Well, sure she was right. But on the other hand, she was also starting to sound like a street-corner preacher. I, myself, felt vaguely like jumping up and shouting “AMEN!” but I figured it might be wise to find out what I would be “Amen”-ing about first.
Gentlemen of the All-City Jazz Band, we have an opportunity here to reach out that helping hand to one of our own. I know you are all aware of the serious health problems that Steven Alper’s brother has had this year.
Oh, God.
But what you probably don’t know is that little Jeffrey’s disease, leukemia, is tremendously expensive. The Alper family is struggling to pay their bills. Steven’s mother has had to take a leave of absence from her job to take care of Jeffrey, so just when their need is greatest, half of their cash flow is gone.
Annette stopped for a moment, and Biff spoke into the silence.
Yeah, we all know about the Peasant’s brother. What does that have to do with getting the band out of the service requirement?
It doesn’t have to do with getting you out of the requirement. It has to do with getting the requirement into the band.
Huh?
We can make our concert a benefit for Steven’s family. Renee, can you tell these guys about the numbers?
Hi, guys. We did some math here, and this could really work. If we charge $15 a ticket, and there are a thousand seats in the auditorium here, that’s fifteen thousand right there. Then we have a bake sale set up in the lobby. Brian, don’t your parents own a bakery?
Uhhh, yeah.
Maybe they could donate the stuff or sell it to us at cost. Anyway, I bet we could easily sell five hundred pastries, or whatever, at a dollar each, so that brings us to fifteen-five. Then there’s the program. We could probably get a printer to donate or work at cost, too. Then we sell ad space. What’s the going rate for yearbook pages? Three-fifty a page? If we got fifteen full pages of ads, that would be…uh, where is it? Oh, yeah, that would be another $5,250, for a total of $20,750! What do you think, guys?
Yeah! Woo-hoo! Save the Peasant family!
Personally, I thought my parents were either going to kiss the ground or wring my neck, and I had no idea which.
Before everybody left, Annette and Renee got Mr. Watras to agree to the plan, formed committees, designed some flyers and ad-sale forms, and even sold one ad—the second trombonist said his parents would buy half a page for their jewelry store. Truly astounding. It was like seeing Bill Gates at age thirteen, times two. And half of him was wearing a cheerleader uniform.
Yes, I know that’s a weird image.
On the way home, I thanked Annette for the idea. She was flying high; I think because now she really was a big part of the concert again. I wasn’t sure how I felt. On the one hand, I knew the money would be a big plus for my family, and it would be great for Jeffrey to have a big special night. On the other hand, I was concerned that my parents might go nuts and trash the whole idea. Plus, and I know this is shallow, I wanted the concert to be MY big night.
One thing was for sure: One way or another, if my ‘rents didn’t veto the entire shebang, it was going to be important.
As I got out of the van, the driver said, Listen, kid, I couldn’t help overhearing about your brother. That’s a tough break. I’m really sorry.
Now, here was a lady who had driven the two of us to and from rehearsal twice a week for over a year, and this was the first time she had ever talked at all. It was a relief to know she had the power of speech, but I was struck again by the power of cancer to get attention. For better or for worse, being involved with cancer puts you on everybody’s radar screen.
Now I had the challenge of floating this proposal to the ’rents, and I had to do it right away, because my mom and Jeffrey were leaving for Philly in the morning. At dinner, even while I was joking around with Jeffrey, fielding questions from my mom about schoolwork and wondering how my dad could have such a blank facial expression without actually being in a coma, I was nervously waiting for the opportunity to bring the whole thing up. Finally, I seized the day (or “carpe’ed” the “diem,” if you wanted some Miss Palma lingo). My dad mentioned that he had gotten somebody a $7,000 tax return, and I pounced.
Wow, Dad, $7,000 sounds like a lot of money, huh?
Why, yes, Steven, it is.
I know a family that could get nearly three times that by April 15th.
Who?
Us!
