by Alex Lyttle
CHAPTER 25
THE WEEKEND WAS OVER AND I HAD TO GO BACK TO SCHOOL. I’D spent the night before in my own room, tucked into my own bed and in the morning brushed my teeth in my own bathroom and ate at my own kitchen table, and yet something about it all felt foreign and unfamiliar. Maybe it was that Sammy wasn’t right next to me spilling his milk everywhere, or that Mom wasn’t there telling me to stop being mean when I called him a pig, or that Dad slept in and I had to get myself ready for school.
When it was almost time to leave Dad walked down the stairs into the kitchen rubbing his eyes.
“Sorry, Cal, I must have slept through my alarm,” he said.
“It’s fine,” I replied through a mouth full of Cheerios.
He sat down next to me at the table and for a moment looked as if he was going to say something. Instead he just stared blankly through me, as if I weren’t there or he had x-ray vision, before grabbing an old newspaper and opening it. His beard had grown more and he had a hunch while he sat, like he’d become an old man overnight. It was sometime around then that I realized Dad was having the hardest time of all of us dealing with Sammy’s cancer.
Outside the air was cool and the leaves were starting to show the changes of autumn. A hurried breeze blew through the grass around our house and it tickled my nose as it went. After summer, autumn was my favourite season. I liked the smell of damp leaves and the yellows and oranges and golds of the maples. When we’d lived in London we used to drive through the country just to see the trees and pumpkin patches. Then we’d stop somewhere and choose the biggest, orangest pumpkin we could possibly find. Now that we lived in the country, it was all around us. Only I’d never really appreciated it before.
When I saw the familiar yellow school bus kicking up a cloud of dirt down County Road 11 I felt a wave of anxiety pass through me. By now, every kid at school would know about Sammy’s cancer. We hadn’t gone to church the day before but I knew that Reverend Ramos would have asked everyone to say a prayer for Sammy, and then people would have talked at length over Sunday dinner about the sick boy who had collapsed on the playground and been diagnosed with cancer.
They’d probably have some sort of fundraiser at the church like they always did when something bad happened. Like when the Maxwell’s farm flooded or the Granger’s house caught fire, people were always willing to help if something bad happened to someone else. I remember wondering if I’d be able to get a new bike with the money—just for a second—but yeah, I actually had that thought.
An awkwardness followed me around everywhere that morning—the cautious smile from the bus driver, the stifled chatter as I took my seat, the hurt that filled Aleta’s eyes as she sat silently beside me. Even the Riley brothers greeted me with little more than a sneer, though I doubted they were quiet out of respect. The bruises on the back of Tom’s neck told me that fear had a role to play.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to smack the smugness off the Rileys’ faces and scream. Come on! Have it out! Yes, it’s me—the one whose brother has cancer! He’s not dead you know! And I’m not him! Instead I sat quietly and stared out the window at the passing fields that had once been towering corn and green soy but now were empty and brown.
Nobody spoke to me the whole morning but when the bell rang for recess Ms. Draper asked me to stay behind.
She waited for everyone else to leave, then turned to me.
“How are you doing?” she asked.
It was a question I would get a lot.
I thought about saying, “Oh, you’ve mixed up the brothers. I’m actually the one that doesn’t have cancer,” but I didn’t have it in me to be rude.
“Fine,” I said.
I told her I was fine because I should have felt fine. I wasn’t the one retching in a toilet. But in truth I didn’t feel fine. I felt achy all over my body and tired like I hadn’t slept in days.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Ms. Draper asked again.
“I’m fine,” I repeated.
The main reason I said I was fine was that it was the quickest end to the conversation.
Ms. Draper nodded her head slowly. “Okay, but if you ever want to talk about things you know I’m available, right?”
I nodded.
OUTSIDE I’D EXPECTED to find a crowd but instead found only Aleta kicking at some stones by the portable door. She smiled at me hesitantly.
I didn’t smile back.
Instead I started walking toward the far end of the playground.
