“I wanted to do something meaningful, you know? What’s wrong with that?” I tugged at my hair as my voice fell away. “Why is everyone against me on this?”
“I’m not against you, Jeff.”
“Maybe. But you’re definitely not with me.” She was with Edward, and she probably always would be. It finally hit me that I was completely alone. “I need to go,” I told her.
“Jeff, please,” she said.
“No, Monique,” I said firmly. “I really need to go.”
With that, I hung up.
* * *
•
Ted left for college in Philadelphia that week. The day before he took off, he came downstairs to get an extra suitcase from the storage closet. We bumped into each other in the hallway.
“I’ve been thinking about that wish of yours to go to the Soviet Union,” Ted said.
I braced myself. I was pretty sure an insult was coming.
“What about it?”
He looked off for a minute, then snickered and shook his head.
“The whole thing was kind of funny,” he said.
“Thanks a lot, Ted. Just what I needed to hear.”
“Not your wish, you dork—Dad’s reaction.” My brother instantly gained my complete attention. “Your wish is exactly the kind of thing you’d think Dad would be thrilled about—or at least as thrilled as that man is capable of getting.”
I spread my fingers out against my chest, slowly shaking my head. Ted didn’t notice I was in shock.
“You just never know with that father of ours.”
I snorted. “That’s for damn sure.”
“But I’ll tell you something, bro—and then I’ve got to finish packing. As wishes go, yours ain’t bad.”
My jaw dropped. It stayed that way for a couple of seconds before my face broke into a wide grin.
“Easy there, cowboy,” Ted said. “Don’t have a seizure on me.”
That made me laugh out loud.
He headed upstairs. I couldn’t get over the exchange. My brother was leaving for college on a high note.
Junior year started with three major changes. First, no one, Lucia included, rushed up to me on day one like they had the previous year to ask me how I was doing. Second, I switched my foreign-language class from Spanish to Russian. (The signup sheet for fall classes came in the mail, and I’d filled it out before Dad had crapped all over my wish.) Third, I ended up with a new English teacher. Dr. Dillon’s Russian class, which I soon discovered was insanely challenging, put me in a time conflict with Mrs. McKendrick’s English class. I signed up for another one, taught by a Ms. Hamilton, who was the new kid on the block as far as teaching at Poly went. Nobody had ever seen her, but word on the street was that she was practically a kid herself.
That first day, I walked into her classroom a couple of minutes early. It was empty, save for a blond, blue-eyed woman in her late twenties or early thirties in a well-worn long-sleeve plaid shirt. She was sitting on the teacher’s desk at the front of the room, the long hardwood table with a U-shaped seating arrangement in front of her for students. She was flipping through our textbook, the extra-thick Norton Anthology of American Literature.
I plopped my own copy down on the table, several seats away from her. She looked up and smiled warmly. “Are you here for English?” she asked. “I really hope so.” I nodded. She hopped off the desk, dropping her anthology in the process, and walked over to shake my hand. “I’m Ms. Hamilton. I’m your English teacher.” She picked up the book on her way back and tossed it onto the desk. She turned toward me and laughed. “I guess you probably knew I was your teacher.”
“Oh yes, I was able to determine that with the powerful deductive reasoning skills I’ve developed at this fine academic institution,” I said with a smirk.
Her eyes shot wide open; then she gave her thigh a hard slap and boomed out a laugh. It was enough to get Mrs. McKendrick, who was passing by outside, to pause and look in. She seemed puzzled, her tongue poking into the side of her cheek. Ms. Hamilton turned back and saw her.
“Sorry, Matilda,” she said. “We’re just having a little fun here.”
I was tempted to wave at her, but I didn’t. Inside, I was thrilled.
Ms. Hamilton started her class with a round of introductions. She seemed really interested in her students, most of whom were pretty cool, except for an obnoxious guy named Tim who had teased me endlessly in eighth grade. With all the questions Ms. Hamilton asked, the introductions took a third of the period. When the last student finished, she picked up the anthology but changed her mind after checking her watch. She set the book down and turned to us. “Let’s do a neat exercise,” she said.
She started by telling us what constituted a good story. “As we read through the remarkable stories in this book, you’ll see they have something in common. They’re fundamentally about challenges. Someone wants something, but they can’t get it. There are barriers to achieving it—sometimes another person, sometimes an actual physical obstacle, sometimes a belief. The stories finish with some kind of resolution, which is often a transformation. Maybe the person gets what she wants, maybe she doesn’t, but she changes so much in the process of pursuing her goal that in the end it no longer has the same significance. That concept—transformation—is often what’s behind a good story.”
She motioned toward a wooden bowl filled with pens and index cards at the center of the table where we were seated. “Grab one of those pens and a card,” she said. “Now write down, in a sentence, two things: a challenge you’re facing, or one you’ve faced, and the resolution you hope for, or have attained, which might be your personal transformation. Be bold—but not crude. Don’t put your name on it. Take no more than five minutes. When you’re done, we’ll read a few, and then I’ll tell you your homework.”
