Warhead

by Jeff Henigson

  I came upstairs to find my parents sitting in the kitchen, sipping away at their coffee, with the corners of their mouths turned up. I’d already told them twice not to mess things up for me by celebrating an achievement that hadn’t yet happened, so they were trying to control themselves, but it wasn’t convincing.

  “How would you like to commemorate this achievement, Jeff?” Dad asked.

  “Jeez, Dad, I already told you guys not to jinx things.” I frowned at both of them and served myself some pancakes.

  “Indeed you did,” Dad said.

  “We’re sorry,” Mom said. “No jinxing.” Of course, they were still smiling.

  The three of us went to Dr. Farbstein’s office in two cars. I couldn’t believe Dad was actually coming. I told him he didn’t have to, but he insisted. I figured since he was going to all the trouble, I could at least ride with him.

  His jaw was kind of protruding as he drove, the way it always did when he was thinking about the past, or proud of something, or both. I asked him what was on his mind. “Abraham Lincoln, actually,” he said.

  That came as a surprise. “What brought him to mind?”

  “Well, I’ve been reading a book about him of late. He was a brilliant politician, as I’m sure you know. Also a master of the English language. But at the moment of your inquiry, I was thinking how he was a lifelong student. He didn’t know anything about military affairs when he became president. What did he do? He launched a study of military strategy, and during the Civil War he provided solutions that were as effective as some of those of his top generals, better than most.”

  It seemed like a strange thing to be focused on at that moment. “So what got you thinking of him as a student—of, like, military strategy?”

  “You, quite honestly.”

  My eyes instantly widened. He had my full attention.

  “Many months ago, you were presented with disastrous news. You could have collapsed, or given up. You did neither. You rose to the occasion. Not only that, you carried your mother through a storm I’m uncertain she could have navigated without your confidence. That is what had me thinking about President Lincoln. He had some wonderful qualities. He was resolute. Determined. Tenacious.” We came to a stop sign then, and Dad looked over at me. “You have these things in common.”

  We got to Dr. Farbstein’s office a few minutes later, and I went into my appointment with my head held high. I didn’t feel like I was jinxing anything because I wasn’t celebrating yet, but boy, did I feel proud.

  I thought the neuropsychological evaluation would take place in some kind of medical facility, so when Mom pulled up in front of a house on Fair Oaks, a couple of blocks away from my parents’ favorite restaurant, I was convinced she’d gotten the address wrong. “You sure?” I asked with my eyebrows raised.

  She pulled out the letter she’d been sent, then looked at the number on the curb. She shrugged. “It seems to be correct.”

  A guy in his fifties, rugged and tall, with pale blue eyes and a thick white beard, answered the door. “I’m Dr. Kennedy,” he said to my mom. “You must be Mrs. Henigson.” She smiled and shook his hand.

  “And you’re Jeff,” he said with a smile and a firm handshake. I was expecting a guy in a lab coat. Dr. Kennedy was wearing a green flannel shirt with red suspenders holding up his worn brown corduroy pants. With a little more hair, he could’ve passed for Santa Claus. He extended his arm toward the entry. “Come on in and we can get started.”

  Dr. Kennedy explained what the evaluation would involve, most of which I already knew from my conversation with Sean at school. No brain scans. No injections. Nothing electronic. Just an interview, which Mom would be present for, and then a bunch of games and quizzes. It would go on for a while, he said—roughly four and a half hours—but I could take a break if I wanted.

  “Tell me about your family,” Dr. Kennedy said. I gave him the basics—it was just the four of us, more like three now, with Ted in college. Dad was super smart and he worked endlessly. Mom was a sweetheart and sometimes hard to get rid of—that made her chuckle. I noticed he didn’t ask Mom any questions. He’d just glance at her while I was answering, like he was fact-checking or something.

  He asked about school—how I liked it, and how things were going. Mom had already told me that she’d mailed him a bunch of paperwork; I noticed he had a copy of my grades from sophomore year in his lap.

