9.
I COULDN’T GET MARY SEISEN out of my head. I was spacing out thinking about her during dinner when I saw Dad’s headlights in the driveway. Caleb was too busy drawing train tracks in his mashed potatoes to notice Dad’s arrival, and Mom was checked out again, not talking. She was pissed, maybe thinking Dad was coming home late again from work on account of golf or some other distraction at the office.
I figured I’d give her fair warning, since she had her back to the window. “Dad’s home.”
His voice drifted through the door behind me as he entered the kitchen. “Hi, guys.” Dad sounded tired.
Mom looked up to greet him but didn’t say a word. Her eyes grew huge, like she’d seen a ghost. She cast a quick glance at me and motioned with her head: Don’t look.
I kept my shoulders and head square and focused on my salad, wondering what was going on this time. Two clinks signaled ice cubes hitting glass. More noise: the freezer door closing, the cap unscrewing from the bottle, liquid pouring. I cast a sideways glance again at my mother, who was still staring wide-eyed at Dad in disbelief.
I listened to the sounds of Dad’s footsteps approaching the table, followed by the kiss on Mom’s forehead. I peeked up at my mother once more as Dad sat down and began serving himself. She definitely wasn’t checked out anymore.
“So,” Dad said as he grabbed salad with the tongs, “who is going to tell us about their day?”
It was a loaded question, but I looked up.
I couldn’t believe it. Dad had a toupee.
For my entire life, my father had had a deep receding hairline, one he attempted to mask by parting his long, thin gray hair on the left side. Tonight, his scalp was covered with thick silvery hair. Dad stared into my eyes, daring me to say so.
“Leo, you start. Tell us about your day.” Dad served himself some green beans and cut into a baked chicken breast like it was a typical meal.
I looked at him. His face was the same, but the hair unsettled me. Dad sat with his knife and fork, cutting his chicken, a blank expression on his face, like this new hairpiece had been slipped onto his head without his knowledge.
Incredible.
My day? I thought. The day my father came home with a new head of hair? Having lunch with Mary Seisen? All I wanted at this point was to disappear, but instead I focused and tried to make eye contact.
“Well,” I began. I looked up at him and felt my eyes darting back and forth between his eyes and his new hairline. “Today we began to learn about the impact of the Treaty of Versailles on Germany after World War I in Mr. Ohlendorf’s class, but this kid kept whistling to distract Ohlendorf because the guy lectures and makes eye contact with the ceiling in the corner of the classroom.” I looked back at my plate and pretended to cut meat from an already clean bone.
“That wasn’t very nice,” Dad said. “How about your day, Caleb?”
“DAD GOT HAIRCUT! RIGHT!”
I nearly lost it and spit out my food right when Caleb said it.
“It’s not a haircut, Caleb,” Dad stated matter-of-factly. “Did you behave in school today?” he asked in an attempt to shift topics.
“YES! LEAVE SCOTT BREWSTER ALONE!”
“I sure hope so,” Dad said calmly. “I certainly don’t want any more phone calls from Mr. Baims.”
“STAY OUT OF TROUBLE!” Caleb assured him.
Mom looked up from her plate, but she wasn’t going to say a word tonight. When Caleb burst into laughter, I figured that was a good time to excuse myself and make an exit. I washed my dish quickly and made a beeline to my room.
I fell asleep wondering about Dad. I thought about all those late-night Hair Club for Men infomercials with those guys and their before-and-after photos. There was always some guy doing a cheesy testimonial about his newly restored confidence and feelings about being a new man. One commercial even showed this guy who started bawling about how his hair restoration gave him his life back. I wondered how Dad felt about his new head of hair. I wondered what Mom thought about it too. Then I wondered if my hair was going to fall out. Mostly I wondered how I was part of this family where things just happened and nobody said a word about them.
When I headed up to the breakfast table the next morning, Dad had already left for work.
Mom said good morning, friendly enough.
“So what’s up with Dad’s hair?” I blurted.
