From Ant to Eagle

by Alex Lyttle

  Tom looked over to find Sammy slouched down low in his seat, trying to go unnoticed.

  He moved across the aisle and joined his brother. “Did he ever!” he said, his voice intentionally loud as to attract the attention of the entire bus. “What, your family can’t feed ya or some’n?”

  Tom got a few laughs from around the bus at this. It was ironic because everyone knew the Rileys were dirt poor. I stayed quiet. The less you said, the less they bothered you—for the most part. “You know we still gonna call you Pudge, right? ’Cept now maybe we’ll call ya Twiggy Pudge.”

  More laughs.

  Tom and Joey continued picking on Sammy for a while before getting bored and moving on to some other kid. Our school went to grade six before kids moved across the road to junior high—grade seven and eight—and those kids had their own bus. That meant Tom—and I—were the oldest kids now, which meant there were no kids to tell Tom to shut up. By the time we’d arrived at the school, everyone had had enough of the Rileys.

  We pulled up in front of the old red brick building marked ‘Uxbury Elementary’ across the front. The ‘H’ in Huxbury had fallen off the year before and fixing it apparently hadn’t made the list of to-dos over the summer.

  As we all hurried to get off the bus, Sammy stumbled on the stairs and bumped into the kid in front of him.

  “Watch it!” the kid said, turning around. He was bigger than Sammy, but not bigger than me.

  “You watch it,” I said from behind Sammy and the kid looked up at me. His angry sneer faded and he turned and walked quickly away.

  Sammy looked back at me. He had a worried look on his face but there was something else—something I couldn’t quite place. It reminded me of the time he’d fallen off his bike on our ride with Aleta. He looked dazed or out of it or something.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  His eyes focused in on my face and he nodded.

  “All right,” I said, looking around. “You’re over there with Ms. Wincott,” I pointed to where a short lady with glasses stood with a clipboard and a sign that said, Grade Two. “See you at lunch?”

  Sammy nodded again and made his way toward the line of grade two kids. I noticed Joey at the front making faces at the kid behind him. God, I hated that kid.

  I grabbed Aleta by the sleeve and led her through the mob toward the grade six door. I smiled when I saw the teacher—Ms. Draper, the grade six teacher from the year before. She had supervised lunch on occasion and was really nice. I was even more pleased when I learned later that Aleta and I would have desks right beside each other. Everything was working out.

  Tom was put at the front of the class, which I suspected wasn’t an accident, and we spent the morning going over the usual stuff—introductions, where our lockers were, what our classes would be.

  When the bell rang for lunch, the whole school scrambled for the playground. Every group had their own area—older girls in the corner by the main building, younger kids either playing tag in the field or basketball on the lower nets, older boys on the two higher nets. Someone grabbed a ball from the bin and we were ready to get started. I saw Sammy walking toward the lower net slowly with his head down. Mom’s voice echoed in my head for a fleeting second before I turned to the more pressing matters of organizing teams. As Aleta hadn’t made friends yet, she stood by the court watching.

  It wasn’t a particularly warm day, but once we started playing it felt hot. Tom obviously had been practicing over the summer because his dribbling was noticeably better. I was disappointed when the ball bounced off my leg on more than one occasion and went out of bounds. I did my best not to look at Aleta who continued to watch us.

  We stopped for a brief water break between games and as I walked to the fountain I watched the younger kids playing bump. The game involved a line of kids trying to get the ball in before the person behind them. If they didn’t, they were out. There were now only three kids left and Sammy was one of them. Joey was another. Evidently my daily missions had improved his shot because for the minute I stood watching, he didn’t miss once. Around and around the last three went, each making their shots, not able to get the others out. Finally, Joey managed to grab the basketball of the third and smallest of the remaining three boys and smash it with his own so that it went hurtling across the playground. Snickering as the boy chased the ball, he casually turned toward the basket and waited. By the time the boy had grabbed his ball and was running back, Joey tossed his ball up and through the hoop and the other boy was out.