  “School’s fine,” I said. Mom shifted in her chair. I rubbed my nose. “I mean, all things considered.”

  Dr. Kennedy didn’t seem satisfied with my answer. He turned to Mom.

  “Well, Jeff’s behind in his classes at the moment—because of all the time he’s had to take off for treatment,” she said. I kind of rolled my eyes. “But he’s working very hard to catch up.”

  Dr. Kennedy nodded. He focused back on me. “Tell me about your friends.”

  “Like, what exactly?”

  “Just a general picture. Do you have some good friends? Do you get along? Do you feel understood?”

  Now I was the one shifting in my chair. “Well, Paul’s my best friend.”

  “They’ve been in school together since sixth grade,” Mom threw in.

  “Yeah. But he’s really busy—you know, sports and AP classes and that kind of thing. Plus, he’s never had cancer.” Dr. Kennedy jotted something down on his notepad. “I helped set up this support group a while back—for kids like me who are dealing with cancer—but we haven’t hung out for ages.” I rubbed my face in front of my left ear. “One of them actually just died.” I slowly exhaled.

  “I’m very sorry to hear that,” Dr. Kennedy said.

  He asked a few more questions, including what I was hopeful about in life. I told him about the wish. He took tons of notes. When I finished, he said we were done.

  “With everything?” I asked. I was hopeful.

  He smiled gently. “With the interview.” He looked at the clock, then at Mom, as I slumped in the chair. “Thank you, Mrs. Henigson,” he said. “Jeff and I should be done by a quarter to five.”

  She blew me a kiss as he walked her out. I felt a surge of anxiety. I swallowed when Dr. Kennedy returned. I think he could tell, because he smiled once again. “Let’s continue,” he said.

  He pulled a small box from his desk. There were cards inside, each with a drawing of an object, and all I had to do, he explained, was name it. It seemed easy enough.

  I got through maybe fifty of them—correctly, I was sure—until I came to one of a tool we’d used in math class a few years back. It was one of those curved rulers with a flat base that are used to measure angles. Two words popped into my head, but I knew only one could be right. I blew out a lungful of air and squeezed my eyes tight. “Compass,” I said. “That’s what I’m going with.”

  “No need to get stressed,” Dr. Kennedy said. That was hardly helpful.

  We went through eight more. I found it hard to concentrate; my mind was fixed on that damn tool. Still, I managed to get all the other pictures right except for one I absolutely didn’t know.

  The moment he said we were finished with that test, I slapped my cheeks with both hands and shouted out, “Protractor!” His eyebrows popped up, then quickly went neutral.

  I pleaded with him. “The math picture—it’s a protractor, not a compass. Can you change my answer?”

  Dr. Kennedy chuckled. He flipped his pencil and corrected the entry. I felt my shoulders drop.

  We did tons more tests, some of them just a few minutes long. As we went through them, I could feel my confidence building. I only blew one of them—the two-minute test where I had to come up with as many examples as I could of four-legged hoofed animals. I just got three. But on everything else, from defining words to solving puzzles to memorizing long series of numbers and reciting them backward, I did really, really well.

 
; Dr. Kennedy announced that there was just one more test. He’d give me a long list of statements, and all I had to do was say if they were true or false for me.

  “How much time do I have?” I asked.

  “As long as you need.”

  Up until that point, the tests felt neurological, like they were measuring how my brain was working. As soon as I read a few of the statements on this one, such as “No one seems to understand me,” I realized the test was evaluating my feelings. I got nervous. Before, I could pretty much tell if I was coming up with the right answers; now I wasn’t sure which answer—true or false—was right.

  I have nightmares every few nights. I definitely did. But I was pretty sure nightmares were associated with people who had psychological problems. I circled false.

  Much of the time my head seems to hurt all over. That was pretty much true, but it wasn’t my whole head, more just the area where Dr. Egan had cut into the left side of my skull. Plus, I didn’t want anybody thinking I had another brain problem. False.

  I wish I could be as happy as others seem to be. That was often on my mind at school, like when I’d see jocks laughing as they walked out of the locker room, or a guy and a girl kiss. But I didn’t want Dr. Kennedy to think I wasn’t happy. False.

