Warhead

by Jeff Henigson

  “I told you some time ago that a neuropsychological evaluation would be beneficial for you.”

  “You did, sir, and it’s an excellent recommendation, which I have every intention of following through with—as soon as I get back from the Soviet Union.”

  “I’m not convinced. And that’s not until May.”

  “April, actually. Mid-April.”

  “Fine, April. Months away, in any case. You could do a neuropsychological evaluation this week and have the results a few days later.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. You’ve been dishonest and manipulative, and I have no reason to believe that you’re not being the same about a promise to do the evaluation later. You will do the evaluation now. If the results are good, as you seem certain they will be, then I’m happy to sign the medical release for your trip.”

  “Dr. Gourevik…” I probably came across as a sniveling child at that moment, but I couldn’t help it. I needed his signature.

  “Jeff, the evaluation is your only option. Also, don’t ever trick my secretary again.” With that, he hung up.

  For several minutes after getting off the phone with Dr. Gourevik, I held my head in my hands. I’d confronted the problem directly, just like my father would have told me to do, but I’d also lost. If a neuropsychologist got to look inside my messed-up mind, I’d almost certainly lose again. And that would be the end of my chance to do some serious good for the world.

  There was another possibility, I realized. Mom had a copy of the medical release form—we brought it to the appointment with Dr. Gourevik. What if I faked his signature and sent the completed form to Starlight? Dad would kill me if he ever found out, but it wasn’t like I’d be hurting anybody. It was more like a white lie.

  I thought then about the promise I’d made at Sylvia’s grave—that I would try with all my heart to make my wish come true. Going in for the neuropsychological evaluation would be the same as giving up. Faking Dr. Gourevik’s signature would give me a chance to go on my trip. The result would be contributing to world peace, and that would definitely outweigh one little lie.

  I went back upstairs. Amiga ran over to get some attention, but I pushed her away. I walked down the hallway and looked out the windows. The carport was empty.

  I stopped by the answering machine, replaying the message from the lady at the Starlight Foundation. After drawing in a deep breath, I pressed the delete button.

  Next, I walked down to Mom’s office. There were four stacks of papers and letters on her hardwood desk, neatly organized into piles. To their right was her compact calendar, displaying that day. Regency Park retirement community was written next to the 1 p.m. slot. I glanced at the clock. It was 1:30.

  I quickly slid open the top drawer of her file cabinet, flipping through folders until I came across one labeled STARLIGHT/WISH. Inside was the information package we’d received about Youth Ambassadors of America. The release form wasn’t there.

  I went through the remaining drawers. The form was nowhere to be found. I turned to her desk. Just as I was digging through drawer number three, I heard the rumbling of a car engine.

  In a panic, I slammed the drawers shut. I put the Starlight folder back in place in Mom’s file cabinet. Then I took off.

  She’d see me if I passed by the front door, so I raced down the three steps to my parents’ bedroom. I crossed from there to the back deck, where I opened the sliding glass door. Amiga raced after me, barking, and I nearly slammed the door shut on her nose. I had to make it to my bedroom before Mom checked up on me, and the only way to do that undetected was to take a very long path around the back of the house. She had a much shorter path—a few steps from the car to the house, and then the staircase down to my room.

  I bolted down the stairs off the deck and sprinted around the house. Amiga was far away, but I could still hear her barking. I wished she’d shut up. I came to the first door. It was locked. The only other possibility was the external door to my room. I raced down another set of stairs, up along the side of the house, and around to that door. My heart was pounding when I got there. Thank God it was open.

  As I positioned myself on the couch, I heard Mom’s steps on the staircase. Just then I realized I was dripping in sweat. I hopped to my feet, yanked open a drawer, grabbed a shirt, wiped myself off, and stuffed the shirt behind the couch just as Mom knocked on my door. “Come in,” I said as calmly as possible.

  She had a curious look on her face, almost suspicious, definitely not with her normal how-are-you-feeling nurselike demeanor. Her eyes scanned the room. They came back and fixed on me. “You’re sweating,” she said.

  “Oh, yeah? I, um, was doing some pushups.”

  “So you’re feeling better?”

  “Much better.” I smiled.

  She didn’t.

  “And were you in my office while I was out?”

  “Your office? No.” I swallowed.

  “Are you sure about that?”

  I must have left something out of place.

  “Oh, yes, you’re right. I was looking for information from the group that coordinates the trips to the Soviet Union. I completely forgot. Sorry.”

  For several seconds, she didn’t say anything. She drew in a long breath, just like Dad did when one of his judgments was pending, but then she calmly let it out.

  “Okay,” she said.

  * * *

  •

  I returned to school on Monday, way behind in almost every class. Ms. Hamilton asked me for my opinion on a Robert Frost poem she’d apparently assigned for discussion that day, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” When I told her I hadn’t read it, she frowned. Tim, who was sitting across from me, smirked. For the remainder of the class, Ms. Hamilton, at least to me, felt cold.

  The rest of that school day had a robotic vibe to it. People, both teachers and students, asked me how I was doing, which would always happen after I was out of school for treatment, but no one seemed interested in the answer. It didn’t matter, because I didn’t care to give one. I wanted to be anonymous.

