Migrators

by Ike Hamill

  “I’m going to talk to him about changing schools,” Alan said.

  “You want me to come too?” Liz asked.

  “No, that’s okay. I’ll just broach it today and then we can discuss it as a family later.”

  “You think it’s okay to leave the choice to him?” Liz asked.

  “I think it’s unfair to not give him a voice. That doesn’t mean we can’t influence the decision.”

  “But if we think it’s dangerous for him to be at the old school, I don’t know why we would give him a choice at all.”

  “I wouldn’t say it’s dangerous.”

  “When are you going to tell me everything that happened the other night?” Liz asked.

  “I don’t know that I should,” Alan said.

  “I don’t understand,” Liz said.

  “I know,” Alan said. “Give me a little while to think about it, okay?”

  X • X • X • X • X

  “You don’t like your pancakes?” Alan asked.

  “I guess,” Joe said. “I mean they’re good, but I’m not hungry.”

  “Are you feeling okay? When we left the hotel you said you could eat a horse.”

  “I have a little headache I guess.”

  Alan pushed his empty coffee cup to the edge of the table, hoping for a refill. This was another nice thing about American Suites—there was lots of stuff you could walk to. Sure, you had to walk alongside major roads without sidewalks, but there was a whole development full of big stores and right next door to that a cluster of small businesses. Joe had spotted the little breakfast place on one of their outings.

  It was just the kind of place that Alan and Joe liked to go. It was a little one-story building, the size of a small house, that had been gutted at some point and filled with a cozy little diner. Joe and Alan shared a tiny booth where the benches were painted plywood covered with handmade cushions. The table was a chunk of recycled countertop and was bolted to the wall so securely, you could have set a car engine down on top.

  “Can I warm that up for you?” the waitress asked.

  “Please,” Alan said.

  Joe rubbed his forehead.

  “I want to talk to you about school, Joe,” Alan said.

  Joe looked up briefly and then his eyes found the table again.

  “We know you’ve had some problems adjusting, and some conflicts with some of the kids.”

  “Only a couple,” Joe said.

  “Sure,” Alan said, “but significant conflicts, especially with Polly.”

  Joe nodded.

  “We’re wondering maybe if that school isn’t the right fit for you.” Alan paused. He expected a big fight. “You have a couple of other options. We could try homeschool for a little while.”

  Alan let that statement sit for a second.

  “You could still do sports with the other kids. We could pull you out at Christmas break or even in November if we want—we only have to give them ten days notice.”

  “You would teach me?” Joe asked.

  “Yes. I would teach you when I could. There are lots of online resources. We can learn some of the stuff together. I’ve forgotten more than I remember about history, so a lot of it would be new for me as well. Your progress is measured by standardized tests, so we’ll know if you start to fall behind.”

  Joe nodded. He used both hands to take a big sip of his water.

  “There’s another option, of course. If we wait until the new year, we could enroll you in private school. There are a couple of excellent ones close to the house. I would drop you off in the morning and pick you up in the afternoon. They would definitely offer you an opportunity to excel. Small classes and individual learning plans make sure that you’re challenged.”

  Joe nodded.

  “Joe? Are you okay?” Alan asked.

  “Can we go, Dad? I don’t feel good.”

  “Sure,” Alan said.

  He dropped a twenty on the bill, grabbed their jackets, and herded his son to the door. In the tiny parking lot, Joe hunched over and stared at the asphalt for several seconds before he could walk.

  “I’m going to call your mom to come pick us up,” Alan said.

  “Okay.”

  Alan patted his son on the back and they stood while Alan waited for Liz to answer her phone.

  “You didn’t eat anything else this morning, did you? We had the same thing for breakfast. I wonder if you’re coming down the flu or something. That’s why they have these breaks in October, I guess. They have to break the flu cycle somehow. But you had your shot, didn’t you?”

  “What’s up?” Liz asked over the phone.

  “Can you pick us up? Joe’s not feeling well,” Alan said.