Cancer jumped to mind, of course. It was my most obvious challenge. Still, I didn’t feel like writing about it, and I wasn’t sure what the resolution was, other than my not dying. I looked over at my friend Cara. She’d already started scribbling something down. I tried to focus. Monique came to mind next, but whatever story I could tell about her wouldn’t lead to a transformation. I got nervous looking around the room, because it seemed like everyone was throwing their completed cards into the bowl. In the last half minute, I finally came up with something.
Ms. Hamilton motioned toward the bowl. A student slid it down the table to her. People sat up in their seats, their eyes focused on her, and she closed hers and mixed the cards. At last, she pulled one out. Watching her was amusing.
“Okay, here’s our first grand challenge. It says, ‘Getting a certain boy to notice me.’ ” Everyone looked around the room, trying to figure out who wrote it. Ms. Hamilton continued. “ ‘Resolution/transformation: making his girlfriend disappear.’ Aha, we have unrequited love here, followed by machination and possible subterfuge. Love, in all its forms, is a very powerful basis for a number of the stories we’ll read.”
Ms. Hamilton closed her eyes again, steadying the bowl with one hand while swirling the cards around with the other. She withdrew one and read it once to herself. “Okay, this one says, ‘My father doesn’t care about things that are really important to me.’ ” She looked up. “I’ll bet that feels familiar to a lot of you.” Several people in the room were nodding. “Lots of us feel like our parents simply don’t get us. What’s this person’s resolution? ‘Achieve something that truly blows my dad away.’ ”
Eyes darted around the room, with everyone trying to play detective. Ms. Hamilton was on to the next card before an identity could be determined.
The bell rang and everybody hopped to their feet and started gathering their stuff. “I hope you’re not that eager to get out of my class,” Ms. Hamilton said, smiling. “Grab a homework sheet—there.” She pointed to the end of the table. “You’ve got plenty of re
ading for tomorrow—stories strong on struggle and transformation. And know this: I accept praise, ideas, and complaints—but not homework excuses.”
Ms. Hamilton stood near the door as we walked out. I ended up being the last to leave. Just as I walked past her she said, “I have a book you might like to read.” I turned around and she handed me East of Eden by John Steinbeck.
“Is this, like, homework?” I asked, flipping through it. It looked pretty long.
“No. It just happens to be one of my favorite books. And it’s about father-son relationships, among other things.”
I put two and two together, impressed. I looked at her and smiled. “How did you know the card you read was mine?”
Ms. Hamilton laughed. “Everyone else followed my instructions.”
“How’s that?”
“They wrote their challenges with a black ballpoint they took from the bowl. You used the blue pen you’re holding.”
* * *
•
During my first week of school, I came down with a killer cold. Chemo always leaves patients vulnerable to every bug floating around, and this one was bad. Dr. Farbstein, my oncologist, said I was at risk for pneumonia and gave my mom orders to keep me home for a few days.
I didn’t complain. Something had sucked me into East of Eden. Halfway through, this nice old man, Samuel Hamilton, visits a farm owned by Adam Trask, and the two of them get into a discussion about conflicting translations of the Bible with Lee, a very philosophical guy. Lee, the philosopher, explains that the King James Bible has the Hebrew God saying that Cain, the guy who kills his brother Abel, in Genesis, shall conquer sin. The word “shall” is pretty much a ruling—straight from God. There’s no room for choice. That’s simply the way it’s going to be.
But Lee says another translation of the Bible, the American Standard, suggests something completely different: that Cain may conquer sin. The word “may,” it seems to Lee, means that Cain has some say in his own fate—actual choice, free will. One word, translated differently, turns the meaning of the whole passage upside down.
I found myself thinking about my father. In our house, he might as well have been God. One word coming out of his mouth became a command for the rest of us. It made me think about my wish. I was seriously considering abandoning it, just because sharing it with him had produced nothing but a wintry detachment—or maybe just prolonged the one that had started when I got his car stolen. I was letting Dad determine my fate, the same way one father in East of Eden tried to lay out his son’s.
I was thinking about that when the phone rang one afternoon. No one picked it up, so I did. It was Aura, the social worker I’d set up the cancer support group with, whom I’d kind of been avoiding. After having that blowout with Monique, the last thing I wanted to do was schedule another group meeting.
“So look, Aura,” I said, once we got past the pleasantries, “as much as I’d love to plan a get-together, I’m swamped with school. I really don’t think I can do it this time.”
“That’s okay, Jeff. I understand.” I thought she’d be upset, but she sounded fine. “Actually, I was also calling to let you know some news. Sylvia had a relapse.”
The news hit me hard. I felt it like a punch in my stomach. Sylvia was the girl who’d told us how her stepdad and sister blamed her for hogging her mom.
“Oh, jeez, that’s the last thing any of us needs. And she’s got the worst family on the planet.”
“It’s difficult. She’s definitely lacking support. I’m sure she’d appreciate a visit—she’s at Torrance Memorial—or even a call.”
At that moment, it felt like a wave hit me—starting in my gut, building, and crashing into my brain. I was suddenly lightheaded. I lost focus. I could make out sounds—Mom calling down from the top of the staircase, Aura’s voice over the phone—but I couldn’t respond.