Aleta followed beside me.
“I heard about Sammy,” she said. “At church, Reverend Ramos made an announcement. I’m sorry, Cal.” She sounded genuinely sorry. She sounded like she might start to cry, which irritated me because I blamed her for keeping me away from Sammy.
I walked faster.
Aleta walked faster to keep up.
“What did the doctors say? Will they be able to…make him better? Will he have to be in the hospital long?”
We walked past the boys playing basketball and the girls playing hopscotch. We walked right off the concrete that surrounded the school and were now crossing through the large field beyond. A few younger kids were playing tag but stopped to watch as we walked by. I kept walking, not paying attention. I walked until I was halfway across the field and stopped.
“Are your parents doing okay? My dad was wondering—”
I cut Aleta off with a wave of my hand. “Aleta, remember when you told me some things are easier to not talk about?”
Her green eyes flashed a moment of recollection.
“This is one of those times,” I said with more anger in my voice than I’d meant. “I really don’t want to talk about Sammy. I really don’t want to talk about anything. I just want to be left alone.”
“Cal, when I said—” she sounded like she was going to argue then stopped. For a moment she stood there, her eyes locked on mine. She was searching me—trying to break me down. And she almost did. But I held strong—my face solid and fierce. I couldn’t let her break me down. I couldn’t let Sammy down again. Aleta let out a deflated exhale and looked back toward the school. “Okay,” she said, “I understand.”
“Thanks,” I said gruffly, then turned and continued walking toward the far side of the schoolyard.
When I got to the chain-linked fence that separated the school from the farms and fields beyond I followed it until I was at the furthest point possible from the school. I turned and sat with my back against the cold metal, watching the kids play.
Aleta was still standing where I’d left her in the middle of the field. I was supposed to feel better. I had done what I had thought I needed to do—I had stood up for Sammy. I had put Sammy first. Yet, I didn’t feel better.
My heart still ached. It ached for Sammy. It ached for Aleta. But I needed to stop worrying about Aleta. Aleta would be fine. Sure she didn’t know anyone else at school and sure she was quiet as a mute, but she would make friends. She would find new people to play with. She would have to. I couldn’t be her friend anymore.
CHAPTER 26
IT WAS FRIDAY, DAY EIGHT. THE FIRST WEEK WAS OVER AND IT had not been easy on anyone.
The day after I’d told Aleta I needed time alone I’d climbed on the bus and sat in the aisle seat, not moving over when she’d gotten on. For a moment she’d stood waiting, but then the bus had lurched forward, continuing down Thornton Road and she’d gone and sat a few seats behind. Throughout the morning I’d avoided her pleading eyes until the bell rang for recess. I’d rushed to be the first out the door and I walked straight to the end of the playground. Aleta hadn’t followed. She’d stood around the portable for a while until one of the girls had come up to her and pulled her into their group. But even then she was still trying to put me in another of her trances. I could see her looking back at me every chance she got.
That first day had been the hardest—no doubt. After a whole summer with Aleta it felt like I wasn’t just losing a friend—I felt like I was losing a
part of my body. Like I was cutting my arm off or something. But I knew it had to be done. For Sammy’s sake, it had to be done.
Dad picked me up fifteen minutes late that day—each day he took a little longer coming to get me from school. And each day he’d arrive with a little more hair on his face and a little less energy in his voice. Then we’d drive to the hospital with only a short “How was your day?” passing between us.
I was glad for the school week to be over. It meant I could sleep on the cot for the weekend and not have to worry about the kids at school teasing me, or getting myself ready in the morning without Mom’s help, or having to look at Sammy’s empty bunk when I climbed out of bed. Mostly, I was looking forward to having time with Sammy so I could make things right between us. Even after a whole week of trying I didn’t seem to be making any headway. But the night before I’d come up with an idea that I was sure would work. I was going to right all the wrong I’d done that summer.
When we arrived at the hospital Mom was talking at the nurse’s desk with a lady I recognized from Bingo night.
