Inside Hudson Pickle

by Yolanda Ridge

  I didn’t even get a chance to talk to Willow until the end of class.

  “How was your weekend, Hudson?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  Willow put her water bottle into the mesh pocket on the outside of her backpack. It was designed for that, but Willow was the only person I knew who actually used it. “What did you do?”

  “Not much.” I shrugged. “You?”

  “I went to my uncle’s citizenship ceremony.”

  “Was it boring?”

  “Not really. He was so happy, and I know he worked hard for it: filling out applications, taking exams and getting all his papers together.”

  “Papers?”

  “Oh, you know, his birth certificate. Record of who his parents are … that sort of thing.” Willow stopped at the classroom door.

  “Oh,” I said.

  Willow smiled.

  An idea hit me like a hundred-mile-an-hour slap shot.

  “I have to run,” I said, even though I’d been planning to ask Trev if he wanted to shoot some hoops.

  “Okay, well, see you around,” Willow said as she turned down the hall.

  I went the other way, making a line drive for my locker.

  Why hadn’t I thought of it before? My birth certificate. I could find my dad’s name there!

  •••

  I rushed home, for once happy there was no practice after school. I went straight to Mom’s office to look around. The room was small — just the desk and a chair made it feel crowded.

  The desk had two drawers. The small one was stuffed with pens, paper clips, a stapler, a set of keys, some envelopes … nothing exciting. The large drawer was full of hanging file folders. Each one had a label: Tax Receipts, Visa Bills, House Insurance …

  Given how secretive Mom was about the past, I didn’t expect to find a file labeled Hudson’s Father. Ditto for my birth certificate. So I went through every piece of paper in the drawer.

  Nothing.

  I turned to the closet. Mom had designated it “off limits” after I found my Christmas presents hidden there when I was nine. Christmas morning had been a bummer that year, so I hadn’t snooped around much since. Until today.

  Inside the closet hung a bunch of old clothes, which looked like they’d fall apart if anyone actually put them on. I pushed the hangers aside. A small silver filing cabinet stood against the wall. I pulled the handle on the top drawer. Locked.

  I jumped across the room and grabbed the keys I’d seen in the desk drawer. Seven keys jingled around the ring, none labeled and none that I recognized. The closet was dark and small and hard to move around in, so I fumbled to get the first key in the lock. It didn’t fit.

  The second key fit, but wouldn’t turn.

  The third key was in the lock when I heard the garage door.

  Heart thumping, I stepped out of the closet and jerked the clothes back in place. I yanked the closet door shut with one hand. With the other, I threw the keys into the drawer I’d left open. I slammed it shut as I ran out the door. Diving onto the living room sofa, I tried to catch my breath. I was about to flick on the TV when Mom came in the door, followed by a whistling Uncle Vic. I dropped the remote like a hot potato and kicked it under the sofa.

  “What are you doing, Hudson?” asked Mom.

  I stared at the TV. “Thinking.”

  Uncle Vic shrugged off his jacket. “The TV’s not on, kid.”

  “I couldn’t find the remote,” I lied. “What are you doing home so early, Mom?”

  “Uncle Vic had a follow-up appointment at the respiratory and neurodiagnostic clinic.” Mom avoided my gaze as she peeled off her scarf. Uncle Vic fiddled with his thin canvas wallet.

  “Follow-up?” I narrowed my eyes at them like a pitcher trying to read the catcher’s signal from the mound. I wondered who was keeping a bigger secret — me or them. “Already?”

  “There was a cancellation last week, so Uncle Vic got in early …”

  “Last week? How come no one told me?” I asked, even though I wasn’t exactly surprised.

  “There wasn’t much to say.” Mom kept taking off layers of winter clothing and hanging them neatly in the front closet.

  “It was boring, kid. I had to sit around and breathe. Then I had to ride a stationary bike and breathe.” Uncle Vic threw a file folder on the coffee table. “I had to take big breaths and little breaths, over and over. I started to feel like I was the big bad wolf terrorizing a bunch of pigs with all my huffing and puffing.”