Well, son, our return won’t be THAT big this year. We are going to get some money back because your mother stopped working, and I hadn’t claimed the single-earner head-of-household exemption. Also, the interest on our stock dividends will be less than we had projected. It’s rather interesting; I had based our estimated taxes on a historical rate of return of approximately 10% annual yield. However, when the stock market slowed down, we actually had a negative rate of…
Dad, Dad, Dad, stop with the accounting talk for a minute. You’re talking to a thirteen-year-old who got a thirty-seven on his math final, remember? Anyway, that’s not what I meant. I’m talking about an idea that some people had. See, the All-City band needed a human service project, and a couple of the students came up with an amazing plan for one. Since we have this performance coming up, they thought, “Why not make it a benefit concert?”
A benefit concert? For whom?
Well…ummm…for US.
Jeffrey, please go into the family room and play.
Uh-oh.
But, Daddy, I’m still eating my burrito.
You get plenty of food. Go!
Double uh-oh.
Well, I had found a topic that put an expression on my father’s face. It might have been nice if the expression weren’t the teeth-gritted grimace of a sumo wrestler about to charge, but, hey—progress is progress, I suppose.
We argued back and forth about this for a while. Initially, my mom was on my dad’s side, but as the “discussion” (It’s amazing—my parents call everything a discussion. If I were standing across the street, firing a bazooka at my mother, while my father was launching mortars back at me, and Jeffrey was charging down the driveway with a grenade in his teeth, my parents would say we should stop having this public “discussion.”) wore on, my mom got quieter and quieter. Eventually, before my father and I degenerated to the “Oh, yeah? YEAH!” level, she stopped us.
I think I’m going to be ill.
What do you mean, ill? Honey, Steven and I didn’t mean to upset you; we were just having a discussion. (Sure. And Mount Everest is a “hill.”)
No, I mean ill. As in, get me a bucket.
Triple uh-oh.
Steven, don’t just sit there. Get her a…a…what can he get you?
Uuuuggghhhh! Men!
With that, she stumbled out of the dining room. When she turned on the super-loud bathroom fan, we knew exactly what was going on. And that left a fairly urgent problem. Jeffrey figured it out fastest. He appeared in the doorway.
Daddy, Steven, if Mommy is sick, who’s going to take me to the hospital tomorrow?
Quadruple uh-oh. Who was going to take him?
A MEN’S JOURNEY
As it turned out, my dad and I were both going to Philadelphia with Jeffrey. My mom couldn’t take care of me at home and be violently sick at the same time, and my grandparents were away, so the ‘rents couldn’t dump me with them again. Of course, Jeffrey was thrilled.
Wow, Steven, we’re going on a MEN’S JOURNEY tomorrow. Me, you, Daddy—this is going to be great. Wait till my methotrexate drip starts: We’ll get to watch Shrek and Peter Pan right IN A ROW if we want! And then we’ll say my stomach hurts, and we’ll both get Jell-O. And you can ride a REAL wheelchair! And then you can come to play-therapy with me! And if you want, you can go to the cafeteria during my vincristine push if the throwing up will bother you. I’ll try to be brave, though. I promise. Do you think we could play cards while we wait for my EMLA to work? I love Go Fish. That’s what Mommy usually plays with me. Do you know how to play it?
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Meanwhile, my mom was upstairs, taking a break from hurling so she could brief my dad.
OK, honey, make sure they give you the EMLA cream as soon as you get there. Remember, it takes an hour to numb his skin completely, so you have to get it on there right away. Jeffrey likes if you spread it over his port yourself but don’t forget to warm it up between your hands first so it won’t be cold on his skin. Then they’ll flush the port and do the blood work. Jeffrey doesn’t mind seeing the blood drawn, but you might want to send Steven on an errand so he won’t have to look at it. He hated watching them access Jeffrey’s port at the emergency room that time. Oh, what’s next? The oncologist will probably come in to ask you some questions before we start the methotrexate. I’ll write a note tonight, but you can basically tell him that Jeffrey hasn’t been vomiting as much, and his CNS seems fine. He’ll know what that means. Ooohhh, I forgot: If it’s Dr. Arena, hold Jeffrey’s hand. Jeffrey is afraid of him. If it’s Dr. Moses, you’re OK. He’s Jeffrey’s favorite. Speaking of favorites, Jeffrey loves the snow cones from the third-floor lounge. He swears they taste better than the ones on his floor…
After a head-swimming twenty minutes of this, my mom had to run back into the bathroom, but even then you could faintly hear her.
