TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
Hi Jeff —
I know it’s been a while since we’ve really talked, so I wanted to check in. A really cool Brazilian girl here has one of those infinite-time wireless Internet adapters, and we’ve become friends, so she’s letting me write to everybody on her computer.
So how are you? I was just thinking about you, because I was telling Christianna (that’s her name) your whole life story. I’m teaching her as much English as I can, and she’s kind of paying me back with dance lessons. She says you can’t play the samba rhythm right unless you know the dance, too.
Anyway, wow! Eighth grade, and you’re already almost three-quarters of the way done with it. Time has flown here because I am learning so much, but it still amazes me how old you are. I’m dying to know how life is going. My eighth-grade year wasn’t perfect, but I think I discovered more about myself in those ten months than I ever had before, and probably than I have in any year since — this year comes close, though.
I hope you’re having a good time, and that you’re stopping to appreciate the people and things around you. I know this sounds corny, but once you get to high school, everything will be different.
If you e-mail me back within the next couple of days, I’ll be able to read it before Christianna leaves camp. She’s going on a three-week photo safari after that, so who knows when my next chance will be.
Say hi to Miss Palma, OK?
Steven
His next chance? His next chance for what? Never mind — I didn’t want clarification. What I really wanted was to scream and yell and punch the walls. But I settled for just typing really hard.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
Hi Steven —
Nice of you to drop me a line. If you can pause for a minute in your Brazilian dance party, I’ll give you the update. After all, it’s not every day your little bro has a nervous breakdown.
Guess who has CML? Maybe you’ve heard of CML — chronic myelogenous leukemia? The kind of leukemia that can only be cured by a bone marrow transplant? And it’s super-rare in kids? Plus, it’s even rarer in kids who’ve survived cancer? Well, anyway, Tad has it now. I mean, wow! What are the chances that a kid could survive one brain tumor, brain surgery, another brain tumor, chemo, brain surgery AGAIN, radiation treatments, a bone marrow transplant, and several years in a wheelchair, just to get a whole other, freakishly unusual, terminal illness at the end? The doctors say they’ve never seen anything like Tad’s case. Isn’t that special?
It’s such a funny story, how he knew something was wrong for months, but didn’t even tell me. Oh, and he told Lindsey — that’s the girl I’ve been seeing — about his new diagnosis a month ago. So she didn’t tell me for four weeks, and then dumped me today right before I finally stumbled upon the truth. Hey, and guess who’s mad at me now? Mom and Dad, because I went on this whole crying jag with Tad’s mother, so she called them to come get me. But then she mentioned I had just stopped by for the first time in a while, when I had been lying to them for weeks by saying I was going to Tad’s to be tutored.
Because I’m going to fail the standardized math test and have to repeat eighth grade. Did I forget that part? And I’m grounded, too. Hence the lying, so I could sneak over to Lindsey’s for a nice round of getting ditched.
I can’t believe myself. I can’t believe I even care about being in trouble, or the math stuff, or my stupid eighth-grade breakup issues, while Tad is in terrible shape. He already started high-intensity chemo with this one drug called Gleevec. The doctors think that if the Gleevec doesn’t work, he’s going to need radiation AND a bone marrow transplant. They know from last time that his little sister, Yvonne, is a match, so she’s going in for some blood work tomorrow.
I can’t imagine being her. What must she be thinking tonight? I know how shocked and terrified I am, and Tad isn’t even my brother.
God, Steven. What was it like being you when I was sick?
Geez, I was furious at you three paragraphs ago, and now I almost feel sorry for you. On the one hand, I’m mad that you’re not HERE. And here’s a tip: I don’t want to hear about your stupid samba partner when I know Annette is still in America, waiting around for you. But on the other hand, I looked at Yvonne tonight and … well, you know. She just looked so sad.
Oh, gotta go. Mom’s knocking on the door.
