Going for the Record

by Julie A. Swanson

  I drag myself to the kitchen.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, this is Austin Gillingham from the University of North Carolina. Could I speak with Leah, please?”

  Austin Gillingham! I want to pull back my listless hello.

  “This is Leah,”

  “Well, hello, Leah. How’s your father?”

  “He’s okay. A little better.”

  “That’s good to hear. I’m sorry for what your family’s going through, though. And I don’t mean to be a nuisance at a time like this, but I wanted to tell you how impressed I was with your play in Colorado. It was a shame you had to leave early. If I was picking that team, you’d be on it.”

  “Thanks.” So that means I didn’t make it.

  “Leah, I’m very interested in you. Where you go to college is probably the last thing on your mind right now, but in case it helps to ease some of your uncertainty about the future, know that an education at the University of North Carolina is here waiting for you if you want it.”

  I hang up and stand with the phone in my hand, dazed. Was that a scholarship offer to North Carolina? I think it was.

  “Who was it?” asks Mom.

  “Oh, just some coach.”

  I’m so excited I could scream, but somehow excitement doesn’t seem like an appropriate emotion to show right now.

  CHAPTER 20

  Wednesday, August 13

  First day of double-days. Girls are on the lower field, boys on the upper. Same as always, the boys kicking their balls over the fence so they can come onto our field to get a closer look. Clay’s never done it before, but he might be desperate at this point. It’s been a couple weeks since he’s seen me.

  Sometimes I catch him looking at me. Or I feel it. Just like he looked at me that day in the boat. I keep my face steely and try to look impressive so he’ll see I’m doing just fine without his help. My personal trainer. Right.

  I sneak a look up there myself during water break. The boys are scrimmaging. Clay’s doing pretty well. He needs to get rid of the ball quicker, though. I wish I could tell him that.

  “My favorite part is when they do a wall and stand with their hands crossed over their crotch.”

  I cough up my water and spin around. It’s Rebe Holleran, roving midfielder and team snoop. “What’s the matter—you two have a spat?”

  I look at her sideways like I don’t know what she’s talking about.

  “You and Clay,” she says. “I heard you two don’t do anything together anymore. You used to be tight, didn’t you?”

  “Until he got weird on me. Why? Who’d you hear that from?”

  “One of the guys. I hear Clay’s really bummed out about it.”

  I wipe my mouth on my sleeve and dribble back out onto the field.

  Yeah, me too.

  When I get home after the second session, Gram’s ducking out of the kitchen with something in her hand.

  “You’re not going to join us for dinner tonight?” Mom asks her.

  “I don’t have much of an appetite no more.” She turns to Mom, but her eyes look at the floor. “I can’t eat the way youse two do, sitting at the foot of that hospital bed with all them medical supplies everywhere. I’d rather take a sandwich into my bedroom.”

  “Looks like it’s you and me tonight, Leah,” says Mom.

  Even though Dad’s much better, he still doesn’t want to eat. He forces down a couple teaspoons of Jell-O or yogurt because his pills are crushed in it and he can’t get them down any other way, but that’s it, every day. He tries to sit up in bed at mealtimes and at least watch us eat, though.

  Mom sits down, Dad says the prayer with us, and we’re off.

  Someone brought over whitefish filets today. I love whitefish. I eat mine, Gram’s, and part of Mom’s.

  “Have another piece of fish,” says Dad.

  I blush, but I tease him right back. “Stop it. You’re just jealous.”

  It must be hard for Dad to watch someone eat like this. You’d think he’d be starving; he’s eaten practically nothing this past week. Whenever we ask him if he wants something, he gets irritated. “Why do you keep asking me,” he says, flashing those eyes, “when you know I don’t feel like eating?”

  Heather says we shouldn’t pressure him. But I keep cooking things like cookies and pizza in hopes that he’ll be unable to resist. I bring home rocky road ice cream, his favorite. Not even a spark of interest.

  I can’t believe a body can go on with so little fuel, but Heather says people can survive on just water for forty to sixty days.