  “Dad, I can’t see right,” Joe said.

  Alan rubbed his son’s back. “He says he can’t see right.”

  “Where is that place? Behind the movie theater?” Liz asked.

  “Yeah,” Alan said. “Just take a left immediately before the parking lot and then take your first right. You’ll see us. I’m the tall one, and Joe is the green one.”

  Alan smiled and coaxed Joe over to a little patch of grass. If he was going to throw up, it might as well not be on the asphalt.

  “Okay,” Liz said, “I’m at the gas station now, so I’ll be…”

  “Dad?” Joe asked.

  “Hold on,” Alan said into the phone.

  Joe collapsed.

  X • X • X • X • X

  “Joe, if you take a left at that desk, you’ll find a couch and a TV and an Xbox. Is he allowed Xbox?” the doctor turned to Liz.

  She nodded.

  “We’ve got at least three or four games out there. I’ll be done with your parents in a moment.”

  “Okay,” Joe said.

  Alan watched his son walk down the hall. Joe was looking better, but not by much. The doctor had introduced himself, but Alan couldn’t remember the name. It was on the outside of the building as well.

  Something like Ambroccia, or Andoccia? Are those names?

  As he closed the door behind Joe, the doctor’s face changed. He lost his don’t-scare-the-child face and dropped right into his straight-talk-to-adults face. His mustache and frown made him look like Wilford Brimley.

  “You want to have a seat?” Dr. Wilford asked.

  Liz sat on the rolling exam stool. Alan sat in the chair with the wooden arms. Dr. Wilford leaned back against the counter.

  “So no listlessness, nausea, or vision problems before today?” Dr. Wilford asked.

  “No, not that I can think of,” Alan said. “He’s been going to school and hasn’t complained of any of those things.”

  “What is it?” Liz asked. “You clearly have something in mind.”

  “What I have in mind is a trip down to Portland on Friday and a contingency plan,” Dr. Wilford said.

  “How do you mean?” Liz asked.

  “Well,” the doctor said. He paused before he continued. “I’d like to get an MRI. There’s a chance that it will come up clear and you’ll come home. Then we’ll start looking for another explanation.”

  “But you think you know what the MRI will show. Just tell us,” Liz said. “What’s the contingency plan?”

  Dr. Wilford nodded at Liz for a second.

  “There’s a chance that the MRI will show us a medulloblastoma, producing intracranial pressure. That means that there may be a tumor that is blocking his fourth ventricle and causing fluid to put pressure on his brain.”

  “A tumor,” Alan said. “Cancer?”

  “If we see that tumor, then we’ll want him in surgery before the end of the weekend.”

  “Then we’ll take him right now,” Liz said. “Why would we wait? Let’s get this over with so we can eliminate this possibility.”

  Dr. Wilford shook his head at the idea.

  “When I stepped out earlier, I was checking on the schedules of Portland, Boston, Manchester, and even down in Connecticut. Friday is our day.”


  Liz turned to Alan. She took his hand in hers.

  “What are the odds that this medullo-thing is the problem?” Liz asked.

  Dr. Wilford looked down for just an instant and then locked eyes with her. “Given all his symptoms, I’d say it’s a definite possibility.”

  “Give me a percentage,” Liz said. “Give me a number.”

  The doctor didn’t flinch. “More than fifty percent.”

  Liz turned to Alan. “We need to take him south. We’ll go to Virginia or New York, Alan. What’s the best hospital there?”

  “The surgeons will come to us,” the doctor said. “After the MRI in Portland, if necessary, the surgeons who specialize in this type of surgery will join us in Boston for the procedure. We don’t take any chances with this kind of procedure. These are elite surgeons.”

  Liz squeezed Alan’s hand.

  The doctor pushed away from his counter. “I know the urge to act is overwhelming, but trust me, the course of action I’m suggesting is lightning-fast. We will have done well to catch Joe’s problem this early.”

  “Have you ever seen this type of problem before?” Alan asked.

