never done before. I like challenges.”

  I’m not a challenge. I’m a person. “I have to get a learner’s permit first, and you’re not twenty-one,” I say.

  “You can practice in the driveway,” she says. “Or on the road out front.”

  Our driveway branches off a two-lane country road that dead-ends in front of my house. There aren’t many other houses along the way.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I need forty hours of practice.”

  “You know what your problem is? You need confidence. If you don’t do it now, you’ll never do it.” She shrugs. “I hate to say this, but one of these days you’ll be stuck here alone, doing nothing but breathing. All the effort your grandmother made to make sure you survive will be wasted. It’s time for you to move to the next level. She wouldn’t want you to end up alone or with somebody you pay to keep you company.”

  She’s saying I’m a loser and a failure. I’m not. Just to prove her wrong I say, “Let’s go.”

  In the garage I slide into the driver’s seat of the Lexis. Luna sits in the passenger seat. Nana has a Mercedes too, but I’m more familiar with the Lexis.

  Luna points out the controls, but I already know where everything is. Back before Nana was diagnosed with dementia, she’d drive me to doctors’ appointments, and she’d forget where the windshield wipers or headlights were. Sometimes, we’d get lost. I should’ve known something was wrong a long time before she was diagnosed.

  “I got it,” I say at last. I turn on the motor, put the car in reverse, and open the garage door. I press the gas, and all of a sudden the car’s moving! A few seconds later I hear the scraping of metal, and a sick feeling lands in my belly. I’ve hit the side of the garage door.

  “Yes, you did,” Luna says.

  I turn off the motor, get out of the car, and check the bumper. There’s barely a scratch. I run my hand over the bumper a couple of times and then get back in the car. Luna has a smirk on her face, and then she starts snorting.

  “It’s not funny,” I say.

  She covers her mouth.

  For the next hour I drive around the circular driveway with Luna. I only need to do this for thirty-nine more hours to get my permanent license.

  “I’ll make a new schedule for you,” Luna says as we get out of the car. “One that doesn’t include me checking your temperature or blood pressure or whatever.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “I hate it when you do that,” she says.

  The next morning Luna prints out my new schedule. At nine o’clock I have driving lessons. Then at ten o’clock I have a life-skills class, followed by public service and art.

  “I don’t know how to draw,” I say. “But anyway, today is Saturday. Spencer’s band is practicing in the basement.”

  She spins around. “That’s perfect. Why aren’t you in his band?”

  I tell her what Nana said about hot, crowded rooms and how I don’t sweat. I don’t remind her I could have a seizure.

  “One step at a time. You won’t know what will happen until you try. First ask him if you can join,” she says. “I’ve heard you play the piano and guitar.” She scribbles out “art” and adds “music.”

  Luna’s the most enthusiastic personal assistant I’ve ever had.

  “You can try out for the band,” Spencer says. “But the thing is, I don’t know how much longer we’ll keep doing this.” He says they canceled the gig playing at the anniversary party because they weren’t ready. They’re all busy with summ
er coming, vacations, and preparing to go away to college. “We are planning on playing at the Spring Festival.”

  Nobody mentions Seth’s absence. I feel sad not seeing him.

  We play three Beatles songs, but in the middle of the third, Cassandra suddenly yells, “Stop! This isn’t going to work. I’m sorry to say this, David, but you look weird when you move around.”

  “He can stand still,” Spencer says.

  “That would look weird too,” Cassandra says.

  Cassandra and Spencer start shouting at each other. She says she’s saving me from embarrassing myself. Spencer says to give me a chance.

  They seem to think I can’t hear them.

  Marcello keeps trying to say something, but Cassandra drowns him out.

  Luna comes down the stairs. “Shut up!” she shouts, and the room suddenly becomes quiet. “What are you trying to do? Upset his grandmother? That’s just what she needs.” She asks what’s going on, and Cassandra tells her.

  Luna starts laughing. I missed the punch line of the joke.

  “You are idiots,” she says loudly. “David doesn’t need you for anything.”

  Oh god. I don’t want her saying stuff. I’d rather just walk away. Then she looks at me and smiles. I’ve never seen her smile like that before. It’s like I’m special in a good way.

  “What did you say?” Cassandra asks her.

  “You are idiots,” Luna says.

  “You’re a scammer,” Cassandra says.

  Luna heads toward Cassandra.

  I’m freakin’ irritated. I step between them. “I don’t need your help,” I tell Luna. I want to crawl into a deep hole.

  Cassandra laughs. “You’re just a research project for her.”

  “So what?” I ask.

  Years ago, one of my tutors was a medical student who did his research project on me. Nana had him sign a contract that no identifying information could be used. She said he might be able to help other kids and families. He’s the doctor at the university who Dr. Goodman consults.

  “I’m out of here,” Luna says.