  I wonder how much time that leaves Dad.

  Thursday, August 14

  I was so tired this morning. Bleary-eyed, feet-dragging tired. I don’t know why. Mr. Pfieffer’s practices are so easy compared to ODP or club practices. But I slogged through the whole two hours. And I’m still tired.

  I lie on the daybed and close my eyes. It feels so good.

  “Weez,” says Dad. “Do you feel like playing some cribbage?”

  Not really. I stifle a sigh and hoist myself up. “Sure, Pops. Do you need your glasses?”

  “Yeah. Yeah!” He says it like he’s forgotten all about them and it just dawned on him.

  “That’s better,” says Dad. “Now I can see. I think that was half my problem!”

  He’s gaunt and gray, but he looks so much better. He’s my old Pops again, wearing his photo grays.

  The play is pretty brisk—as brisk as cribbage gets—but I keep yawning.

  “Don’t do that,” says Dad. “It’s contagious. I’m tired enough.”

  I break out into another huge one, my jaws opening wider and wider.

  “What, am I that boring?” snaps Dad.

  It’s ridiculous. I finish one yawn and another one’s right behind it. My eyes are so watery I can hardly see.

  “What’s the matter? Pfieffer working you too hard?” There’s no pity in Dad’s voice. “Shit, what I wouldn’t give just to walk again.”

  “You will, Pops. You’ll see. You’re so much better already.”

  It’s true. Everyday since Paul and Mary left, he’s gotten a little better. He won’t eat, but he stays awake most of the day. And he’s sharp. I don’t know what’s worse: when he’s totally out of it, or when he’s aware of everything and frustrated.

  After our second session, I drag myself into the house. Mom must have heard the screen door slam; she comes into the kitchen and gives me an accusing look, one eyebrow down. I raise my hand, pleading guilty.

  “Tough day, huh?” She pours me a glass of lemonade, and before I can even get my lips on it, she shoves a catalogue in my face. “Do you like this outfit?”

  “I’d never wear it, but it would look good on you.”

  “Look through here and see if there’s anything you like.”

  “Mom, right now I could care less about clothes.”

  “But what about new school clothes?”

  “Mom, I’m too tired.”

  We hear a clank and run into the sunroom. Dad is sitting up in bed, wrestling with the side rail.

  Sitting up?

  Next thing you know he’s put the rail down.

  “What are you doing?” asks Mom.

  “Got to get my stamina back.” Dad pulls the sheets aside, freeing his legs. His knobby legs. His feet and knees are huge; the rest has withered away.

  He swings his legs over the edge of the bed. Well, swings is hardly the word for it; his legs are so stiff he has to move them with his hands.

  Dad sits there a minute, catching his breath, blinking, rubbing his eyes. I don’t know what he’s up to, but I sure wish he’d lie down.

  Mom puts a guiding hand on his elbow, “Here, let me help you, Pete.”

  “I don’t want any help,” he snaps. “Go do something. I’m fine. I’m just going to take my time. Don’t worry about me.”

  “What is it you’re trying to do?” says Mom.

  Dad ignores her. Holding onto the bed, he slides
his bottom off the bed until his toes touch the floor. The way he’s shaking, something’s bound to give out. But then he’s up. He’s trembling and holding onto the steel bedrail, but he’s standing.

  “Get the wheelchair,” he says to me.

  This is the first time in a week he’s been able to sit up, and now he’s trying to get out of bed?

  “Leah, get me the wheelchair.”

  I don’t think this is such a good idea. But it’s also not a good idea to argue with him right now, so I go and get it.

  It’s like slow motion, watching Dad lower himself into the wheelchair. Shaking and sweating, he lets go and falls the remaining six inches into the seat.

  He did it. His back is bent, his chest is heaving, and his face is colorless mask, but he did it.

  Who am I to be tired today?

  CHAPTER 21

  Monday, August 18

  It’s too early to get up, but there’s no way I can sleep with all that clanging. Dad is fumbling around in his bed, rattling the side rails.