…and tell Dr. Moses to call Dr. Purow as soon as the CBCs come down. Dr. Purow has a question about the Leucovorin dosage.
Then she had to stop giving orders for a while as sickness overcame her. It was going to be a long few days for all of us.
Hours later, as I was lying in bed, I realized that my dad still hadn’t given a final ruling on the benefit concert. Then I started thinking about the bills and about what I would see the next day at the hospital and about the schoolwork I would miss by being absent. Needless to say, it took hours to fall asleep. When I finally did, I had the Dream. As always, I woke up screaming, but this was even worse than usual. Because my mom was sick, she didn’t come rushing in. By the time my dad got there, I had woken up by myself, sat bolt upright, smashed my head into my nightstand somehow, and bitten through the inside of my left cheek. I looked at my alarm clock, which was now blinking upside-down on the floor, 229…229…229. As my father patted me awkwardly on my sweat-drenched back and my breathing slowed down to near-normal, I thought, “Well, I might be gushing blood, but at least, I can get a few more hours of sleep.” Then my dad leaned over, flipped the clock, and put it back on the table. That was when I realized it was really 6:22. Not only was it too late to get more sleep—it was too late, period. The day had started, with a bang AND a whimper.
Before I knew it, my father, Jeffrey, and I were all bundled into the car, along with my school books for studying, my sticks and practice pad, and extra clothes for all of us. Naturally, in the rush, we had forgotten something major, but we didn’t know it yet. Dad was just trying to handle the pages and pages of notes my mom had heroically composed in the midst of her own bout of illness, Jeffrey was working on balancing a cup of juice and a Go-GURT while eating breakfast in his booster seat, and I was sucking on an ice cube in a sad attempt to stop the bleeding from my gouged cheek. I hope that none of the neighbors were watching this scene: the obviously sick lady swaying on the lawn in an old bathrobe, waving good-bye to the unshaven guy with the mis-buttoned dress shirt, who was driving two bald kids while one of them was intermittently spitting blood out the passenger-side window. Other than our chaos, it was so quiet on the block, you could almost hear the tick, tick, tick of the property values dropping as passersby took in the tableau of horror.
When we were about a mile from home, my dad noticed that the fuel light on the dashboard was blinking, so we stopped to get gas. I pumped while my father ran into the station to get a cup of coffee, so he could spill it on himself pulling out of the lot.
Then, just as we started down the on ramp for the highway, Jeffrey shouted, I forgot Matt Medic! I forgot Matt Medic!
Sorry, Jeff, I don’t have time to turn us around. As it is, we’re barely going to have time to spread that ookla cream on your port in time.
It’s EMLA, Dad. But I NEED Matt Medic. He helps keep the bad blasts from coming back. I need him!
Not today, Jeffrey.
But, Dad…
The car lurched and veered into a driving lane in what might optimistically be referred to as a “close merge,” and my dad replied through those famous clenched teeth, Don’t “but Dad” me right now, OK? I’m trying to drive in traffic, we’re late, I got about three hours of sleep, I haven’t shaved, I have no idea what I’m doing, and I’m SITTING IN A PUDDLE OF BOILING-HOT COFFEE!
A year ago, Jeffrey would have been good for about another half-hour of whining, but now he just sat back with a sigh and sipped his juice. After a while, he assigned me a job for the duration.
Steven, it looks like Matt Medic is out of action. You have a new mission!
I slurred back, while desperately trying to avoid having my teeth touch the gaping hole in my cheek. What is it, Buddy?
Keep me brave. Please? Just keep me brave.
Then he finished his little meal and fell asleep, just like that. I stared out the window and wondered why Jeffrey thought I, of all people, was somehow qualified to keep him brave. You’d think his first choice might be somebody who didn’t wake up crying in a pool of sweat every other day, or perhaps somebody who could sleep through the night in a soft bed without injuring himself. On the other hand, I supposed his first choice was actually an inanimate injection-molded plastic figurine. And as a second choice, I guessed I would have to do.