Your brother,
Jeff
So my mom came in. I wasn’t sure if she was going to yell, or be all huggy and supportive. I also wasn’t sure which would be worse. At least with yelling, you can get all mad and defend yourself. But with the sympathy visit, you have to talk about all the horrible stuff that’s going on.
As soon as I saw her face, I knew it was support time. Her eyes were all red-rimmed, and she was holding a crumpled-up, soggy-looking tissue in one hand. “Oh, Jeffy, I’m so sorry,” she said.
“Why?” I said. “You didn’t give Tad leukemia. Plus, I’m not mad at you. You’re supposed to be mad at me.”
“Jeff, don’t get me wrong. I’m not happy that you were sneaking over to Lindsey’s house when you were supposed to be studying with Tad. It was irresponsible, and an incredibly bad idea at this point in your school career. But at least that’s normal kid stuff. I understand it. This cancer thing, though —”
I did not want Mom to talk about “this cancer thing” yet. Just hearing Mom say it made me feel like someone had just plugged my spine into an electric socket. So I went with the Lindsey angle. “Mom, can I tell you why I went to Lindsey’s?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Buddy,” she said, “I know exactly why you went to Lindsey’s.”
I could feel my face turning bright red. “Mom!”
She chuckled. “You don’t have to explain that part to me, all right? I was a teenager once, too. And teenagers do this stuff. The only teen I know that never really rebelled is your brother. So he’s doing it now.”
“What are you talking about?”
She sighed. “Jeff, do you remember when you were in third grade, you had to do a report about the Amish?”
Hmm. I had some vague recollection of trying to make a black hat out of construction paper. “Uhh, yeah?”
“You might remember that the Amish people have a tradition called Rumspringa. Does that ring a bell?”
What was this woman talking about? This was the worst crisis of my life, and she was having flash-backs of my elementary school social studies projects. I shook my head, which was all the encouragement Mom needed to slip into teacher mode.
“See, when Amish children turn sixteen, they get to spend a year acting like regular, ordinary, modern people — what the Amish call ‘the English.’”
“And?”
“The idea is, they spend a year trying out all the things that are forbidden in their culture. Then at the end of the year, they have to decide whether to give it all up and go back to living the Amish life, or leave their culture and live in our world.”
I still didn’t get it. “So?”
“So that’s a really brilliant idea, I think. Kids need to get this stuff out of their systems. Parents agonize over it, but it’s true. If you never rebel, you build up a ton of resentment. And then, when it comes out later — boom!”
Oh, now I knew where Mom was going. It’s funny: I had thought of a lot of reasons why Steven had quit the world, but being insufficiently Amish wasn’t one of them. “You leave your family, dump your girlfriend, and go to Africa?”
“Bingo. Your brother spent his teen years being perfect. With everything that was going on, there was just no room for him to go wild. So he started dating the most responsible girl in the world, threw himself into every worthy cause he could find, acted like the ideal big brother, and never did anything wrong at home.”
“So this is all because of my cancer, right? I know I ruined Steven’s life. But does he have to
stay away forever?”
“You absolutely did NOT ruin Steven’s life. And he’ll be back,” Mom said.
“Oh, yeah? What about this?” I asked. I let her read Steven’s message. Not my unsent reply, though.
When she finished reading it, she said, “Don’t worry. I know your brother. He’ll be home by your graduation.”
“But —”
“I’ve never seen two people as attached to each other as your brother and Annette. Trust me. He’ll be back, and it will all be fine.”
It must be nice to be totally delusional, I thought. I’d love to believe my brother was about to give up his wild ways, drive home from Africa in an Amish buggy, and get back to normal. I’d love to believe I could fly, too, but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna go jump off a building. “Trust me,” she says. Sheesh.
“Now,” Mom said. “About Tad’s illness.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“It isn’t going to go away just because we don’t talk about it, Jeffrey.”
Great, I thought. NOW she’s a realist.
“Mom, can I please just go to sleep?”
“All right, but I’m downstairs if you need me.”