  Mom’s awake now, too, and she asks him what he’s doing.

  “I’m just going to get cleaned up,” he whispers and winks at us like he’s the boss again—we should go back to sleep and pay him no mind—he’s got everything under control.

  It’s no big deal for him anymore. All it took was that first time to boost his confidence. He’s still not eating, but he’s stronger. I don’t know how he can be, but he is.

  This makes five days in a row he’s gotten into his wheelchair by himself. Yesterday he did it three times. Each time he travels a little farther. He sits with Mom and me during dinner. Now that he can get around, he’s tending to himself again. Mom set him up in the back hall where there’s a laundry sink, a toilet, and room on the dryer for toiletries and a vanity mirror.

  Dad comes wheeling back into the sunroom, clean-shaven except for the bloody dot of Kleenex on his chin. His bag is empty and his hair is combed. He gives me a big smile. I wish Mom were here to see him—he’s like a proud kindergartner ready for school pictures—but she’s in the bathroom.

  He looks so good maybe he’ll feel like eating something today.

  “Pops, do you want something to eat?” I ask.

  He shakes his head and wrinkles up his nose. “No, thanks.”

  He’s in a good mood, so I push it. “Nothing? Come on, there’s got to be something. What do you say—what are you dying to sink your teeth into?”

  “You know, I could go for some watermelon, maybe.”

  I can’t believe it. I jump at it. “I’ll go get you some before practice. Right now. Can I use the car?

  “No. I don’t want your mother to hear you going. This is our little secret. I don’t want her to think I’ll eat for you, but not for her.”

  “I’ll ride my bike up to Michigan Traders.”

  Michigan Traders is a small twenty-four-hour mini mart. They don’t carry much produce, so I’ve got my fingers crossed the whole way.

  I hop off my bike and bulldoze through the door. There it is! In the ice chips against the far wall, a quarter of a seedless watermelon. The only one.

  I’m making a b-line for it when who comes into the store but Clay. My heart jumps at the sight of him. A sickening hot flush surges through me.

  I duck into an aisle, grab the first package I touch (hoping it’s not a box of condoms) and pretend to read the side panel. My cheeks are flaming and my heart’s a car idling out of control.

  “Leah?”

  No.

  “Long time no see.”

  “I know.”

  “How are your double-days going?”

  “Good. Yours?”

  “Great. How’s your dad?”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ve been thinking about him a lot.”

  “Thanks. I’ll tell him.” I wave and put my head down, like I’m ready to go, but I don’t. All I can do is stand there, stupidly frozen. Do I squeeze past him and get the watermelon, or do I just turn and leave?

  “Did you get my letter?” he asks.

  “What letter?”

  “Oh, come on, you really didn’t get it?”

  “Nope.”

  “Unbelievable.” He coughs. “The postal service can’t even get a letter across town. I did write you a letter. And I did send it.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “Nothing big. I just wanted to make sure that you were okay. You are, aren’t you?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “That’s good. I’m glad. Hey, listen, call me sometime if you ever feel like talking.”

  He gives a stiff wave, looks down, and passes me wide in the narrow aisle, brushing against a pyramid of stacked Coke cans. It quivers and sways, on the verge of toppling. Clay steadies it, turns, and bolts out the door.

  Coward. Clumsy coward.

  Cute, sweet, clumsy coward. I want to run after him.

  But I have to buy this watermelon.

  As I’m lifting it out of the ice, I think, I could go right now and catch him pulling out.

  Maybe not.

  I could chase after him on my bike.

  No, I’d look like a fool. And what would I say to him, anyway?

  I stand in line at the register and watch Clay zoom down the road.

  I could kick myself for letting him get away.

  “Your mother’s taking a shower,” Dad says, and we smile at each other. We both know how long it takes her to do her hair.

  I cut the melon into bite-sized pieces and watch him pop one piece after another into his mouth. I stare at him, overjoyed.

  “Mmm, this hits the spot.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head slowly back and forth. “That is the sweetest watermelon ever.”

