“Ouch,” I said to her, flinching from faked pain. She instantly let go. I turned back to the radiologist. “Please. I’m begging you. And I promise this will be completely off the record.”
“Not just off the record, but never again, agreed?” he said.
“Absolutely.”
“No recurrence. No changes. Things are looking good.”
I thanked him and followed the technician out. She shook her head and laughed.
When I got home, Mom rushed to the front door faster than Amiga. “How was it? Are you okay?” There was tension in every inch of her face, from her furrowed brow down to her pressed lips. I quickly relayed the news, including the trick I’d pulled to get the results, and she laughed out loud. The tension drained from her face.
Smiling, she looked at me and slowly shook her head. “How did my son become such a talented trickster?”
I smiled back at her. “Genetics.”
* * *
•
I returned to school on Monday and blew Ms. Hamilton away with the news that I’d finished East of Eden in addition to all the other homework she’d assigned. On Tuesday, Mom took me to the appointment with Dr. Gourevik. “Is something wrong?” she asked as we drove up to his office.
I was agonizing over getting his approval for the trip, but I thought it best not to mention my concern to Mom. “Are you actually worried I’m not full of excitement to see Dr. G? Come on. If I was excited, that’s when you should worry.” Mom thought that was pretty funny.
We waited twenty-five minutes for His Highness to call us in, and he sat down behind his desk and picked up the MRI results. I had already told Mom to pretend she didn’t know, and when I saw her scoot to the edge of her seat, I nearly cracked up laughing.
“The most recent MRI shows no sign of recurrence,” Dr. Gourevik said.
“Thank God,” I said, wiping my forehead. “That’s such a relief.” Mom gave my hand a squeeze and smiled.
“Yes, I’d say it’s something to be happy about.” He pointed toward his exam room. “Let’s proceed with a quick physical.” I walked straight to it, trying to look as confident as possible. Mom waited back in his office.
He went through all the standard checks, like thumping on my chest and listening to my heart and lungs. Then he proceeded with the neurological stuff. I walked across the room with one foot directly in front of the other. I sat down and he had me touch his finger and then my nose a few times as he moved his hand around. I touched my nose with my eyes shut. All good. Then I followed a light with my eyes, trying to keep my head straight, but when he got far over to the left, my head started shaking. “Interesting,” he said. That got me a little concerned.
“It’s been that way since I was a kid,” I said. It was a total lie, though I’d never consciously tried to keep my head straight and swing my eyeballs all the way to one side.
“I understand,” he said. “All right, let’s return to the office.” He didn’t seem terribly worried. My stress level dropped by half.
I sat back down next to Mom as Dr. Gourevik plopped down on his throne. “I see no changes,” he said.
Mom sighed. She never seemed to know that people could hear her when she did that. “Jeff is demonstrating certain effects from the trauma to his brain, and as I’ve said previously, I think it would be a good idea for him to undergo a neuropsychological evaluation.”
“What is that, exactly?” Mom asked.
Dr. Gourevik described it. It sounded like the IQ test I’d taken to get into private school, along with some exams to figure out if everything in my head was working properly. What if the test revealed something was wrong? He wouldn’t let me go on the trip. I either had to avoid it altogether or make sure I only did it after coming back from the Soviet Union.
“Sounds good,” I said. “Is that it?”
Dr. Gourevik nodded.
This was my moment. “Say, I wanted to get a quick signature from you on something.” I reached into my backpack and pulled out the medical release form that the Starlight people had sent us. “If you could just sign right here,” I said.
“What is this?” Dr. Gourevik said. He reached for his pen, which was good.
“Well, I’m going on an overseas trip next year and the people coordinating it just wanted to make sure I’m medically cleared, so if you could just sign on the bottom left there, we’re all good.”
“Where is the trip to?” Dr. Gourevik asked.
“Well, the Soviet Union. But I’ll be accompanied by a whole bunch of adults and other people my age. So no risk. I certainly don’t want to bother you, so if you could just sign, that would be great.”
Dr. Gourevik looked up at me. “If you want me to sign something, I have to review it.”
I slumped into my seat. “Fine,” I said.
He took forever to read the thing. It was short, too. I’d already read it. It had three yes or no questions, a line for his signature, another for his printed name, and a space for today’s date. I’d even filled out the last two for him, just to make it convenient. He scanned each sentence with his finger, and, now, for the third time, he went back to the top and started over. I was getting worried.
“Jeff,” Mom said to me quietly.
“What?”
“Did you want to ask Dr. Gourevik about the problem you had while reading the other day?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Was she selling me down the river? I frowned at her, praying that Dr. Gourevik missed what she’d said, but he looked up.
“What problem would that be?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Just spent eight hours on my couch glued to a book.”
Mom couldn’t keep her mouth shut. “You had difficulty speaking to me. And I spoke with Aura, who said you had trouble during your phone call.”
I couldn’t believe she’d had a secret conversation with Aura about me. I rubbed my arms as my lip started to curl. My own mother was betraying me.