  “The first appointment didn’t tell us much.” Mom smoothed her skirt like she was wiping off a stain. “We still don’t have all the answers, but we do have a little bit of information to share with you.”

  “What about dinner?” I asked, even though I wasn’t hungry.

  Mom sat down on the sofa next to me. “It won’t take long.”

  “We’ll order pizza.” Uncle Vic handed her the phone.

  She sighed. “By we, you mean me?”

  “Vegetarian, no olives, whole-wheat crust,” he sang as he disappeared into the bathroom.

  “So, what’s up?” I asked when Mom had finished placing the order.

  “Well …” She pulled at a loose thread on one of the cushions. “We were called into the clinic to talk about Uncle Vic’s diagnosis.”

  “Oh.” I didn’t like the word diagnosis. Hockey players were diagnosed with brain injury after multiple concussions. Old people (and sometimes not-so-old people) were diagnosed with cancer. I had been diagnosed with asthma.

  “I have this tripsy thing,” Uncle Vic announced as he walked back into the room, drying his hands on his jeans.

  Mom shot Uncle Vic a nasty look and waited for him to sit down. “It’s called alpha-1 antitrypsin deficiency,” she said. “The support group refers to it as alpha-1.”

  “Call it whatever you want.” Uncle Vic cracked his knuckles. “This tripsy thing explains my breathing problems, my stomachaches and even the exhaustion I’ve been feeling. Everything.”

  Mom cleared her throat. “It’s doesn’t quite explain everything …”

  “Everything,” Uncle Vic repeated.

  Tripsy? It sounded more like a cutesy name for a penalty than a diagnosis. “Tripping caused all that?”

  “Not tripping.” Mom bit her lip. “A disease called alpha-1 antitrypsin deficiency.”

  Disease. Another word I didn’t like. “What is it?”

  “The liver is supposed to make a protein called alpha-1 antitrypsin,” Mom explained. “In someone who has alpha-1 antitrypsin deficiency, the protein is missing.”

  That didn’t sound good. “So, what happens?”

  “Other proteins in the body get out of balance … out of control.” Mom twisted the cushion like she was wringing out a dishcloth. “They damage healthy lung tissue and, sometimes, the liver.”

  “Is it bad?” I asked Uncle Vic.

  “I’m not dying. Not anytime soon, at least.” Uncle Vic forced a smile, the kind you make when someone takes a team picture right after you’ve lost the finals. “Don’t look so serious, kid.”

  “Is there any way to treat this tripsy thing?”

  “There’s nothing they can do to cure it, but they have a team of specialists who can stop things from getting worse,” he said.

  “As long as you make some changes to your lifestyle,” added Mom.

  “There are some pamphlets in there if you want to know more, kid.” Uncle Vic motioned toward the file folder on the table. “But everything we actually need to know will be explained when we meet with the genetic counselor.”

  Mom’s head snapped back like she’d been punched. “Hudson’s not going to that appointment.”

  “Here you go again.” The circles under Uncle Vic’s eyes darkened as he lowered his chin. “Putting your head in the sand
.”

  There were red blotches covering Mom’s throat. Her face looked sad and distant — the same look she used to get when I was admitted to hospital. “I’m not the one who’s in denial,” she said.

  My mouth went dry. “Why do I have to see a counselor?”

  “You could have the tripsy thing, too, kid.”

  “What?” How could I be sick? I felt fine — mostly.

  “Vic —”

  “He’s a smart kid, sis, and he needs to know the truth.”

  “One thing at a time.” The red blotches on Mom’s neck had spread to her chest. “For now, it will just be the two of us seeing the genetic counselor.”

  “Can’t you just see those other specialists you were talking about?” I asked. “The ones who can stop it from getting worse? What’s the big deal about genetic counseling?”

  Uncle Vic blew out his cheeks. “There’s more to it, kid.”

  My gut knotted. “What?”