  I got home around four. Mom’s car was there, and as I walked down the stairs to the house, I saw her on the phone, in her office. I slid open the front door. “Thank you, Carol,” I heard her say. “Let me look into this. I’ll be in touch.” I froze in place. Just from the tone of her voice, I could tell I’d gotten caught.

  The door to Mom’s office swung open in a flash. She stormed into the entryway, stopping inches in front of me. She glared at me, her eyes tight and cold. She slowly shook her head. It made me feel small.

  The question came out of her mouth in three parts: “What,” she said, pausing, “in the world”—another pause—“do you think you’re doing?” Her voice was icy.

  If she’d revealed my manipulations to Carol, the wish would certainly be finished. If she’d said anything to Dad, he wouldn’t want me in his house.

  “Did you tell her?”

  “Did I tell her that you lied to her by saying the medical release was on its way? Is that your concern?”

  “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  “Don’t ‘I’m sorry’ me. You’re not. You’re only worried because you’ve been caught, not about the immorality of lying in the first place. What else are you hiding?”

  “Nothing.”

  She crossed her arms and waited.

  “Well, I guess I did call Dr. Gourevik on Friday and kind of tricked his secretary to get him on the phone, but I told him I did that.”

  Mom threw her hands up. “I thought you were honest, Jeff. I really did. Now I feel like I need to check up on everything you’ve told me. Everything you’ve done.”

  “You don’t, Mom.”

  “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

  “I just told you—I lied to Dr. Gourevik’s secretary!”r />
  “And what else? What else have you been lying about?”

  I shifted on my feet. “I also kind of went through your office the other day for a copy of the medical release.”

  Mom moaned. “I knew it. I knew you’d been in there. And when I asked, you lied to me about it.” She blew out a mouthful of air. “Why exactly did you want the medical release?”

  “I was sort of thinking of forging Dr. Gourevik’s signature.”

  She grasped her head. “I can’t believe it. I simply can’t believe what I’m hearing. My own son, manipulative and dishonest…”

  I hated hearing her say that. “What about you, Mom?” I said sharply.

  She was caught off guard. “This isn’t about me.”

  “Really? Dr. Gourevik was just about to sign the release—until you opened your mouth. Now just why did you do that? You were worried about me going to the Soviet Union. Did you figure you could just end everything right there?”

  Mom gasped. “No, Jeff. I was worried about your health. That’s why I asked Dr. Gourevik about that incident. I wasn’t trying to scuttle your wish.”

  “Maybe not, Mom. But I think you basically did.” I slumped against the wall as my eyes welled up.

  The stiffness suddenly left my mom’s body. She touched my cheek. “I’m sorry. Really—I am. But I don’t think this is the end of your wish. You just have this extra step now, the evaluation, and I’m sure things will come out fine.”

  I looked at the floor. Tears dripped from my chin.

  “Oh, honey, please tell me what’s wrong,” Mom said.

  “The evaluation is going to reveal that I’m depressed. Maybe even seriously.” I wiped my face and looked back at Mom. Her eyes were fixed on mine. “Ever since I got the cancer diagnosis, I’ve been trying to keep things positive in front of you. Dad told me in the hospital you needed that. I knew your mom had died—not months later, when you finally got around to telling me, but while I was in the hospital, just after my surgery. So I kind of got into the habit of putting on a happy face whenever I’m around you—even when things are pretty bleak.”

  Mom bit her lip, then pressed her hand against her face. “Jeff, I want you to always feel like you can tell me anything.”

  “I didn’t think you could handle it.” I rubbed my nose. “School hasn’t been easy. Nobody really gets me or what I’m going through. The only person who did was Monique, and we had a huge fight.”

  “I…I didn’t know.”

  “Yeah, and then Sylvia died.” Mom squeezed my hand. I took a deep breath and let it out. “Anyway, that’s why I think I might be in trouble with this evaluation.”

  “Oh, that’s all just awful. But your trip—if it doesn’t work out this time, I’m sure there will be others.”

  I sighed.

  “What, sweetie? You can tell me.”

  “I hate to say this, and it scares the crap out of me just thinking about it, but my chances of being around for some trip down the line aren’t very good.”

  She swallowed, then closed her eyes. She stayed that way for several seconds, and I wondered if I’d completely freaked her out. I was pretty sure I had.

  Her eyes opened. She touched my cheek, nodding at me. “I understand now, sweetie. I get it. I really do.” She opened her arms. I walked into them and she wrapped them tightly around me. “I love you, honey,” she said.

  “I love you, too.”

  She hadn’t let go. “I need you to be honest with me, Jeff. Will you do that?”

  “I will, Mom.” She took a step back and exhaled deeply. I couldn’t completely relax, because I still had stuff on my mind. I figured I’d better just ask her directly. “Did you tell Carol I lied?”

  Mom scratched her nose. “I told her there had been a mix-up.”

  That was a huge relief.

  “And Dad, has he talked about canceling my trip?”

  “He has expressed concern—especially when you came down with pneumonia. He’s also worried about school.”