  The questions went on and on. Not only was the content of them stressing me out, but I started getting uncomfortable with my own dishonesty. Some of the later questions seemed similar to ones I’d answered earlier, and I felt like I needed to go back and check, but Dr. Kennedy had his eyes on me. I started sweating. I hoped he didn’t notice.

  An hour into the test, after carefully answering several hundred questions with the goal of making myself seem happy, I realized that might make me come across as a psychopath. I let out a sigh. Then I remembered the promise I’d made to Mom—that I’d be honest—and I felt like a complete jerk.

  Dr. Kennedy could tell something was up. “Is everything okay?” he asked.

  I pulled at my shirt. “I, um, might have answered some questions incorrectly.”

  “Incorrectly?”

  “So, maybe like, inaccurately.”

  “I see,” he said.

  I looked up at him sheepishly. “Do you want me to, like, correct them?”

  He smiled gently. “Just go ahead and finish the test, Jeff.”

  Thirty minutes later, which felt more like three hours, I was done. The confidence I’d felt halfway into the evaluation was completely gone. I wanted nothing more than to leave.

  I didn’t bother making small talk. I just sat there, glancing at the clock, hoping Mom would show up soon.

  * * *

  •

  A week after that miserable test, Dr. Kennedy called to say the results were ready. The family needed to be present at the appointment. It was the last thing I needed: three witnesses to failure.

  The three of us drove independently to the appointment. Dad had to get straight back to the office, Mom had to take care of something for Ted, and I was going to meet up with friends. It did seem a little ironic that the three of us were going by ourselves to this thing that Dr. Kennedy pointedly stressed was for the entire family.

  At the outset of our meeting, Dad asked how long it would take. Mom rolled her eyes, though I had the same question.

  “Approximately an hour,” Dr. Kennedy said. “Is that acceptable?”

  Dad looked at his watch and nodded.

  Dr. Kennedy started by saying what he planned to do in our time together. He’d quickly summarize the meeting I’d had with him, then present his evaluation, and would finish by offering some recommendations.

  For the whole week since I’d seen Dr. Kennedy, I was fixated on the last test in the evaluation and its potential impact on my wish. I kept arriving at the conclusion there was hardly any chance he’d sign off on my trip.

  Dad looked half asleep while Dr. Kennedy listed the tests. Mom was scribbling everything down. It was only when Dr. Kennedy said he’d now present his findings that Dad leaned forward.

  “Jeff is highly intelligent,” Dr. Kennedy said.

  I liked hearing that.

  “He is also high-functioning. Nevertheless, he is suffering from certain cognitive impairments—attention deficit and issues with language processing and memory.”

  “Are these because of the tumor?” Dad asked. “Will they improve?”

  “They’re likely related, and we now have a baseline test, so we’ll be able to assess changes over time.”

  There was no way I was going to go through this again.

  Dr. Kennedy continued. “A larger concern is where Jeff is emotionally.”

  I interrupted. “Could you please not talk about me in the third person?” It was irritating.

  “I’m sorry, Jeff, of course,” Dr. Kennedy said. “The psychological testing revealed a moderate to high level of depression.” He looked at each of us, letting that sink in. I felt like I’d gotten caught—especially when he focused on me. “Part of this is related to the trauma you went through with the diagnosis and treatment—all perfectly normal, given what you’ve experienced. Another part is stress from your school environment. The last part is tension in your family dynamic, particularly in how you’re communicating.”

  “How I’m communicating?” I asked. I felt my toes curling.

  “How all of you are communicating—with each other,” Dr. Kennedy said.

  I glanced at Dad. He hadn’t moved an inch.

  “What can we do?” Mom asked.

  “Let’s discuss some recommendations,” Dr. Kennedy said. Mom opened her notebook to an empty page. “Over the next six months, possibly a whole year, Jeff’s academic course load should either be significantly reduced, perhaps to a single class, or he should take a break from school entirely. It is clearly a substantial source of stress, and this is something that would almost instantly reduce it. He can make up for it later.”