“Hi, honey,” she said, giving me a quick wave from across the nursing station before turning back to the woman.
I waited beside Dad while he signed us in.
“Any cough, fever, or cold-like symptoms?” the nurse behind the counter asked. It was always the same questions. It reminded me of going through security at the airport except on the oncology ward your weapon is your germs.
We both shook our heads and held out our hands so she could place a dab of sanitizer into them.
When we walked around to the other side of the nursing station Mom was finishing her conversation. The woman she was talking to had red, shoulder-length hair and a pin on her shirt that read: Parents Fundraiser Committee. I was trying to remember who her child was when it hit me—Marsha! Her daughter’s name was Marsha. She was eight years old and had brain cancer that they’d had to open her skull to take out. Oliver had told me this and his descriptions were never easy to forget.
“Eight o’clock in the big room next to the cafeteria,” Mom said. “We’ll be there.”
She turned to Dad and me and we all walked back to Sammy’s room.
“What’s at eight o’clock?” Dad asked when we got to the room.
“The parents’ volunteer meeting tonight,” Mom said, “I told Barb we’d both come.” Mom’s tone sounded like it was a done deal but Dad’s face didn’t look very happy about that.
“Lizzy,” Dad said, he always called Mom Lizzy when he wanted something, “I…I…”
“I, what?” Mom asked.
“I just don’t think right now is the right time for me to start joining things. Why don’t I stay with the boys—take them to the games room. You can go.”
“Harold, please don’t make this an argument. It would be nice to get involved around here—like it or not we’re going to be here for a while—and it won’t kill you to spend a couple hours a week giving back.”
Dad’s shoulders slumped. “Liz, I’m telling you—I’m not going. I’m sorry, but it’s just not for me.”
“But I’ve already told Barb we’d both—”
Dad held up his hand. “I’m not going, Liz.”
Mom’s face tightened into a scowl but she didn’t keep arguing. Instead she went to her bed, sat down and picked up her latest book—Surviving Childhood Cancer: A Guide For Families and Dad walked over to Sammy’s bed.
Sammy had been flipping through his baseball card binder, pretending not to listen.
“How’s it going, sport?” Dad asked.
Sammy put the cards down. “Good.”
“How’s your tummy?” I asked, walking up to the bedside table. “Is it still hurting?”
His stomach had been bothering him all week even with the pain medicines the nurses gave him.
Sammy shrugged. “It’s fine.”
I reached inside my backpack and pulled out a piece of paper and pen. “Okay,” I said. “How bad is your tummy pain?”
It was time to start implementing my plan but Sammy just looked at me with a confused expression.
See, I had been thinking it through the night before. Why didn’t Sammy seem excited to hang out with me anymore? What had changed? Well, I knew it was the summer—yes—but I figured that couldn’t be all of it because there were still times when we’d go to the games room and suddenly he’d be back to himself.
Then it came to me. It was what the doctors and nurses called his symptoms—his tummy pain, his nausea, his headaches. The nurses were always asking how bad his tummy pain was on a scale of zero to ten but they only came in every few hours unless we asked for them. My idea was to keep track of Sammy’s symptoms so I could ask the nurses for more pain medicines when he needed them. That way his tummy wouldn’t bother him so much and he’d want to spend more time in the games room with me.
I repeated my question, “How bad is your tummy pain right now?”
Sammy shrugged. “It hurts a bit.”
“No, I mean, like, on the zero to ten scale the nurses use. Ten being the worst pain you’ve ever felt and zero being no pain.” I said it just like the nurses always said it. “I’m going to start writing it down for you. That way when it gets bad I can ask the nurses to bring you more pain medicines.”
Sammy didn’t seem overly excited about this but Mom was looking over her book with a smile so I knew she must have liked the idea.
“Oh,” Sammy said. “Six, I guess.”
“Six,” I repeated, then wrote the number six on the paper. Above it I wrote the date and time.