“God knows.” She buried her head in the morning paper, but I thought I detected a slight hint of a grin.
Like most things in our house, we’d never talk about it.
10.
IT WAS A LITTLE UNSETTLING not knowing when your older brother was going to try to take you down in the middle of the night. I didn’t know what made it scarier: that he had a three-inch height and thirty-pound weight advantage, or that he wasn’t working with a full deck.
My solution was to keep my old Little League bat nearby. At night I kept it wedged between the mattress and bed frame. When Caleb came at me in the pitch black, I gripped it high up the barrel like a club. If I smacked him on his back a couple of times, he usually rolled off me, and if that didn’t work, I pinched and pulled his ears and hair. Usually that was enough to make him retreat. Sometimes he jumped around the room for a few minutes before settling back into his bed. Other times we were both so wound up that I had to head out for another night run. One way or another we always went through the same remorse ritual.
“Sorry, Leo,” he’d say.
It was only at these times that his voice lost its robotic quality. He actually sounded like he was truly sorry, maybe even scared. Though it was dark in the room, I could see him lying on his bed on top of the covers, still heated with rage. When he spoke, he held his hands up toward the ceiling, and his thumbs and fingers clicked like marionettes in unison with his voice.
I was usually too angry to respond the first time he’d apologize.
“Sorry, Leo,” he’d repeat.
I always caved eventually. “It’s all right, Caleb.”
“God not punish you, Leo?” he’d ask.
“You” was him, and for some reason he seemed to have a fear of God—even after we stopped attending church. How did someone like Caleb, who often struggled to understand the world around him, become so concerned about God—some abstract, invisible force that we barely mentioned in this house?
“God not punish you, Caleb,” I’d assure him.
“God not punish you,” he’d repeat each time, but now as a statement.
“Never hit Leo again. Right?”
“That would be great, Caleb.”
“Don’t poke Leo in eye,” he’d say.
“Let’s get some sleep, Caleb,” I’d say.
“Good night, Leo.”
“Good night, Caleb.”
A few nights later, it would happen all over again.
I began to anticipate when Caleb was off-kilter. I would catch him with his back to me, shaking his hand in front of his face, or I’d notice the sudden skip to his step when he was walking across the room—some gesture that showed he was unsettled about something, that the fuse had been lit and time was ticking.
It could take place anytime: daytime, evening, or the middle of the night. So I began to keep my clothes on and my running shoes by the back door when I went to sleep. If I woke to find Caleb shaking both his hands frantically in front of his face, I was ready. If he bit his wrist or began to jump up and down, I knew it was time to slip out and run far.
I ran until the tension seeped out of my chest and shoulders. I ran until I felt my face relax and I no longer clenched my teeth. I ran until my fists unwound and my fingers felt loose. I ran until my anger was gone. I ran until I was alone with just the steady rhythm of my feet tapping the pavement, my breath a soft, steady flow of energy in and out of my lungs, and my sweat releasing the heat from my body.
I was alone, away from him, away from home. It was at times like this I’d feel the runner’s high again.
&nbs
p; By the time I returned, Caleb would be calm, like nothing had ever happened. I’d wipe down with a wet towel and crawl back into my bed, and I’d forgive him. I knew deep down that he couldn’t control himself. It wasn’t his fault.
11.
WHENEVER THERE WAS A PROBLEM in the house, Dad looked for a shortcut. One time we had a leaky ceiling pipe in the basement and he patched it up with Scotch tape. It fixed the crisis temporarily, but eventually the problem just got worse. Let’s just say Dad’s solution to my situation with Caleb wasn’t much better than Scotch tape.
When I sat down for breakfast the next morning with a few raw scratches on my neck, Dad didn’t ask me what happened. He just threw his fork down on his plate and pushed himself away from the table. “That’s it,” he muttered as he headed toward the basement door.
Mom slammed her fork down on the table. “Niles!”
“I suppose you’re going to suggest I sit down and try to reason with him,” he said sarcastically.