  Mom, as she took notes, was nodding. Dad frowned and leaned back.

  “Are you aware of Jeff’s wish to travel to the Soviet Union?” Dad asked.

  “I am,” Dr. Kennedy said. “Both Dr. Gourevik and Jeff discussed it with me in detail.”

  “Do you think the trip itself might be an unnecessary source of stress for Jeff?”

  “Dad,” I said, my mouth hanging open. I seriously couldn’t believe what I was hearing. My heart started racing.

  Dad ignored me and continued. “Specifically, would removing the trip from his agenda allow him to strengthen his academic commitments, as opposed to withdrawing from them, as you’ve suggested?”

  “I’m glad you brought that up, Mr. Henigson,” Dr. Kennedy said. “I’m firmly of the opinion that the trip gives Jeff something positive to look forward to. It’s clearly a source of inspiration and drive for him. Removing it, I believe, would have a substantial negative effect. It is thus my recommendation that Jeff pursue the trip, and I’ll convey this in writing to Dr. Gourevik.”

  The whole room went silent. The only thing I could hear was my own heartbeat, still racing, but now in a totally different way. It was like I’d just crossed the finish line of a very long race.

  “That’s good,” Mom said to Dr. Kennedy. “The trip means a lot to him.” She turned to me. “I just wish it wasn’t to the opposite side of the planet.” I squeezed her hand and smiled.

  Dr. Kennedy cleared his throat. “I do have one other recommendation, and that is family therapy. This has been a collective trauma, and I believe this kind of therapy would benefit all of you.”

  Mom nodded slowly. Dad stiffened in his chair.

  “If you believe therapy to be beneficial for Jeff, I will certainly support that,” Dad said. “But I see no benefit in the three of us collectively undergoing therapy.”

  “Bob,” Mom said in her protest voice.

 
“No, Phyllis,” he said firmly.

  His response was so frustrating. He couldn’t possibly see himself as part of a problem—and a family problem, at that. Just sitting next to him at that moment made me feel nauseous. I looked at him with disgust. “Of course not, Dad. You might have to admit you’re something other than perfect.”

  I watched the anger build in my father’s face. I knew he was too disciplined to explode in front of a stranger, especially a fellow professional, which made me feel empowered. My eyes bored into his.

  Dad swallowed in a roomful of air. When he exhaled, he lifted his wrist and checked his watch. “Thank you for your assessment, Dr. Kennedy,” he said. “I believe our hour together is up.”

  * * *

  •

  At lunch with my friends, I didn’t mention the wish. I didn’t say a thing about the possibility of traveling “to the opposite side of the planet,” as Mom put it, to save the world. I listened as Dave talked about a date, and Paul told us about a new band, and everyone shared what they were up to for Christmas and Hanukkah. The wish was still just my own, but with one huge difference: now it was actually going to happen.

  The twelve-hour flight from Los Angeles to Helsinki, on a plane packed with teenage ambassadors from the western half of the United States (we’d meet the Youth Ambassadors of America kids flying from the East Coast once we’d touched down), felt like a dream. The views—of an Earth so reduced that a hundred miles could fit inside a window inches across, of the shadowy layers of clouds, both snowlike and ashen, and the snapshot of the Milky Way that came when the sun had set and the sky was clear above us—were breathtaking. Teenagers talk—and the flight started that way—but the views brought long moments of silence.

  For me, what made it even more dreamlike was that I hadn’t been sure, not until that final meeting with Dr. Kennedy, that I’d be cleared to participate. When he delivered the news, it was like he’d restarted the countdown on a launch that had been paused—and one I’d been pretty sure would get canceled. For so long, my wish had been grounded, just like the space shuttle program after Challenger exploded. First it was because of my cancer treatment, which went on forever, and then it was because of Dr. Gourevik and my father, both of whom seemed to be making a case against me ever taking off. In an instant, Dr. Kennedy had jettisoned it, and I felt myself surging through the stratosphere.