“Mom, I was just exhausted from tons of homework and all that reading. There was no problem.”
“Fatigue certainly increases seizure vulnerability, Jeff,” Dr. Gourevik said. “And that does sound like a possible seizure.” I was stunned by where this was going. “Have you had any other episodes where your ability to communicate was adversely affected?”
“No, Dr. Gourevik. I’m fine. My scan is clear. Everything is perfect. Honestly, I just need you to sign the paper.”
He set down his pen, rubbed his nose, and then cupped his hands together. “I’m not going to sign this now,” he said.
“But, Dr. Gourevik—”
“I need to think it over. My initial sense is that I’m not in a position to certify you’re okay to go on this trip.”
“The Starlight Foundation thinks you are,” I said.
“I’m lacking information.”
“What kind of information? You’ve got the scan results in front of you. You just did an exam. What more could you possibly need?”
“A full evaluation from a qualified neuropsychologist.”
“Are you serious?” I said, crossing my arms. “What has that got to do with my head buzzing a tiny bit after reading for twelve hours straight?”
“You said you’d been reading for eight hours.”
I rolled my eyes. “Whatever. Eight hours, then.”
“A neuropsychological evaluation has the potential to identify specific areas of cognitive impairment, which is important in determining your well-being.”
“Impairment? You’ve gotta be kidding. I’m perfectly fine.”
“If that’s the case, the examination will confirm it. In any event, I will consider your request and give you a response when I’m ready. In the meantime, please consider undergoing this important evaluation.”
“You’re such—” I started to say,
but Mom pinched my arm—hard.
“Thank you, Dr. Gourevik,” she said. “Please hold on to the form.”
I walked out of his office completely silent, continuing to the elevators. I didn’t bother waiting for Mom. I stood by her car outside, steaming for what seemed like ages, until she finally showed up.
“What the hell, Mom?”
“Honey…”
“Don’t ‘honey’ me! Do you realize you destroyed my wish?”
“I didn’t mean to, Jeff.”
“You didn’t mean to? You gave Dr. Gourevik the reason he needed not to sign the damn release. I thought you were on my side. But you’re just like Dad.”
“I only wanted—”
“You got what you want. I don’t need to hear anything else about it. Just take me home.”
We didn’t exchange a word on the way back. It was exactly like me and Dad.
I hurried from the car to the house to use the bathroom just off the kitchen. Mom went to check the answering machine, and the messages started to play back.
As I stepped out of the bathroom, I heard Aura’s voice drifting off the tape. “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news, but I wanted to make sure you got it. Sylvia passed away last night. Her funeral will probably be this weekend. I’ll let you know the details when I find out. I’m really sorry, Jeff. Bye.”
I woke from a bad dream about Sylvia with my hands clasped together and my shirt damp with sweat. For several seconds, before I was fully awake, I thought maybe her death was just part of that nightmare. But then my consciousness kicked in, and along with it the awareness that Sylvia was indeed gone and my mom had ruined my wish. In an instant, the morning felt gloomy and bleak.
It took ages to pull myself out of bed, and the only thing that got me to do it was knowing that if I didn’t, my mom would come downstairs to get me. I really didn’t care to see her.
In the shower, I lathered up with soap, rinsed, and did it again. I was so fixated on Sylvia that I didn’t even realize I was doing it until I was halfway through—my showers were typically quick, and I never went for two rounds unless I was filthy. But I felt dirty, knowing that Sylvia died without hearing from me. It’s like I was trying to rinse away the guilt I felt for not being there for Sylvia when she needed me. The least I could do was show up at her funeral. From what she’d told us about her family, I worried they wouldn’t bother to attend.
I stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel. My focus was shifting from Sylvia to my mom. I still couldn’t believe what had happened in Dr. Gourevik’s office. She had to know that saying what she said would freak him out. Now, thanks to her, I had to go through a neuropsychological evaluation, whatever the hell that was. Just another obstacle to a wish—one that I really, deeply wanted, but one that was starting to feel impossible.
Mom was in the kitchen when I appeared at the top of the staircase. “Good morning, honey,” she said as Amiga ran over to me. “I made you some breakfast.”
I’d had to make breakfast for myself since I was twelve, with the exception of weekend brunches, so I knew she was trying to get rid of her guilt. I wanted her to feel it, like I did. “I’m not hungry,” I said.
Mom frowned. “Please, Jeff,” she said. “I didn’t mean to create problems for you with Dr. Gourevik.”
“ ‘Didn’t mean to’? Seriously, Mom? He was about to sign that form until you opened your mouth. If you didn’t want me to go to the Soviet Union, you should’ve just told me outright instead of stabbing me in the back in front of that jerk.”
“I wasn’t trying to ruin your wish. You’d just had that episode in your bedroom when you couldn’t speak—and it worried me. I wanted him to know.”
“Well, he knows. And now I’ve got to do this damn evaluation and I wouldn’t be surprised if he discovers something that gives him an excuse not to let me go overseas. So congratulations, Mom. I think there’s a reasonably good chance you’ve killed my wish.”