  Dr. Wilford nodded. “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “And the patient?”

  Dr. Wilford shook his head. “We didn’t act fast enough. That’s not going to happen this time. Take him home, keep an eye on him, and check his temperature every four hours. Let me know if you see any change. My staff will give you a number you can call day or night.”

  X • X • X • X • X

  Liz held her tongue all the way back to the hotel and let Alan do the talking. He calmly told Joe that they would be going to Portland for more tests on Friday, and hopefully the doctors would figure everything out. Meanwhile, they had half of Wednesday and all of Thursday to kill. Alan put Joe to bed and sat in the chair, looking at his son sleep.

  Alan heard Liz pacing in the adjoining room. He wondered if they had downstairs neighbors. He wondered if anyone had complained to the front desk about the crazy stomping coming from room 220.

  When Joe’s breathing evened out—even asleep he still looked troubled—Alan limped to the door and shut it most of the way behind himself.

  “Liz, you have to stop pacing,” Alan said.

  She was walking a tight line, back and forth, between the bed and the TV.

  “I can’t, Alan.”

  “I know how you feel. Why don’t you go down to the gym and use the elliptical or something? Don’t they have an indoor pool there? Maybe you can do some laps.”

  “One, I don’t have gym clothes or a bathing suit. Two, I put my head in there the other day—the chlorine would kill me. You know my eyes can’t deal with that.”

  “Then go for a run. Do anything except fill up this room with your nervous energy, please?”

  “Fine,” she said. She picked up her key card and walked to the door. “But didn’t I suggest he had a tumor weeks ago?”

  “Liz,” Alan said. “What good does it do us…”

  Liz cut him off by closing the door quietly. It was clear that she wanted to slam it.

  Alan stretched out on the bed. He turned the TV on but muted the sound. The announcer talked while charts flipped by over her shoulder. The market was up. Somehow the people of the world kept moving through their irrelevant lives while something might be growing inside Joe’s head. Alan couldn’t fathom it. He couldn’t wrap his brain around the concept.

  It felt like cancer kept coming up. It was October’s recurring theme.

  Alan set a timer on his phone for four hours. He would need to check Joe’s temperature again then. With that done, he drifted off to fitful sleep. The day they’d spent at the doctor’s office had been exhausting, but his mind wouldn’t stopping spinning. Alan spent the night in a endless pattern of napping, taking Joe’s temperature, and staring at Liz. Ever since she’d returned, she’d done nothing but sit at the little desk and read information about Joe’s possible illness. Alan knew that she would be an expert on the subject by the time Friday finally arrived, but she would insufferable for most of Thursday.

  He drifted back to sleep.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Halloween

  OCTOBER 31

  ALAN WOKE on Thursday morning when Liz came in to the room holding a tray of food.

  “Is it time to take his temperature?” Alan asked.

  “No,” Liz said. “But I thought he might be hungry when he wakes up, so I got us some food from the breakfast buffet.”

  Alan nodded. He rubbed his eyes. He’d spent the night on top of the covers. Liz had spent the night at the desk, but she looked better rested than he felt. She moved to the door to Joe’s room and pulled it open enough to look through.

  “Don’t wake him up,” Alan said. He looked at his timer. “We have to check his temp again in ninety minutes.”

  Liz winked at him. She went into Joe’s room and closed the door.

  Alan swung his feet to the floor.

  Inspiration came to him in flashes of bright white light exploding in his brain. He closed his eyes. Alan reached for his phone.

  “Hello?” Bob answered the phone.

  “Bob, you remember that book we read?”

  There was silence on the line.

  “Bob?”

  “Yeah?”

  “In that book—did you get the sense that anyone could do that process, or that it had to be done by one of the women in that lineage?”

  “Well,” Bob said, “one of them thought it could be anyone. I think it was Marie. She seemed to think that with the right process anyone could tame the… you know.”

  “So why not anyone?” Alan asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What did Sophie call cancer?” Alan asked.