She ruffled my hair and went out. I curled up in bed and faced the wall. I don’t think I actually fell asleep until about four AM, though. Steven had always been the one person who could calm me down in the middle of the night, and no matter what my mother said, he wasn’t exactly available. So I lay there, hour after hour, and tried very, very hard not to think about Tad.
I figured, Hey, if denial works for Mom, why not give it a try?
Speaking of denial, Tad and I didn’t discuss his cancer for another week or so. I mean, I tried to bring it up several times, but he was all Don’t worry about it, I’ll be fine. Let’s study. Or Chill, Jeff. It’s N.B.D. I’ll just take my Gleevec and my prednisone, get into remission, and get a bone marrow transplant. No biggie. Now put on your big-boy pants and do another set of curls.
I got madder and madder, but you can’t make a guy talk about his cancer before he wants to. Meanwhile, Lindsey kept trying to get me to talk, but I just kept getting madder and madder at her, too. I mean, first she knew about Tad’s sickness before I did, and didn’t tell me, then she dumped me on the night she sent me to find out. She kept telling me it was all for my own good — because, you know, I love to be patronized and pitied at the same time. I felt like I was a racehorse with a broken leg, and she was my vet. What was she going to do next, take me out behind the barn and shoot me?
Oh, and my mom heard back from the state department of education. That’s what finally blew everything wide open. The morning after I overheard her telling my dad about the decision, I made the mistake of telling Tad about it while I was on the exercise bike.
“So then,” I panted, “my father goes, ‘Good. Now Jeff can stand on his own two feet and show ’em.’ Then Mom goes, ‘Or he can fail the test and get held back. I can’t believe this is happening right now, when Jeffy has already been through so much.’ Dad gets all snappy and goes, ‘And another thing: Stop calling him “Jeffy.” For God’s sake, the kid is thirteen years old. Maybe this is the perfect time for him to prove himself.’”
“You know what, D.A.?” Tad said. “I know the test thing sucks, but I think it’s kind of cool that your dad has faith in you.”
“Sure. It’s swell. Except I think my mom’s right.”
Tad said, “Stop.”
“What?”
“Stop pedaling. This is important.”
“Dude, I’m just hitting my pace here. I can talk fine.”
“Jeff, stop. Please.”
Yowza. Tad never said please. I stopped, grabbed my little sweat towel, and wiped my forehead. “OK, what’s up?”
Tad looked right into my eyes in an oddly intense way and said, “Both of your parents are right. You shouldn’t have to pass the stupid test to graduate. But you WILL be ready for it. All you have to do is work hard and stop with the self-doubt crap. Brother Thaddeus has a plan.”
Brother Thaddeus? What the heck was that about? I mean, I’ve had cancer, too, and it didn’t suddenly turn me into a monk. “What plan?”
“Can’t tell you yet.”
“Yeah,” I muttered, “you’ve been big on the not-telling-me lately.”
Now Tad looked annoyed. “Oh, gimme a break, Jeff. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve had more on my mind lately than whether or not I’ve given you your daily briefing.”
“Uh, I hate to break it to you, but it’s not like you forgot something minor. Forgetting to tell your best friend you have a cavity — that’s minor. Forgetting to tell your best friend you have a bad hangnail — that’s minor. Forgetting to tell your best friend you have freaking leukemia is major!”
Tad looked down and played with the right wheel of his chair. “I didn’t want to tell you until after the test. You have to pass.”
“I’ve been hearing that a lot lately. But I don’t care — your cancer is a bigger deal than my math score.”
“Whatever,” Tad said. “I just … look, your score matters to me, OK? I just want to know you’re gonna make it to high school.”
Just then, I saw through the glass wall behind Tad that Flash McGrath was striding toward us. Great, I thought. The one time he comes in here all year, and we’re not even doing anything. I started pedaling again. “Uh, Tad?” I said. “We can talk more about this later, all right? I think it’s time for you to get on the treadmill.”