Mom got up, threw her plate in the sink, and left the room.
“That’s right, Elise,” Dad yelled. “Leave me to deal with the problem.”
Mom’s angry footsteps now pounded the floor in reverse. “Leave you to deal with the problem?” she hissed at Dad. “Which one of us spent the first six years of his life driving him back and forth across town from therapist to therapist? Which one of us stayed at home dealing with his tantrums? Which one of us was always scrubbing off those damn train tracks and buses he drew across the floors and walls?”
They just glared at each other for a long moment. I held my breath.
“What the hell do you suggest I do?” he finally asked.
She turned back toward their bedroom. “I don’t know,” she said, and sighed.
“I didn’t sign up for this, Elise!” Dad yelled.
“I didn’t sign up for this, either!” she echoed.
I was thinking I didn’t sign up for this, either, but I opened my mouth and said something I probably shouldn’t have. “Christ! Maybe we could start by building him his own bedroom,” I mumbled.
“What did you say?” Dad was about to snap.
“Nothing.”
“Walls aren’t going to fix this problem, Leo. I know exactly what we’re going to do. Tell your brother to get in the damn car. Now!”
Soon enough, Caleb and I were in the backseat of Dad’s car, zipping down the highway toward the city. Caleb was oblivious that Dad was out of his mind. He was relaxing, twirling his stick and reciting the letters and numbers on the license plates of passing cars.
“I don’t know where we’re going or what we’re doing, Dad, but I’m supposed to be in school,” I reminded him.
Dad was still trying to calm himself after his spat with Mom. He drew a deep breath and exhaled. “Contrary to public opinion, Leo, life’s greatest lessons aren’t learned in school.”
That favorite line of Dad’s meant Caleb and I were in for something twisted.
When Dad took the Kingshighway exit, I saw the ten-story gray stone building and knew exactly where we were headed. St. Louis Children’s Hospital sat high above the highway, its towers visible for miles.
Dad circled the hospital slowly along the neighboring streets before pulling into the parking garage. He snatched a ticket from the attendant at the tollbooth, then parked in front of the emergency room entrance.
We’d been here before.
I started feeling the sweat dribbling down my back under my T-shirt.
My father looked at Caleb in the rearview mirror. “You remember that place?” He pointed at the red neon sign above the entrance.
“YES!” Caleb answered.
“Did you like that place?”
“NO!”
Dad leaned over the seat and got face-to-face with Caleb. “You weren’t too happy there, as I recall,” he hissed. “Do you want to end up back there?”
“No!”
“Then quit hitting your brother,” Dad told him.
“QUIT HITTING YOUR BROTHER. RIGHT!” he repeated. Even Caleb seemed anxious.
“I mean it,” Dad said.
“MEAN IT!” Caleb repeated.
Dad turned back and stared out through the windshield at the hospital. “Jesus!” he screamed, whacking his hand on the steering wheel.
“MAKE GOD ANGRY!” Caleb yelled.
“You’re making God and me freakin’ angry,” Dad said finally, sighing.
“Sorry, God!”
We sat in silence, and I started wondering who deserved to be committed to the hospital more—Dad or Caleb.
When Caleb started having these nasty outbursts four years ago and was hitting himself and breaking things, Mom and Dad brought him to Children’s to get some help. But the psych ward was filled. So Caleb had to spend a couple of nights in the emergency room until a space opened. Sometimes they had to strap him down so he wouldn’t hurt himself.
We camped out in the waiting room for three days next to other families with kids like Caleb stuck in emergency rooms. They were all waiting for a bed in the psych ward just like Caleb, except some of those kids were way worse. They saw things like blood on the walls and heard voices telling them to hurt people. Caleb never made it past the emergency room, though. We finally took him home when the insurance company told the hospital they weren’t going to pay for another night.