Seconds passed, and I finally mumbled to Aura that I had to go.
Mom knocked on my door at the same moment, swinging it open. At first, she looked relieved, as if she was satisfied to find me home and awake, but her expression quickly turned into one of concern. “Are you okay, honey?”
I wanted to calm her, but I couldn’t formulate a response. She hurried to the couch, her eyes scanning my body, briefly pausing on the book resting on my lap, quickly glancing at the phone beside me, then landing on my face, my eyes. Slowly, my mind cleared. I drew in a long breath, then blew it out.
“Too much reading,” I said, my fingers tapping on the book cover. “But I’m fine.” An expression of protest, maybe disbelief, blanketed her face. I wasn’t sure what had just happened, but I was lucid enough now to make sure I appeared calm to her. “Really, Mom,” I said, totally faking confidence, “everything is fine.”
* * *
•
The day after I finished East of Eden, which had gotten me thinking so much about Dad and my wish, the head of the Starlight Children’s Foundation called me. Carol Brown introduced herself with her voice full of enthusiasm. “I’ve been so looking forward to speaking with you,” she said. “I can honestly say your wish is the most extraordinary one we’ve ever received.” I really liked the sound of that.
Carol told me that her team had made progress. “We’ve found an organization, Youth Ambassadors of America, that coordinates international youth summits. They’ve got a trip to the Soviet Union next year, and they’d love for you to join them. We’re separately working on the meeting with Mr. Gorbachev, and we might have found an angle on that.”
I was speechless. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“Jeff?”
“I’m here,” I said, jumping to my feet. “It’s all just kind of amazing. I thought you might be calling to let me know it wasn’t going to happen.”
“Not at all. We really, really want to make this happen.” She sighed. “Now, a couple things. First, your parents will have to sign off on this wish. Can I assume they’re supportive?” Mom was scared about me going overseas. Dad considered the wish a distraction from school.
“Oh, absolutely. They love it. No problem at all.”
“Great. The other thing is making sure you’re healthy enough for the trip.”
“I’m in great shape. Almost done with chemotherapy, in fact.”
“That’s good to hear. Who is coordinating your cancer treatment?”
“I’ve got tons of doctors. I guess the main one is my neurologist, Dr. Gourevik.”
“We’ll need him to certify your health.” The second she said that, I felt like kicking myself for offering his name. The chances of him doing anything that would help me were slim to none.
Carol went on. “We’ll send you the release forms and information about Youth Ambassadors of America. I’ve got to run now, but we’re really excited. It’s a beautiful wish.”
I thanked Carol and we hung up. It was great to hear her enthusiasm. But I really screwed up in mentioning Dr. Gourevik. Getting my parents’ support would be hard enough. Hooking his would require a miracle.
Before talking to Dr. Gourevik about clearing me for the trip, I had to get an MRI scan, which always stressed me out. But this time it wasn’t just the prospect of my tumor coming back; it was also the fact that any evidence of recurrence would ensure I’d never be allowed to go on the trip.
The absolute worst day to get an MRI, I’d learned from experience, is a Friday, because you end up waiting the whole weekend and then some to get the results. Of course, the only appointment they had available that week was on Friday. What made it worse was that Monique was the only person who’d ever succeeded in chilling me out while I was waiting for the verdict, and now we weren’t speaking. The only good thing was that I got to transport myself in my own set of wheels. The dealer had called the day before to say the new car was ready, and Mom kindly chauffeured me out to pick it up. Needless to say, it t
ook tons of reassuring to convince her to let me drive up for the MRI on my own.
The whole time I was in the tube, as my head was getting pounded, I wondered if there was some way I could get an early copy of the radiologist’s report. By the time the machine stopped scanning my brain, I’d come up with an idea.
I heard the muffled sounds of the technician, who looked like a younger version of my mother, as she entered the room. She slid me out, removing the cage over my face and the band across my forehead. I yanked out the earplugs.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Really good,” I said, which couldn’t have been further from the truth.
“Sit up when you like,” she told me. “There’s no rush.”
Instantly, I swung myself up. I put a particularly warm smile on my face. She smiled back. “You look great,” she said. “Let me get you a step stool.”
As she was positioning it on the floor in front of me, I noted the location of the door that accessed the control room, where the radiologist and his crew were sitting.
“Are you ready to stand?” the technician said.
My head was still tingling, but I said yes and hopped to my feet. I was lucky I didn’t fall over. She motioned toward the door, but I shook my head. She pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow. I extended my arm toward the exit, winking at her, and said, “Ladies first.” She cracked up and nodded.
The second she started walking toward the exit, I took off in the opposite direction, swinging open the door to the control room. The radiologist, an athletic older guy with an oversized mug in his hand, nearly choked on his coffee. “Sorry to trouble you,” I said, “but considering it’s Friday, I’ll go through a hellish weekend of worry waiting to hear the results of the scan you just completed. Of course, a man with your expertise could tell me right this moment.”
“The exit is this way,” I heard someone say behind me. It was the technician. I ignored her, but she tugged on my sleeve.
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