As we approached the hospital, we drove through the campus of the University of Pennsylvania. It was beautiful. Spring was just getting in gear, and there were happy college students walking everywhere in jeans and T-shirts, sweaters with shorts, miniskirts. Despite the early hour, I even saw a group of guys playing Frisbee. And I thought how weird it was for Jeffrey to be driving past all these carefree people who had it made, on his way to fight the twenty-seventh installment of a life-and-death battle against cancer. Good thing I was around to cheer my brother up with my positive outlook, huh?
We parked, and Jeffrey guided my father through the check-in procedure. Then he led us upstairs to his floor. I paused for a minute in front of a set of double doors—I had imagined and feared the sights beyond them for months on end, but now it was time to face them. We pushed through, and stepped into Baldville, USA. There were sick kids everywhere—walking with IV poles, playing games, lying in beds, watching TV, sleeping. I had known I’d see lots of hairless little Jeffreys there, but there were kids of all ages. Some were older than me, some were probably in grade school, and a few were infants, which made me catch my breath. Some seemed healthier than Jeffrey, and others were in such bad shape that they had to be pushed around in wheelchairs. There were a lot of family members, too, but my eyes kept being drawn back to the patients. I was especially shaken by the sight of a girl who was probably my age. She was leaning against the wall in a robe, talking on a cell phone, even though you weren’t supposed to use cell phones in the hospital. Her hair was almost gone, and her body was just a wisp, but you could tell that she had been gorgeous before the cancer. I hoped she’d be gorgeous again. She looked over at me with these pale blue eyes that you could tell had a lot going on behind them. I looked away and hurried to catch up to Jeffrey.
While my father and Jeffrey were getting set up in the room, I kind of hovered near the door. A friendly-looking, youngish lady came up to me. Her name tag said, ANDREA MCDERMOTT, CHILD LIFE SPECIALIST. She started right into a conversation.
A little overwhelming, isn’t it? I’m Andi. You must be Jeffrey’s brother, Steven. He talks about you all the time. He’s a brave little guy.
You know him?
Yes, I check in on him every week. Sometimes, I get him into an art class or a story time or a game hour. Other times, we just talk or play cards.
Go Fish, right?
Yup. I guess he enlists you to play, too. Listen,
you probably have about half an hour before Jeffrey is ready for treatment. Would you like to visit the chapel?
Ummm…why?
Well, your mother spends a lot of time there whenever Jeffrey is asleep or occupied, so I thought you might want to also.
Mom prays for Jeffrey? Of course, Mom would pray for Jeffrey. But somehow it hadn’t occurred to me that she had a whole routine for it.
No, thanks. I think I’ll stick around in case my brother needs me.
OK. I’m glad to finally meet you. Jeffrey thinks the world of you, and I can see why.
The morning was like that: hang around, stare at people, distract Jeffrey for a while, meet random new people who know all about my brother, stare some more. The amazing thing was how comfortable Jeffrey was there. I mean, it seemed like a very nice place, and I was glad so many people cared about him, but I couldn’t imagine feeling that at home in a cancer ward.
We ate lunch while Jeffrey was getting his methotrexate, whatever that was. Evidently, this medicine was going to drip into him for twenty-four hours, and then they would give him other drugs to minimize the poisoning he would get from this drug. Anyway, after lunch my dad went to talk with the doctors. Jeffrey and I were watching Shrek on video when all of a sudden an alarm started clanging away. I must have jumped about a foot, but Jeffrey barely blinked.
Jeffrey, what’s that? Is there a fire? Should I get you out of here?
He didn’t even look away from the TV. It’s just a code, Steven. It happens all the time.
A “code”? Wasn’t that like on those TV hospital shows, when somebody…
Just then, a whole squadron of medical people ran by the open room door, carrying all sorts of equipment and shouting directions at each other. I was sure then: A “code” was when a patient’s heart stopped. All of those doctors and nurses were charging down the hall to try and jump-start a child’s heart. And Jeffrey saw this so often that it didn’t even tear him away from his movie.
Drums, Girls, and Dangerous Pie Page 12