The run-up to my departure wasn’t tension free. If anyone needed a therapist, it was my mother. She started to seriously worry about my trip, in part because I was traveling so far away, but more because it was to the Soviet Union. When the information package from Youth Ambassadors of America arrived in the mail, Mom and I sat down at the kitchen counter and went through it, reading information about the organization, the trip, and all the participants, including pictures and bios, along with roommate assignments. I’d be sharing a room with Mike, a guy from Ohio who looked nice enough.
“I like the organization,” Mom said after going over everything. But then she pushed the packet away. “I just hope those Communists don’t try to brainwash you.”
As the trip grew near, Mom’s tensions mushroomed. She decided it was absolutely necessary that I call her after we got to the Soviet Union—not Finland, where we’d first spend three days in an orientation before moving on to Leningrad. She said it was to confirm my safe arrival. If I couldn’t guarantee that I could call her from the Soviet Union, she wouldn’t let me go on the trip. I finally had to get one of the heads of Youth Ambassadors of America on the phone to chill her out. “I can guarantee you’ll be able to call home,” Ed Johnson, the cofounder of the organization, said to me.
“Hang on a sec,” I told him, pressing the speakerphone button. Mom was next to me. “Mr. Johnson, could you kindly repeat that?”
The situation with Dad was different. In the weeks before the trip, he’d become more distant than ever, besting his record for time spent at the office, skipping dinners at home with Mom and me, and working through the weekends. When he was around, he didn’t hang out, and he never once mentioned the trip. I wondered if he was acting distant because he felt he’d lost a battle.
At dinner one evening—just Mom and me—I stayed quiet, mostly picking at my food. Dad was on my mind.
“Is everything okay?” Mom asked.
“Have you noticed how Dad is never around?”
She straightened in her seat. “He’s been very busy with work.”
“But even when he’s here, it’s like he’s not.”
“You know how focused he can get on a case, Jeff.”
I rolled my eyes. “Mom, he hasn’t asked a single question about my trip. He thinks it’s all just a big waste of time.”
She shook her head. “I’m not sure, honey. Maybe he’s not asking questions because the trip hasn’t happened yet.” Mom took a sip of wine, then looked out the window toward the hills. “You know, years ago, before you and your brother were born, your father and I used to go on long hikes.”
“I know. You told me.”
“I remember once we were climbing Mount Whitney. It’s the highest mountain in California, something like fourteen thousand feet. We started in the early morning. Halfway up, we broke for lunch. I’d barely finished when your father stood and strapped on his pack. ‘We’re halfway there,’ I said. ‘Can’t we rest for a moment?’
“ ‘Which means we have halfway to go,’ he responded. ‘The hike will become more challenging at altitude. We can rest when we’ve reached the peak.’ ”
“What’s your point, Mom?”
“My point is that your father celebrates when a goal is met, not before.”
It was a decent argument. I actually finished my dinner.
I was thinking about that conversation when the captain announced we’d be landing at the Helsinki airport in thirty minutes. I had a surge of energy—clarity, too—and the dreamlike feel of the flight quickly dissipated. My wish, at least the beginning of it, was happening. In a matter of days, I might be sitting down with one of the most powerful leaders in the world to discuss how our countries could bring an end to the nuclear arms race. I still hadn’t gotten any confirmation that the meeting would happen, but it wasn’t just a fantasy anymore.
As we stepped off the plane in Helsinki, onto a tarmac darkened by a slate-gray sky, the cold instantly hit me. Unlike most of the other kids, I wasn’t wearing a hat or gloves—back in sunny Southern California I’d stupidly packed them in my suitcase—and I definitely needed both. In tennis shoes that felt as thick as a sheet of paper, my feet were freezing, too. The biting, frigid air stung my face, which made me want to cover every bit that was exposed with my hands, but I didn’t dare take them out of my pockets. I just wished everyone in front of me would get into the bus faster, and I prayed that it was already warm inside.
Two hours later, after going through passport control and customs and hopping onto another bus that took us from the airport to the center of Helsinki, we arrived at our hotel. We got into another line there—Chace, a nice guy I’d sat next to on the flight from L.A., who’d already been to the Soviet Union twice, told me I’d better get used to “processing.” A lady with a clipboard checked us in one by one, handing each person a room assignment. When I gave her my name, she pulled me aside. “Ed and Linda would like to have a word with you,” she said. Ed and his wife, Linda, were the directors of Youth Ambassadors of America.
My heart picked up. Had they gotten in touch with Mr. Gorbachev’s office? Were Ed and Linda about to give me the verdict?
The kids behind me in line who were yet to be registered were trying to figure out what was going on. I hadn’t told anyone so far about my wish. As far as I knew, only Ed and Linda and some other administrative people were aware of it.
“It’s great to finally meet you in person,” Ed said as he guided me down a hallway.
I found myself nervous, as if I’d swapped positions with my mother. When she and I were on the phone with Ed, she was the one who was worried.
We stepped into a conference room where a woman was sitting with papers laid out in a semicircle in front of her. “Linda, meet Jeff,” Ed said.