  When he’s done eating, a huge burp erupts from him, and we both laugh. Then he burps again, but it’s not so funny this time because I can tell by his face that it hurts. He holds his stomach like he’s going to throw up and burps and burps, each burp wracking his frail body. On top of this he’s got the hiccups.

  “Can you help me get back to bed?” Dad croaks.

  Well, for five minutes he was happy. It was worth it, I rationalize. But I feel terrible for upsetting his stomach.

  Dad lies back against the pillows, looking green. “Is there any of that watermelon left? If not, you go back and get me more tomorrow, okay, Weez?”

  I smile and nod.

  It was definitely worth it.

  “Leah, come look at this,” Mom whispers. Dad is sleeping.

  “What?”

  She points at Dad’s bag.

  “Ew.” The urine is brownish red. “Why is it like that?”

  Mom pulls me out into the kitchen. “It’s blood in the urine. That’s what Heather says.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Well, she’s not sure. She said it could be an infection, bladder or kidney. She came and took cultures. We’ll get the results back tomorrow.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “Watch. Wait. Hope it clears up. There was so much more than usual in his bag last time I emptied it, too. I don’t know how that can be—he hasn’t been drinking much.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Tuesday, August 19

  We’re waiting for Heather to arrive with the results. The bag of urine is still filling up rosy, and Dad’s not so good.

  “I’m a little tired this morning,” he says. “I think I’ll just lie here and convalesce for a while.”

  Convalesce? No, Pops. I want to shake him and yell: Get up! You’re getting stronger, remember? You can’t break your string now. Today would make it six days in a row! But he’s been real sleepy since yesterday, hasn’t shown any interest in the wheelchair at all.

  If Heather doesn’t get here soon, I’ll have to go to practice and miss hearing what she has to say. I always get the feeling that Mom softens the news when she relays it to me.

  Heather sits us down before even checking on Dad. “We’re stumped. The cultures don’t sho
w any infection. Dr. Ross suspects kidney failure, but with that, there’s a usual progression, the first signs being heavy output and clear urine. The blood in the urine is a mystery. If it is kidney failure, you’ll see a sudden decrease in output soon. Then it will taper off until there’s none, and he wouldn’t have much time left after that.”

  “It’s not kidney failure,” I blurt out.

  Mom and Heather look at me.

  “That’s right. It’s not kidney failure, and whatever’s wrong is all my fault. I gave him some watermelon.”

  “Watermelon?” says Mom. “When? Where did you get watermelon?”

  “At Michigan Traders, while you were in the shower yesterday.”

  “How much did he eat?”

  “About half a quarter. An eighth.”

  “That’s an awful lot of watermelon for a man who hasn’t eaten in over a week!” She looks at me and then at Heather, aghast.

  “Watermelon is a diuretic,” says Heather. That would account for the increased output, but it doesn’t explain the blood in the urine.” She laughs her tinkly little laugh. “Don’t worry, Leah, it’s not your fault. It’s definitely blood and not watermelon juice.”

  On my way home at noon, I stop to see if I got any more letters from colleges. I pull up to the mailbox, straddling my bike, and sift through the pile of envelopes and junk mail.

  What? Another letter from Clay? I throw my bike down and rip it open.

  Dear Leah,

  It was good to see you at the store yesterday. I wish we could talk. I didn’t think our little argument on the phone a couple weeks ago was anything to get so upset about.

  We are too good of friends to let something like that get between us.

  I’m here if you ever need me. I miss you.

  Love, Clay

  I miss you? I’m here if you ever need me? Oh, please, spare me.

  I’m about to tear the letter to shreds, like I did his last one, when a car beeps. It’s Enzo, turning into our drive. He rolls down his window and says, “I was just coming to visit your dad. Want a ride down?”

  “No, I’ve got my bike.” I point to the heap under the mailbox. “Thanks.”

  When I’ve got myself together about Clay’s letter, I ride down and join Mom, Dad, and Enzo in the sunroom. Mom’s got the sheet pulled down over the urine bag so no one can see it.