We went back and forth that year a bunch of times, trying to get Caleb help at Children’s. He saw different therapists, and he got more encephalograms to analyze the electrical activity in his brain. Caleb would be crying his eyeballs out and screaming, “SORRY! GOD NOT PUNISH YOU!” as Mom and Dad hauled him inside the hospital doors. But it was the same old story: we never got past the emergency room. The psych beds were always full, and with people with bigger problems than Caleb’s. He’d spend a night or two strapped to a bed, and once he got his meds recalibrated and he calmed down, the hospital told us it was time to take him home. The bottom line: Caleb’s brain was a mystery.
Each time, we drove home and I listened to Dad go on and on telling Mom how “the system is broken” while Caleb sat next to me strung out on meds.
Eventually Caleb’s monster tantrums slowed down.
Dad finally turned the key in the ignition, and I was thankful for the sound of the motor running. Before he put the car in drive, he turned around once more in his seat. This time he grabbed Caleb gently by the chin and looked him in the eyes. “Better shape up, Caleb,” he said. He pointed Caleb’s head toward the hospital. “I don’t want to have to bring you back here.” Dad’s voice came out both gentle and fierce. I felt my stomach burn again as I was thinking I’d sort of caused the whole problem.
“No,” Caleb half whispered.
Dad put the car in drive.
When he pulled up to the front of the high school, I unfastened my seat belt and reached for the door handle. “I did that for both of you,” Dad told me.
I didn’t know what I was supposed to say. Was I supposed to thank him? I shrugged.
“Have nice day, Leo,” Caleb said.
“Have nice day, Caleb,” I replied, like nothing had happened.
I closed the door to the car, waved to Dad, and headed into school, feeling the heat rising behind my eyes. Why did everything have to be so freakin’ complicated?
—
In English, Ms. Liebner gave us a sheet of binder paper for a timed writing assignment. She asked us to write about a time when we were scared. I knew what I wanted to write about, but I wasn’t about to put it down on paper. If Caleb came after me again at night, I wasn’t going to tell Dad or Mom. Or anyone. It just wasn’t worth it.
I didn’t want to go back to Children’s again either.
12.
CURTIS WAS SPRAWLED OUT on the ground in the midst of some bizarre stretching routine when I headed out to the track that afternoon. I was still processing the visit to Children’s that morning, and I needed to run it off.
“How was another day in pa
radise?” he gasped as he pulled his right foot behind his rear end.
I wasn’t about to give him a recap of my day, so I kept the conversation focused on life at school. “I have to admit it’s a step up from Central,” I told him. “It wasn’t the best of times, but it wasn’t the worst of times either. If I can figure out how to avoid walking through the student lounge, I’ll survive.”
“Wise man,” he agreed. “I suggest cutting through the library. It runs parallel to the lounge.”
Curtis seemed edgy. He stood and began pacing, contorting his body in strange ways, massaging his calves, and breathing deeply.
“What’s up?” I asked. “You seem ramped up today.”
“I’m always a little nervous before Gorsky’s first interval workout,” he told me. “It’s an indicator,” he explained. “Today you’ll find out what kind of shape you’re in. You’re going to be in a world of pain, Leo.” He laughed and continued stretching. “Start wrapping your head around that.”
The other guys trickled onto the track, looking even more lethargic than usual.
“And what exactly is an interval workout?” I asked.
“Ohh, much to learn you still have, my young padawan. Just long distance a great runner doesn’t make. Speed he must also have,” Curtis explained in a surprisingly good Yoda voice. “Fully trained distance runner, with interval training as his ally, will conquer his competition.”
“Pain, suffering, and near death you shall feel,” Burpee said with a sigh as he joined us.
“Could someone please explain in plain English?”
Curtis lay down on the track, put his heels together so his legs stuck out like butterfly wings, and gazed up into the clear blue sky. “If I know Gorsky, we’ll run 800-meter repeats. We’ll go at a pace he sets, something a little quicker than what you’d run during a race. You’ll get a short recovery between each one,” he assured me.
“Running 800s sounds a whole lot easier to me than hammering out another seven miles with you.”
Running Full Tilt Page 5