  The red blotches on Mom’s neck were gone. Her entire face was now as red as a match head. “That’s enough, Vic.” Her voice trembled. “We’ll discuss this later.”

  “He needs genetic testing. And to get testing, he needs to see the counselor.”

  “It’s too early to make those decisions.” Mom put her hand on my leg. I could tell she was fighting for control. “I want to discuss the options with a genetic counselor, first. Without Hudson there.”

  “Why?” snarled Uncle Vic. “So you can control his life the way you control everything else?” I’d never seen him so mad.

  “We need more information.” Mom’s nails dug into my thigh. “I’m taking you to see Dr. M.”

  My respirologist? Why? Fear bubbled up inside me, but no words came out.

  “You just don’t want to answer any difficult questions in front of your son.” Uncle Vic’s knees bounced up and down in the armchair across from us. “Who knows what he might find out about this family!”

  “My dad?” I rubbed my arm, suddenly covered in goose bumps.

  “This has nothing to do with him,” Mom said through clenched teeth.

  Uncle Vic flung his arms up in the air. “It’s genetic!”

  As I watched them go at it, pressure built in my chest like a basketball being pumped full of air. As usual, Mom was trying hard — too hard — to keep me in the dark. But I didn’t like Uncle Vic trying so hard — too hard — to blow apart the world as I knew it. One more second of this and I would explode. “Are we done?”

  They both ignored the question.

  Mom’s mouth twitched as she took aim at Uncle Vic. “If you think you can just —”

  “I’m his —”

  “Well, I’m done!” The words burst out of me. I leaped off the sofa and stormed up to my room, taking the stairs three at a time.

  Tick, tick, tick, tick … BOOM!

  •••

  I could still hear them arguing until the front door slammed. I assumed Uncle Vic had gone out. When the doorbell rang, I knew the pizza had arrived, but I couldn’t go downstairs. Mom was probably in the dining area alphabetizing her cookbooks. As soon as she saw me, she’d want to have one of her heart-to-hearts: full of feel-good clichés but short on facts.

  My stomach growled as I closed my web browser in frustration. I’d found a few sites about alpha-1, but I’d quickly moved on to Scream Soda, Victor Pickle and Joseph Novak. My searches were getting me nowhere. I flopped onto my bed with the laptop and watched the live stream of the hockey game. But it was hard to concentrate on the play.

  The Sabres were losing, six to two. Could this day get any worse?

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Good answer, Mr. Pickle.” Willow pushed back her hair and picked up a pen. She was much better at pretending than I was. Her interview made me feel like a real firefighter. “How did you begin your career with the fire department?”

  I cleared my throat and suppressed a smile, totally ready to blow her away with all my firefighting knowledge. “Well, I joined the fire cadet program when I was sixteen.”

  “While you were still in high school?” Willow tapped the pen against her chin. “How did you find the time?” The way she asked the question, I could easily imagine her as a sports reporter.

  I looked down at the stuff I’d copied off the county’s website. “It only took one night a week, and it was worth it because I learned a lot about the profession. I also did first aid and CPR courses, and that really helped my application to become a probationary firefighter.”

  Willow raised her eyebrows. “My aunt works for the police department, and she told me that it’s tough to get selected. Almost like winning the lottery. Is it like that for firefighters?”

  “You bet,” I said, sounding a bit too much like E. O. “There’s a seven-step selection process, which includes aptitude testing, panel interviews, a lie-detector test and a physical-ability test.” I read directly from the notes I’d copied off an online recruiting manual. “Most recruits don’t make it to step seven, which is a conditional job offer. Those who do still have to undergo a comprehensive medical assessment and fitness evaluation that includes a treadmill test.”

  “Wow.” Willow looked totally impressed. “So what kind of person can get through that process? I mean, what qualities does it take to be a firefighter?”

  “I’m glad you asked that, Ms. Flores.” I was getting into the role-playing, and I was happy that I could quote E. O. directly. “Successful applicants must have strong athletic abilities, be good team players and possess excellent problem-solving skills.”