Her face lit up with a smile and she jumped to her feet. “I’ve so been looking forward to meeting you,” she said, grasping my hands. “How are you feeling? We have a nurse with us if you need anything.”
The last thing I needed was medical care. God knows I’d had enough of it. But I didn’t want her worrying about me. “I’m great. Never felt better.” I wished one of them would get to the point.
“So about your wish, Jeff,” Ed said. It wasn’t the kind of intro you make to good news. My whole body tensed. It felt just like it had in Dr. Gourevik’s office the day he gave me his diagnosis. “Our contact in Moscow has been in touch with Mr. Gorbachev’s office. They are fully aware of your story and your interest in meeting the premier.” I was tense, ready for the rejection. “As of yet, we do not have confirmation from their side.”
“Oh!” It wasn’t what I expected him to say. I felt like I needed some clarity. “Wait a sec, are you telling me they haven’t rejected a meeting?”
“Oh, absolutely not!” Ed said.
I bowed my head.
Linda clasped my shoulder. “Nobody has rejected anything,” she said.
“I didn’t mean to worry you, son,” Ed said, chuckling. I looked up at him and he gave me a pat on the back. “We think it’s all good news. Not only were we able to reach his office, the person we spoke with was familiar with your story. That means the Starlight Children’s Foundation got through to them as well.”
“Yes, it’s definitely good news,” Linda said. “Now we just have to wait. I know that can be taxing. It’s probably not helpful to hear, but please try to be patient.”
I nodded, but I knew there was no way I was going to be patient.
Ed and Linda walked me back to the check-in line, mentioning along the way that there was nothing on the kids’ schedule for the rest of the afternoon. We just had the evening welcome dinner.
“Glad you’re with us,” Ed said. “We’re off to a counselors’ meeting.”
Linda looked me over. “You might want to rest now. We’ll see you this evening.”
&nb
sp; I could still feel my heart pounding in my chest. As much as I probably needed a nap, I was way too excited to sleep.
* * *
•
I was inserting the key into the door of the room they’d assigned me when it suddenly swung inward. The guy holding it open was spewing energy, from the way he shifted weight from one foot to the other to the huge smile on his face to his athletic build—a football player’s. “Jeff?” he asked, and I nodded. “I’m Mike,” he said, and his smile got even wider. “We’re gonna be roommates!”
I wished I had Mike around all the times I’d been accused of talking too much, which used to be a fair amount, because he would make me seem like the world’s most patient listener. Over the next two hours, as I unpacked and lay on my bed, trying unsuccessfully to take a nap, he told me about his family, his hometown, his favorite sports teams, the most effective method for getting rid of athlete’s foot, how in three easy steps any guy could get a girl to like him, and last, how he’d stumbled upon Youth Ambassadors of America. “How did you find them?” he asked. After his long monologue, I was amazed to be hearing a question.
“This organization called the Starlight Children’s Foundation offered me a wish. I asked to come to the Soviet Union…” I nearly revealed the full wish, but decided to leave it at that, just in case the meeting with Mr. Gorbachev fell through. “The folks at Starlight connected me with YAA.”
Mike, for the first time since we met, was silent. I knew the question that was formulating in his head, so I answered it preemptively. “And in case you were wondering, the reason I got a wish is because I had brain cancer.”
For several seconds, Mike’s silence continued. He plunked himself down on his bed—he’d been standing the whole time he spoke—and rubbed his jaw.
“Yes, it could come back, but I hope it doesn’t.”
“It’s like you’re reading my mind,” he said.
The secret to my trick was that everybody I’d ever spoken with about my wish and my health asked the same questions.
“I’m a genius,” I said, and then cracked up. “With half a brain.”
“Wow. I just don’t know what to say.” He scratched his head. “I’ll pray for you, man. For your health and happiness, everything.”
The welcome dinner took place in the hotel’s gala dining room. There were eighty of us, fifty kids and thirty adults, so even though the room was pretty big, we were elbow to elbow. The space was full of energy, enough to melt the snow outside. People were genuinely excited. When one of the coordinators wasn’t talking to all of us, we were chatting with each other.
There was a girl at my table, my age or a little older, with tousled, shoulder-length blond hair, whose laugh caught my attention. It was just like Monique’s—loud, warm, and infectious. She had pale skin and blue eyes, kind of like the attendants on our Finnair flight, but she spoke like a blue-collar American, saying the meat in the Finnish soup we’d just eaten didn’t taste like any “sassage” she’d ever had. I didn’t realize I was staring until our eyes locked and she smiled warmly.
A tapping sound came through the large speakers on the stage. Linda and Ed were standing there, checking to see if the microphone was switched on, and a counselor gave them a thumbs-up. Linda lifted the mic. With a big smile on her face, she shouted, “Hello, youth ambassadors!” She instantly had our attention.
She introduced herself and Ed and then welcomed us to Helsinki. “This is the official beginning of what we’re certain will be a positively transformative trip for every one of you. Not only that, but for the world. You are here to make a difference, and the world needs it. More specifically, the world needs you.”