“Not doing it,” he said.
“What are you talking about?”
“No point.”
“No point? What about graduation? What about your big walk across that stage? Isn’t that going to be, like, the biggest beau geste of all?”
“Jeff, you still don’t get it. Impressing Brianna isn’t my biggest beau geste. Walking fifteen feet in a gown wouldn’t be my biggest beau geste.” His voice dropped so low I could barely hear it over the sound of the exercise bike. “You’re my biggest beau geste. Getting you onto that stage is way more important to me than strolling across it.”
Flash was now staring in at us, but I guess because I was pedaling again, he got bored after thirty seconds or so, and turned away. I still wanted to get Tad onto his machine, though. All of a sudden, it felt like the most important thing in the world. Sometimes when you’re at a huge fork in the road, you don’t even realize it until later. But other times, you can feel it in your bone marrow.
“Yeah, that’s very touching, Tad. Remind me to buy you some flowers later. Now get off your butt and start walking. Come on, I’ll only make you do a minute today if you crank up the speed a little.”
“They scheduled my transplant, Jeff. If my cancer is in remission, they’re going to do it three weeks after the statewides. Then I’m going to be in isolation for at least six weeks.”
I stopped pedaling. I can barely do math when I’m sitting still. “Wait, but that means —”
“I’m not going to be at graduation.”
This couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be. “Tad,” I said, “get on the treadmill. Please.”
“Jeff, weren’t you listening just now? There’s no point. I’m going to be in a damn hospital bed on the day you —”
“I don’t care! Get on the treadmill! You can’t just quit on me!”
“I’m not quitting on you, I swear. It just … I’m pretty dizzy lately. And it hurts to walk.”
“GET ON THE TREADMILL!” I shouted. “Get on! Get ON!” I started trying to push Tad’s wheelchair across the room, but he locked the wheels. “You have to! You have to!”
I must have gotten pretty loud, because Flash walked into the room — and found Tad hunched over with his head in his hands, and me sitting on the floor, crying. He sent me down to Dr. Galley’s office, and kept Tad for a private chat — probably the first time in history that a teacher thought Tad would be easier to handle than me. I tried to calm down on the way to the counseling offi
ce, but it was like the air was too thin or something. I just couldn’t catch my breath.
The guidance secretary took about a millionth of a second to decide she didn’t want any part of me, either, and practically shoved me into Dr. Galley’s office. Within two seconds of my butt hitting the chair, I was wiping my nose and sucking on a candy heart at the same time. Dr. Galley was as unfazed as ever. All she said was, “Rough day at the office?”
And then I told her everything. She ignored her phone, her beeping e-mail, and even some knocks on her office door. When I was finished, she said, “May I see your application, please?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, you seem to feel that everything that’s wrong is because of your cancer. Am I right?”
“I don’t think that, I know it. If I hadn’t had cancer, Steven wouldn’t be having his stupid midlife crisis. AND I would have a normal relationship with my dad. AND my family wouldn’t be poor. AND I wouldn’t suck at math. Sorry, I mean ‘stink.’ AND I’d still have a girlfriend. AND Tad wouldn’t be worrying about my stupid math when he should be worried about himself.”
“OK, then I want to see your cancer application.”
“Dr. Galley, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“So, when you got cancer, you didn’t fill out any kind of application first?”
I was baffled. I shook my head.
“You didn’t write a letter to Santa asking for a lethal blood disease? You didn’t go to church and pray for chemotherapy? You didn’t sacrifice a goat to the Leukemia God?”
I shook my head again. What was this woman talking about?
“You know what this means?”
“Uh, you had an extra martini with lunch?”
“Jeffrey, it means your cancer wasn’t your fault. Which means other people’s reactions to it aren’t your fault, either. And then there’s Tad: Nothing you’ve done has anything to do with Tad’s relapse.”
“I didn’t say my cancer was my fault.”
After Ever After (9780545292788) Page 11