Six was almost always Sammy’s answer when he hadn’t got his pain medicines in a while. A seven was when his tummy was really bothering him and he’d only given an eight once when he was keeled over the toilet grabbing his tummy. That had looked more like a ten to me but Sammy wasn’t very good with numbers so he’d given it an eight. After the pain medicines his pain would usually go down to a two or three or four, but never a zero.
“Okay, and do you have pain anywhere else?”
Sammy shook his head.
“Good.” I wrote, ‘No pain anywhere else’ next to the six. “How many times have you thrown up today?”
Sammy thought for a minute then held up two fingers.
“And do you feel like you need to throw up right now?”
Sammy shook his head again.
“Okay,” I said, scribbling more notes.
I finished up my report and was pretty happy with how it looked. Very official, I thought. Then I grabbed The Secret Garden from under my bed and held it up.
“Want me to read a chapter?” I asked.
Sammy looked at the book for a second then shrugged.
Good enough—I started to read.
After Mom left for her meeting, Dad took Sammy and me to the games room. We played air hockey for a while—taking turns against Dad—but then Sammy said he liked watching better. I could tell by the way he winced every time he leaned over to hit the puck that it was because of his tummy that he didn’t want to play, not because he liked watching better. I guess Dad noticed too because he asked Sammy if he wanted to go back and lie down and Sammy didn’t answer, which we both knew was a yes. So after only fifteen minutes in the games room we went back to our usual prison and I sat watching TV while the nurses came in and gave Sammy more pain medicines. Or maybe they were sleeping potions because within five minutes Sammy’s breathing had become the regular, rhythmic in and out that meant he was asleep.
I thought about asking Dad if we could go back to the games room but I knew we couldn’t leave Sammy alone. So I waited for Mom to come back from her meeting. But I guess it went late because when she arrived Dad stood up and said he needed to get home.
So I just watched TV, remembering back to the beginning of summer when I’d complained about not having a TV in Huxbury. Right then I would have been happy to never see another TV as long as I lived.
CHAPTER 27
IT WAS SUN
DAY MORNING AND WE WERE WAITING FOR DAD. There was a chapel in the hospital and Mom wanted to go to Sunday service but Dad was late and Mom was angry. It didn’t bother me—I’d rather have gone to the games room to see if Oliver was around, and it definitely didn’t bother Sammy (he was half asleep on his bed watching cartoons). Still, I hoped Dad would show up soon because I could feel the tension in the room mounting every time Mom looked at the clock.
When Dad finally strolled in I braced for impact.
“How ya’ feeling, sport?” he asked Sammy; his usual routine when he arrived.
Sammy said, “Fine.”
Dad stood watching the TV for a brief moment. I think he was collecting his thoughts to prepare himself for Mom. He walked across the room and sat down beside her on the bed.
“It’s 10:30, Harold,” Mom said, her voice surprisingly calm.
Dad didn’t say anything back.
“I wanted to go to the service this morning in the chapel. You had promised you’d be here by nine so we could go.”
“I’m sorry, honey, I didn’t get much sleep again and—”
Mom stood up and walked toward the door. She stopped for a second and I thought, “Okay, here it comes,” but then she just walked right out without saying a word.
I realized I’d been holding my breath and let it all out with a giant whoosh.
“Can we go to the games room?” I asked Dad optimistically.
Dad didn’t answer. I think maybe Mom’s guilt trip had turned him to stone.
ON MONDAY I went back to school ready for another painful week of avoiding Aleta only to find out I wouldn’t have to. When the bus pulled up in front of her house she wasn’t there. We waited a few minutes before driving off and instead of feeling relieved like I should have, I felt sad.
By Thursday, Aleta still hadn’t shown up for school and things still weren’t any better with Sammy. Just like Oliver had said, Cycle 2 was worse than Cycle 1. He barely had the energy to get out of bed to go to the bathroom, let alone to go to the games room or do anything fun. He didn’t want me to read to him, he didn’t want me to get him a warm towel to put on his tummy, he just didn’t seem to want me at all.