She sighed and looked at her feet. “I didn’t want that, Jeff.”
I knew what she was looking for now: a hug, my understanding, for me to eat the breakfast she’d made and head off to school with a smile on my face. But I was pissed, and I couldn’t just wipe all that anger away.
“Want it or not, Mom, that’s what you got.” I looked at the clock. “Anyway, I don’t want to get in trouble now for showing up late to school.”
* * *
•
The whole morning at school, I didn’t listen to a word coming out of my teachers’ mouths. All I could think about was the neuropsychological test Dr. Gourevik was so hell-bent on me taking—not only whether I could pass the damn thing, but what it was in the first place. I had to figure it out.
Halfway through my Russian class, while I pretended to be reading a sentence in Cyrillic along with everyone else (it took me twice as long as my classmates to make out the letters, even when I was paying attention), it struck me that Sean, our school counselor, might know what the test involved. He had to, actually—he was a psychologist, after all. I decided I’d stop by his office during lunch, which was what he was always asking people to do anyway.
After grabbing a sandwich from the food truck, I hurried over to the administrative building. I’d never visited Sean’s office, and it took me a few minutes to find it. The door was halfway open. I knocked.
“Come in,” Sean said.
“Hi, I’m Jeff—in my junior year. I was wondering if you had a moment.”
“Sure, Jeff,” Sean said with a smile. “Have a seat—the couch or one of those chairs, whatever you prefer.”
“Thanks. So, like, I was wondering if you could explain to me what a neuropsychological evaluation is.”
One of his eyebrows rose, which made me nervous. “Is your doctor making you do one following your surgery last year?”
“Oh, no, it’s someone in my cancer support group. She’s kind of nervous about it. So I thought I’d ask you—you know, so I could reassure her.”
“I see. Well, I’d be happy to talk with her directly if that would be helpful.”
“She’s at a different school, actually. You can just tell me. I’m pretty good at communicating details.”
Sean smiled. “All right. Well, neuropsychological evaluations—or comprehensive neuropsychological testing, which is what it was called when I was in school—are a series of tests to measure how a person’s brain is functioning compared to the norm. They’re usually given to people who are experiencing a brain illness, like Parkinson’s disease, or to someone who has had a brain injury, say, from a car crash.”
“What kind of tests, exactly?”
“It’s all paper-and-pencil-type stuff, often timed. They don’t use any diagnostic equipment, like scanners or that kind of thing.”
“Gotcha.” Sean’s explanation had made things clearer—mostly. A piece was still missing, and Sean could tell.
“Is there some other aspect of it you’d like to hear about?”
“Well, I guess most of what you said sounds like neurological testing. I’ve done stuff like that. You heard I had brain cancer, right?”
“I have.”
“My neurologist had me do tests like these in his office. But this is neuropsychological testing we’re talking about, right? What’s the psychological part?”
“Sure, I get what you’re asking. Yes, most of the tests, as I recall, are neurological. But in addition to an interview, there’s typically at least one psychological test—a long series of questions—that looks at personality type, quality of life, and things like depression. Remember that sheet I passed around about depression after Julie’s suicide attempt?”
I nodded.
“That had similar questions on it. Anyway, the psychological questions are included in this type of testing because brain injuries or diseases can impac
t a person psychologically.”
I wondered where I’d stashed that information sheet.
“Jeff?” Sean said. I looked up at him. “It would be totally legit if you had been asked to take this test and were coming to me out of fear or concern. That’s why I’m here—to help students who are facing challenges. If that’s what’s going on, there’s no need to feel embarrassed, and I’m happy to help.”
For a second, I thought about telling him the truth. But what if it went into my record that I was seeing the school shrink? Or he had to tell my parents I stopped by?
“Thank you very much for your answers,” I said as I stood. “I’m sure this will help my friend.”
* * *
•
After school, I came home to a tail-wagging dog and a note from Mom taped to the sliding glass door: I’m checking out retirement homes for your grandfather. I’ll be back around 5:30. I hope you had a good day. I crumpled it up and threw it into the trash, gave Amiga a quick tummy rub, and headed downstairs.
I probably should have just asked Sean for another one of his information sheets on depression, but I didn’t want to tip him off on anything. Plus, I knew I had the original copy—I’d tucked it away. Where, exactly, I couldn’t remember.
With my irritation building as I foraged through notebooks and textbooks and backpack compartments, all the while thinking that I wouldn’t have to do any of this if Mom hadn’t opened her mouth, a picture popped into my head. It was a young African boy, dressed in rags, covering his head with his hands as a tear rolled down his bony cheek. I snapped my fingers and spun around, pulling the August 1987 edition of National Geographic from my bookshelf. The day I came across the article, I’d been feeling sorry for myself, just having finished a round of chemo, but that poor kid and the hell he must have gone through put things into perspective for me. Earlier that same day, I’d pulled Sean’s information sheet on depression out of my notebook and was thinking about taking his little five-question test. But when I saw this kid—and how badly he was suffering—I decided I had nothing to complain about.
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