  “Thought I’d give you a chance to get back,” Joey said with a laugh as the boy walked off the court.

  My own game was on hold while everyone stood watching the last two younger kids. I saw Sammy look over at me briefly with a hint of a smile on his face before turning toward the basket and making his shot. A half second later, Joey’s ball followed and had Sammy missed he would have been out. Again and again they went, neither missing before finally Joey’s ball struck rim and bounced away. It was Sammy’s chance to finish him off but he was bent over gasping for breath under the net. The crowd of kids was now cheering and everyone yelled at Sammy to run back to the free throw line. By the time he waddled to the line, Joey had retrieved his ball and was running back.

  “Hurry up!” I heard myself shout.

  Sammy turned toward the basket and threw the ball with what appeared to be all the strength he had left. The ball seemed to freeze in every frame as it made its way toward the net. Up, down, swish—the ball passed through the rim just before Joey managed to get back for an easy layup. The crowd erupted into cheers and Joey’s face turned crimson.

  I was ready to run over and high-five my little brother when I saw him step back, stumble, then drop. I could tell by the way he fell that something wasn’t right. It wasn’t like when someone tripped—there was something different. It came to me. Normally, when someone falls they put out a hand or leg to catch themselves. Sammy just fell, like he was some doll tossed aside. There was no arm to brace the impact; there was no attempt to catch himself; there was nothing but the crack of his head hitting the pavement.

  For the briefest of moments, Sammy lay perfectly still before his body starting moving. Only it wasn’t moving normally—it was thrashing and jerking and flailing like nothing I’d ever seen.

  Things started happening fast. Kids were yelling. Teachers came running and pushed the crowd aside as they fought to get next to Sammy.

  “Clear out, we need room here!” a teacher yelled over the cries of worried children.

  “Someone call an ambulance!” another yelled.

  I fought my way through the crowd too—pushing and pulling at shirts and arms to get closer. Finally, I was able to see him. Sammy, my brother, eyes lifelessly rolling around; still open but not seeing.

  “Is he okay?!” I screamed. “Is he okay?!”

  It was a stupid question.

  “Clear everyone out of here!” one of the teachers yelled and I felt strong arms pulling us back. I fought hard to stay near the front. I fought hard but I wasn’t strong enough. I was pulled back with the crowd as two of the teachers knelt beside Sammy frantically trying to stop him from shaking.

  “He’s my brother!” I yelled, trying to break free as they herded us into the main building. “He’s my brother!”

  CHAPTER 15

  BEFORE THAT DAY I HAD NEVER BEEN IN A HOSPITAL—ASIDE FROM being born, I guess.

  Dad and I sat in the emergency waiting room. We were told by Dr. Mitchell—a tall man with a big nose and short hair—to wait while they got Sammy into a room.

  I looked around the waiting room. It was full. Every seat held someone sitting and waiting. Across the room, a boy about my age sat holding his arm to his chest while his mom rubbed his back. His baseball uniform was dirty and ripped. I had never broken a bone in my whole life, or even had a cavity for that matter. I was always lucky like that.

  Two seats down from him, a lady sat with a baby in her lap. The baby was crying as
she rocked it back and forth in her arms. I couldn’t imagine being that small. I could barely remember kindergarten. My earliest memories were from grade one when Sammy, still a toddler, was learning to walk and speak. I remembered holding his hand on the way to school and begging my mom to let me bring him in for Show and Tell.

  After an eternity of sitting and watching people go in and out, it was our turn. A lady in what looked like pink pajamas led us down a white hallway decorated with cartoon characters on the walls—Mickey, Pluto, Donald Duck—all smiling and looking happy, masking the reality that hid behind every door. Sick children—sick children like Sammy.

  When we arrived at Sammy’s room Dad rushed in and grabbed Mom’s hand where she sat next to a tired, pale Sammy. There was something ominous about that simple gesture that made me worried. I couldn’t place it exactly, but something didn’t feel right—as if they knew something I didn’t.