I glanced around my table. Mike had straightened up. He held his chin high, as if he’d just been told he aced a test. The girl whose laugh reminded me of Monique’s had a gleam in her eyes. Other people were nodding.
Linda talked about the purpose of the trip, to promote universal peace and understanding, and to produce, along with our Soviet counterparts, a “declaration for the future” that would be sent to global leaders. Ed followed with the logistics. We’d spend three days in Helsinki, getting to know each other and learning communication strategies, after which we’d depart for the Soviet Union. We’d spend a day and a half in Leningrad and then take a night train to Moscow, the nation’s capital. There, over the course of several days, we’d have our summit with young people from all over the Soviet Union. He added, a bit wryly, that we’d never be alone—Russian intelligence would be monitoring us—but that it was nothing to worry about.
Everyone in the room was excited about what was ahead. I shared their energy, but not the certainty—at least that I was going to make a difference. It depended on things I couldn’t control—specifically, the meeting with Mr. Gorbachev going through. I had the same sense of purpose as the other people sitting at my table—to make the world a better place—but the measure of my success seemed different from the measure of theirs.
When Ed finished, a musician, Karl, took the stage. He had a guitar strapped to his chest and he sang a bunch of folk songs, getting the kids and the counselors all involved in the last one. Everyone clapped loudly when the song ended. Linda then told us we were done for the evening, and that while we were welcome to hang out and chat, we should try to get plenty of sleep.
I was the first to leave the room. I told the people at my table that I was exhausted, which was true, but I was leaving because I needed to think. I got back to our room, brushed my teeth, turned off the overhead light, and switched on the lamp next to Mike’s bed. I was still awake when he came back an hour later, but I pretended to be asleep until I heard him start to snore.
For hours, I thought about the meeting: whether it would happen, what I would say to Mr. Gorbachev if it did, what I would say to my father if it didn’t. The thoughts were consuming me—not allowing me to totally hear the music, to participate in conversations, to sleep—but also there was nothing I could do. Exhaustion always prevails, and it ultimately did. All those heavy thoughts turned into turbulent dreams.
I still woke early, at 6:22, minutes from when my dad typically headed out on his run. I’d asked him once why he ran so often, more in protest of his not being around than because I really wanted to know, but he gave me reasons I’d long remembered. He enjoyed the challenge of it. More importantly, though, it settled his mind.
I slipped out of bed and into a pair of sweatpants. I took some socks and pulled them over the ones I was already wearing, then stepped into my tennis shoes. I’d gone to bed in my sweatshirt, but I added a windbreaker, in addition to the ski hat I’d been missing while waiting for the bus outside our plane. Mike was snoring loudly. Quietly, I left the room.
The morning cold hit me the moment I stepped through the hotel doors. I began to run. The sky was a patchy gray, sometimes open enough for a beam of morning sunlight to come through the clouds and reflect off a building. I turned down one road, then onto another. I soon found myself on a street scattered with people. One woman was wrapped in a long fur coat, a man was wearing a wool jacket, and the rest mostly had parkas. Seeing their protection from the cold and noting the absence of my own, I ran faster.
There was a young woman walking with a little boy. I didn’t notice him pointing at me, and my thigh crashed into his finger. Instantly, he started bawling, and I stopped in my tracks.
I turned and walked back to him, worried that I’d hurt him. He was clutching his mother’s legs, and she was bending down to comfort him. When I reached them, she looked up, and I jerked back when I saw her. She had pretty, perfect hair, large brown eyes, and perfectly formed lips. With the sole exception of age, she looked exactly like Monique.
My heart had been beating so fast from the run I couldn’t tell if the peculiarity of seeing Monique’s doppelgänger on the opposite side of the planet had accelerated it—especially after heari
ng Monique’s laugh replicated by someone in our group. The woman could tell I was worried I’d hurt her kid, and she smiled warmly, motioning with her hand to continue my run.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“All is good,” she answered, gesturing again with her hand. I smiled at her and her son, whose bawling had softened to a whimper, and I took off again.
I was stunned to see Monique’s twin, but the cold quickly forced me to refocus. It had gotten into my lungs, which were tightening. I didn’t have my asthma medication with me, something Dr. Farbstein had prescribed after I came down with pneumonia, so I decided to turn back to the hotel. By the time I stepped back through the large front doors, a deep freeze had gone through my whole body.
In our hotel room, with Mike still asleep, I slipped into the shower. The water was blazingly hot, though even cold water probably would have felt that way, too, at the moment. But soon it had soothed me, and my mind went back to the woman on the street, and then to Monique, and finally to a conversation we once had.
I’d called her on a Friday, and she’d asked me what I was up to over the weekend. I said I was thinking about seeing a movie with some friends, but I’d gotten a CT scan that morning and I wouldn’t have the results until the following week.
“So lemme get this straight. You’re actually skipping a movie—you know, having fun—because you’re worried about possible bad news?”
I could picture Monique rolling her eyes when she said that.
“What, you don’t get stressed about the idea of cancer coming back?”
“Duh, of course I do. I’m, you know, human. I just try not to let cancer take over my life, especially in the moment.”
Warhead Page 18