  “Will you, you know, talk to him?”

  “I have, sweetie, but I really think you should. Tell him what you just told me. I think he’ll understand.”

  I wasn’t sure if he could. The doubt must have shown on my face.

  “Hey,” Mom said, poking me. My eyebrows shot up. I looked at her and she winked. “Just trust me.”

  * * *

  •

  When I went upstairs for dinner that night, Mom, who was serving salad in the kitchen, stopped me and whispered in my ear. “Tell your father what your wish means to you,” she said. He was in the dining room, pouring two glasses of wine. The thought of opening up to him made me instantly nervous. Mom could tell. “Don’t worry,” she said, squeezing my shoulders. “I’ve got your back.”

  At dinner, I avoided bringing it up. Dad and I went through our typical conversation topics, me asking him about work and him asking me about school. Halfway through the meal, he finished his first glass of wine. Almost instantly, Mom refilled it. Dad’s eyes went to his glass, and under the table, Mom nudged me with her foot.

  I understood. “Dad, um, I’d like to talk to you about something.” He looked at Mom to see if his beard was clean, and she gave him her approval.

  “What would that be?” he said.

  “The wish. My wish, that is. I know you’re not all that big on it…”

  “I do not recall ever having said that.”

  “Well, you definitely don’t seem very enthusiastic about it.”

  “It’s not a matter of enthusiasm, Jeff. It’s about the consequences of your electing to pursue it. It has already been a source of interruption—this when your energy has been reduced by your medical treatment. Continuing to pursue that path is likely to conflict with your school responsibilities. That is one of my concerns. Another is your health. I’m not sure a trip overseas at this time is a prudent move.”

  “I’m doing fine, Dad.”

  “That sentiment is not reflected either by your quarterly grades or by the fact that you recently came down with pneumonia.”

  “Why are you obsessed with school?”

  “ ‘Obsessed’ is a gross exaggeration. ‘Concerned’ is a more accurate sentiment.”

  “Then what makes you so concerned?”

  “Education is the most significant determinant of your future, an evidence-based fact well supported by statistics.”

  “Dad, if you want to talk statistics, the chances are I don’t have much of a future left. Do you not get that?” Mom and I watched him, waiting for the answer he was obviously working on.

  “Well, I don’t base my life on statistics,” he finally said. “And I do not believe you should, either.”

  I didn’t let up. “Really, Dad? You invest your money based on statistics. You constantly compare your running performance to stats you’ve found on people your age. You’re always talking about statistics.”

  “I simply want you to have a successful future.”

  “That would be nice, Dad. I’d like to have one, too. But if I’m on my way out, I’d much rather go having done something meaningful with my life, like advocate for world peace.”

  He didn’t say anything. He pushed back from the table, his usual way of ending a conversation. Mom quickly intervened. “Bob, would you please respond to what Jeff just said to you?”

  Dad pressed his lips together and blew out a lungful of air. Then he scooted back in, looking at me.

  “You complained recently about your neurologist not having cleared you medically for international travel.” His comment immediately put me on the defensive.

  “So what?”

  “The argument you’re now advancing is that you’re not well, that you might be medically unfit for such a trip.” I felt like I’d been dragged into a courtroom.
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  “You’re twisting my words around!”

  “I’m doing no such thing.”

  I nearly exploded, but Mom once again jumped in. “Let’s get the facts straight, Bob. Jeff did not say he’s too sick to travel. He said he wants to travel while he still can.”

  I couldn’t believe what had come out of my mother’s mouth. I was also amazed that it shut my dad up.

  “Exactly,” I said. “I’m feeling pretty good now. All I was saying is that if my cancer comes back, I won’t get to go. Anyway, nobody’s expecting you to give me a medical evaluation. That’s Dr. Gourevik’s job—and this neuropsychologist he wants me to see. I’m just asking you not to cancel my trip.”

  Dad stayed quiet.

  “Bob, did you hear your son?” Mom asked.

  “I did,” he said sharply. I think he expected Mom to wither away in self-preservation, like she normally did when he snapped at her. This time she didn’t move, sitting upright with her shoulders relaxed, one hand resting on the table.

  I took my mom’s lead, uncrossing my arms and allowing myself to breathe. I looked directly at my father. “Will you promise not to withdraw your permission?”

  He lifted his glasses and rubbed his nose. Reluctantly, he said, “I shall abide by your doctor’s decision.” It felt like the world had just turned right-side up.

  The morning of my last chemo shot—the final wallop in my cancer treatment protocol—I found myself pacing around my bedroom. I was thinking about what people in my support group had said about the end of therapy. At the time, I couldn’t even contemplate it—I had so much ahead of me—but it really surprised me how intense people’s feelings were. Sylvia had said that as much as she hated chemo, the idea of finishing it freaked her out, because then she’d just be sitting around and maybe waiting for her cancer to come back. Chris thought that was ridiculous. “Every excuse you have to party,” he’d said, “you absolutely gotta use.” Monique had been somewhere in between. She believed in having a good time, but she thought you could jinx things if you celebrated before you were totally finished.