  The room was simple—a bed, three chairs, a sink and a bedside table on wheels. Behind the bed, tubing and wires went in every direction like roots from a tree. Sammy’s finger glowed red and a wire led from it to a machine that blinked and beeped. Numbers flashed on a screen that I couldn’t hope to understand.

  I stood pretending to take in the room but was really thinking of what to say. I didn’t want to let on how scared I was but the image of Sammy’s flailing body on the playground kept repeating in my head.

  Finally, after a long, awkward pause I said, “Hey, Sammy, sorry you’re not feeling good.”

  I walked over to the bed and gave him a playful punch in the arm.

  “Cal!” Mom said from her seat next to him.

  “Oops, sorry.”

  I remember being struck by how white Sammy looked. The sheets were only slightly paler and his cheeks looked hollow, his eyes sunken and dark.

  “Hey, Cal,” he said back.

  “Sammy played one heck of a game today,” I said, half to my parents, half to Sammy. “He beat Joey and all the other kids in his grade. I was pretty sure Joey was going to punch you square in the face before you…” I trailed off. I didn’t know how exactly to describe what I’d seen and I felt pretty sure Sammy wasn’t in the mood to talk about it. “Anyway, I brought cards if you want to play Crazy Eights or something.”

  Mom gave me a look that said, “He’s tired, we should let him sleep.” She looked tired herself.

  “I’m okay. We can play,” Sammy argued, but his voice sounded frail and he didn’t attempt to sit up in the bed.

  Just then, the door opened and a short, chubby lady walked in. Her blond hair was tied in a messy braid and she was humming under her breath. She smiled at us as she set down a plastic bin on the bedside table.

  “How’s it going, love? You feeling any better?” she asked Sammy. “It’s time to do your blood work. It will only take a minute.” She motioned for me to slide down the bed and sat next to Sammy, “You’ve got your whole family with you, I see.”

  Mom and Dad introduced themselves. The lady said she was Sammy’s nurse.

  “And you must be the big brother,” she said, looking at me. “You guys look so alike.”

  I cringed. Why did people keep insisting we looked so alike? Especially when—at that moment—Sammy looked more like the Grim Reaper than himself.

  As the nurse prepared the needle, I felt myself getting queasy. I hated needles. Not that anyone really likes them, but I’d go so far as saying I had a phobia. I remembered back to when I had to get my Hep B shots in grade, what was it? Three? And the nurses that came in said it wouldn’t hurt a bit. Well, it hadn’t. I’d passed out in the chair at the sight of the needle and never felt a thing. It’s not that uncommon—or so they told me.

  Mom looked over at me. I must have taken on a colour similar to Sammy’s because she asked if I was going to be okay.

  The nurse stopped what she was doing and looked at me too. “Yeah, are you going to be okay? If you want to look away that’s fine.”

  I shook my head and kept watching.

  The nurse continued preparing. She opened a small package and wiped Sammy’s arm with what looked like a Wet-Nap you get in restaurants. She tied a thick rubber band around his small bicep and prodded with her fingers in his elbow crease. After a couple seconds, she seemed content with what she’d felt and drew the needle. I wanted to look away but couldn’t. It was like a car crash that everyone stops to watch. As the needle passed through the skin, I felt the metallic taste in my mouth as if I was going to be sick. A thin tube ran from the needle to a plastic container and that container started to fill with blood. All this time, Sammy continued to lie with his eyes closed. He didn’t even flinch as the needle went in. I reminded myself to give him a Level when we got home.

  The nurse finished up and turned to us before leaving the room “One of the doctors will be in soon to ask you some questions.”

  “Soon,” I would learn, has a very different meaning in hospitals than it does elsewhere. Forty minutes later and still no one had shown up.

  I tried to occupy my mind by daydreaming. I forced myself to think of Aleta and our Secret Spot but the images would only flutter in my mind briefly before those of Sammy’s body on the playground concrete would force their way back in. He was sleeping and I considered waking him. Did it hurt? Do you remember it? Could you hear us yelling your name? All these questions lay unanswered, gnawing at me. The longer it went on, the worse it became.