  “That sounds exactly like you,” Willow said, her dark eyes sparkling in a way that confused me.

  “Well, uh …” I stammered.

  “It’s such a big responsibility. Saving lives like that. I’m sure you’ll be great at it.”

  Willow was still speaking like a reporter. But she’d said something like that before, when she wasn’t playing an interviewer. Did she actually think I’d be a good firefighter — for real?

  Heat spread across my face. “Yeah, well, do you have any more questions?” I held up my sheet of notes, wishing it were some type of shield. “I still have lots of answers.”

  “How did you find out so much?” As Willow flicked the paper between us, the tip of her finger brushed across my hand. “Did you print it all off the internet?”

  The paper floated out of my hand and onto my desk. “Uh —”

  “You okay?” Willow leaned forward and looked me straight in the eyes, like she really wanted to hear what I had to say.

  And so I started talking superfast, as though I was trying to keep up with the blood pounding through my veins. Next thing I knew, I was telling her all about the fire at Uncle Vic’s house, my trip to the fire station and E. O. I even told her about the towel I’d found under the oven.

  When the bell rang, I stopped midsentence and took a breath that turned into a yawn. I couldn’t remember what I’d been saying, so I didn’t finish. Silently, I vowed to never speak again. I was bored of myself. Imagine how Willow must have felt.

  But she waited for me to continue. When I didn’t, she said, “That was awesome! It’s great E. O. helped you out so much.” She stood up. “Are you going to practice now?”

  “Yeah,” I mumbled.

  “I’ll walk with you.”

  “Cool.” I shoved my desk back into place as fast as I could. “Let’s go,” I said quickly. I didn’t want Aidan to catch up with us.

  “Where’s Trev?” she asked, not moving as fast as I wanted.

  “Dentist.”

  “Is he coming back for practice?”

  “Dunno.” I’d asked him the same question, but he hadn’t really answered. Trev wasn’t exactly warming up to basketball the way I’d hoped. But I did notice that Coach Koniuk picked him to demonstrate plays a lot — more than
he picked me, anyway. I wasn’t sure what that meant. But I was desperate to know who was going to make the team, so I looked for clues in every little thing that happened on the court.

  “So, how do you think tryouts are going?” Willow asked, like she’d been reading my mind as we walked together. She kept pace with me, which few people managed to do.

  I shrugged. “I’ll be glad when they’re over.”

  “Me, too,” Willow said. “I can’t wait for the season to start. I’m soooo ready to play a real game.”

  The comment stung. Willow was so confident, so tall, so coordinated, so … healthy. “I don’t even know if I’ll make the team,” I mumbled. I was suddenly jealous of her. And I hated it.

  “Of course you will.”

  I looked at her closely, but I couldn’t tell if she was serious. Had she ever been cut from anything?

  We reached the gym. “See you in there,” Willow said as she pushed open the door to the girls’ changeroom.

  “Yeah.” I watched her disappear behind the swinging door. I lowered my eyes quickly when I realized I was staring into the girls’ changeroom. Not that I could see anything — but still.

  I turned on my heel and marched directly to the boys’ changeroom.

  Jerk, jerk, jerk, jerk, jerk — all for me. All to the tune of Aidan’s chicken squawk. What kind of guy stares at the door of the girls’ changeroom like a lonely puppy dog?

  I dressed slowly, hoping Trev would show up so I didn’t have to go into the gym alone. He seemed to tolerate my presence now, and I appreciated his company — even if things weren’t the way they used to be.

  I heard Coach Koniuk’s whistle. I had no choice. I pulled myself off the bench and headed into the gym. Alone.

  After ten suicide sprints, and two small puffs on my inhaler, Trev still hadn’t arrived. I stood off to one side and waited for Coach’s instructions. Willow came up to me wearing an old, baggy T-shirt. She looked kind of cute with her thick hair pulled back in a ponytail, a couple of curls escaping on either side of her face. I silently begged her not to ask another question about Trev.