  “Sophie—well all of them in the book—called cancer ‘demons.’ If someone had cancer they would say they had demons in their blood. If the women of that family had any inherent skill above their training, it was the ability to spot cancer. They’re like cancer-sniffing dogs. What are you working on, Alan? Why all these questions about the book?”

  “Bob, Joe has cancer,” Alan said.

  “What?”

  “It’s not one-hundred percent, but we’re pretty sure he has brain cancer. At the beginning of the school year, Polly told him that he had demons in him. I think she knew it back then. He’s supposed to go to Portland on Friday for an MRI.”

  “Oh, shit, Alan. I’m sorry to hear that,” Bob said. “If there’s anything I can do.”

  “Do you mean it?” Alan asked.

  “Of course, why? Can I help with something?” Bob asked.

  “Yes,” Alan said. “Come to my hotel and help me teach my wife the process. If the Prescott clan can do it, then Liz can. She can learn anything. We’ll give her a crash course and then she can perform the process tonight.”

  X • X • X • X • X

  In the generic hotel room of American Suites, with Joe watching TV in the adjoining room, Bob and Liz sat in the chairs. Alan sat on the edge of the bed.

  They’d been talking for the better part of an hour. To tell the story, Alan started all the way back with Joe’s first school confrontation with Polly. He condensed six weeks down into a brief outline. Liz simply listened. Bob told the parts of the story he’d witnessed, and he described what he understood from the diary. Liz crossed her legs and bounced her foot. Alan finished with his proposal—they would perform the procedure the Prescott women had documented. If it worked as described, the process would draw the migrators to remove Joe’s cancer.

  Liz looked between Alan and Bob.

  “Do you two want some time to discuss?” Bob asked.

  “No,” Liz said. She turned to her husband. “This is quite the leap, Alan. It’s not like you.”

  “I won’t deny it—I’m grasping at straws. I’m looking for a miracle,” Alan said.

  “You think this has a chance?” Liz asked.

  Alan nodded. “Yes.�
��

  “Let me see the book,” Liz said.

  X • X • X • X • X

  Alan went back to the farmhouse first. He drove his little Toyota into the barn and parked it. Under his jacket, he was sweating with nervous energy. He walked out through the barn door and regarded the house. The sun had set over the trees and the light was soft and thick in the dooryard. The house was dark. It was a nice evening for trick or treating, but they wouldn’t get any kids in this neighborhood. As long as they left the house dark, they shouldn’t need to worry about unexpected visitors.

  Bob pulled up the drive. He parked his SUV to the side, in front of the Cook House.

  Alan walked around to the passenger’s door.

  “You want to give me a ride down the road? I want to retrieve the truck from the woods,” Alan said.

  “Hop in,” Bob said. “I heard a rumor over at Christy’s this morning.”

  Bob turned around and then turned left at the end of the driveway.

  “What did you hear?” Alan asked.

  “Apparently there are a lot of Prescotts missing from town lately,” Bob said.

  “Really?”

  “Seems like they’ve found compelling reasons to move away.”

  “Huh. That’s interesting. I’ll get the truck, then use that to move wood for the fire,” Alan said.

  “What do you want me to do?” Bob asked.

  “After I get the truck, we’ll meet back here and then we’ll stick together. We have a lot to do. Pull over here. The truck’s up that road.”

  Alan got out and limped up the logging road. The muddy trail of the big green truck was still visible. He stepped over a tree that had fallen down in the storm.

  The truck will probably be smashed, he thought.

  He was wrong. The truck stood at a weird angle—its left wheels were higher than the right—but it looked fine. Alan climbed into the cab and it started right up. He backed up to the tree and then jumped out to hook up a rope between the tree and the rear bumper. The truck pulled the tree out of the way easily. Alan backed down the trail to the road. Bob was waiting to make sure he was okay. Alan waved and then led the way back to the house.

  Bob parked out of the way and Alan waved him to the truck.