  Finally, a short, skinny Asian boy came in and introduced himself as Simon the Clinical Clerk.

  “What’s a clinical clerk?” Dad asked.

  “It’s a medical student in third year. I’m training to be a doctor,” he replied.

  “Medical school? Are you sure you’re not still in high school?” Dad joked. The boy shook his head. “Well, Doogie Howser, let’s get started. What’s going on with my favourite son?” Dad winked at me as he said this.

  “I’m not really sure yet, I—we—just need to get some information first,” he said.

  “Ignore my husband. He doesn’t have an off button for his joking around,” Mom said, shaking her head at Dad. “Go ahead with your questions.”

  The boy looked down at his clipboard where he obviously had a list because he rarely looked up from that point on.

  “Okay, so what exactly happened today?”

  Mom looked at me, “I think Cal can probably answer that question best.”

  I recounted in great detail the events that occurred on the basketball court leading up to the falling backwards, “And then, and then, he just sort of fainted but instead of lying still, his arms and legs were going crazy and his eyes were open and looking all over the place.”

  “How long did that shaking go on?”

  “I dunno, a few minutes. There was a big crowd and the teachers were pushing us out of the way.”

  After some more jotting down on his clipboard, “And has he ever had a seizure like that before?”

  “Seizure? What’s a seizure?” I asked.

  “No,” Mom said, taking over from there.

  “Had he been sick before the game?”

  “He’s been sick all summer. Our family doctor said he thought it was mono,” Mom replied.

  “Okay, we’ll come back to that. Has he fallen lately? Hit his head at all?”

  “No.”

  “Anyone in the family with epilepsy or a seizure disorder?”

  “No.”

  “Any other health issues that Sammy has? Medications he’s taking? Allergies?”

  “No. No. No.”

  Simon seemed to be thinking as he stared at his clipboard.

  “Any recent history of weight loss?”

  “Yes, he has lost some weight over the summer.”

  “Any fevers?”

  “Daily.”

  “Any night sweats?”

  I thought back to all the mornings where I’d seen the swimming pool that was Sammy’s bed.

  “Yes.”

  “Any history of easy bruising
?”

  At this, Mom paused and looked at me, “He has had a lot of bruises this summer, but his brother can be a bit rough with him, so I don’t know about easy bruising.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “How has his energy level been?”

  “Very poor. He’s been napping nearly every day.”

  We sat in that room answering Simon the Clinical Clerk’s questions for well over an hour. Any problems when you were pregnant with him? Issues with the delivery? Shortly after the delivery? Travelled anywhere recently? Anyone else sick? Any pets at home? Any of the following short list of signs or symptoms: diarrhea, constipation, obstipation, shortness of breath, chest pain, belly pain, joint pain, bone pain, lumps or bumps, rashes, runny nose, cough or menstrual irregularity. The list was apparently all-inclusive because at this last one Simon looked up, red in the face, and said, “Oops, sorry.”

  “Okay.” Simon put his clipboard down. “I need to examine the patient.”

  “I’m sure Sammy would be happy to oblige,” Dad answered.

  Simon fumbled awkwardly with a device on the wall, dropping it once, before wrapping what looked like a black strap around Sammy’s arm. He listened with his stethoscope while inflating what I now saw was some sort of balloon. When he was satisfied with what he’d done, he went back to his clipboard and scribbled more notes, never telling us what he was doing or what he thought.

  “Stand up and walk across the room,” Simon said.

  “You didn’t say, ‘Simon-says,’” Dad joked.

  Sammy tried to get out of bed but couldn’t, so Dad went over to help. He managed to get Sammy up standing but he was wobbly and still didn’t look like he was back to himself.

  “Okay, never mind, we can just do the exam sitting,” Simon said.

  Sammy lay back down and Simon put him through a series of tasks that reminded me of some sort of game: take a breath, open your mouth, turn your head, touch your nose.