“I know. I’m a stud,” he said, smiling broadly and tucking his thumbs under his belt. He tipped his head toward me. “Who are you asking?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t even thinking about it.”
“Dude, you have to come. I know Lucia is available. At least Cara said that’s what Michelle told her.”
“Nah, not Lucia. She totally sees me as cancer boy.”
“Well, invite somebody. We’ll have a blast.”
“I’ll think about it.”
So much for instant clarity.
* * *
•
Ms. Hamilton definitely didn’t go easy on us with homework. I had so much reading to do that evening. Still, I finished surprisingly early, before dinner even, so I decided to give Monique a call.
“Hey, Jeff!” she said with a ton of enthusiasm.
I loved the way she answered my calls.
“How are you?” I asked.
“I’m doing well. Really well. I’m going to Hawaii.” She almost sang the state’s name.
“Seriously? That’s awesome. When?”
“I’m not sure yet, but I’m really looking forward to it. It’s gonna be my girlfriends, Mom, and me. Sorry to make you jealous.”
“Hardly. I’m psyched for you.”
“Thanks. How are you? Are things better with your dad?”
“I’m not depressed about it anymore, which is a major improvement.” I thought for a second. “Yes, things are definitely better.”
“That’s wonderful, Jeff. I’m really happy for you.”
“Well, thanks a ton for that amazing talk the other day.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Now my big worry is just prom—whether to go, who to invite.”
“Oh,” she said. There was surprise in her voice. “Have you, um, got someone in mind?”
“I was thinking of this American girl I met on the trip to the Soviet Union. She had a boyfriend but said things were shaky. I guess I could try calling her. Anyway, I don’t mean to bore you. How are things going with Edward?” She didn’t say anything. “Mo, you there?”
She cleared her throat. “We broke up.”
“Seriously?” I couldn’t believe it.
“Yeah.”
“Why? I mean, if I can ask that.”
“He thought being in the cancer world was just a little too heavy.”
“So what you’re saying is he’s basically an asshole.”
“In technical terms.” We both cracked up. A thought popped into my head—maybe Monique would join me for prom? I knew I’d like her to come.
I was just about to ask when her mom called out her name.
“Hey, I’ve gotta run—we’re going out to dinner tonight. And we’re out of town this weekend. But I’ll be back Sunday, if you want to talk about…prom. I mean, if you want to talk about anything. Anyway, call me, ’kay?”
I started to say “I will,” but she’d already hung up.
* * *
•
That night, I had a dream. Monique and I were at the beach. The prom was happening there—she was my date—and we’d slipped away from everyone else. We were holding hands, walking along a mostly empty pier.
I wanted to kiss her. I kept trying to build up enough courage, but I just couldn’t do it. She’d glance up at me from time to time and smile, and I’d nervously look away.
We reached the end of the pier, and there was nowhere else to go. She turned to me then, putting her hand on my shoulder, smiling broadly, and slightly tilting her head back. It was an invitation, and my anxiety gave way to excitement.
The moonlight fell on her lips, and there, just beneath the surface of her skin, I could see thousands of tiny cancer cells swarming. I gasped. Monique opened her eyes, which showed a mixture of confusion and disappointment. But then she saw the fear in me as I stared at her pulsating lips. Her eyes crossed as she tried to see them, she touched them with a finger, and they burst open. I woke suddenly, my face soaked in sweat.
* * *
•
I ended up going to prom with Karen. I called her the weekend Monique was away, and she was really happy to hear from me, and she ultimately got around to saying that she found out her boyfriend had cheated on her while we were in the Soviet Union. “I wish I’d kissed you, Jeff,” she said.
That reminded me of the nightmare I’d had about kissing Monique. I quickly pushed her out of my head.
“Well, how about you come to prom with me?”
“Seriously?”
“I’m always serious,” I said.
“I’d love to!”
I was really busy Sunday and forgot to call Monique. She called a few days later, when I was out, and left a message. I meant to call her back but never got around to it. Then prom was just ahead, and something felt weird about calling her with it so near, so I didn’t.
Karen and I had a good time. Mom was thrilled I was going, and she immediately took a liking to Karen. From the moment she arrived, Mom was right there, almost to the point where I had to remind her that Karen was my date. Even Dad hung around more, telling us to wait for just a second when our limo arrived because he wanted to take a photo. It felt like I was in an alternate universe.
Our night out together ended up being pretty fun. Things only got weird when we came home, after my parents went to sleep. I slipped into the room where Karen was staying, and we started making out, and things got pretty intense. So did my worry. When she unzipped my pants, I suddenly blurted out, “I’m a virgin.”
Her hands flew out of my pants. She sat up. Her voice, which had sounded really sexy up until that point, suddenly changed. “I see,” she said.
“I know I may have given you the impression during our call—”
“May?” she said, flipping on the light. Her eyebrows were raised.
We’d talked about sex once. I told her how much I liked it. “Okay, I did give you the impression I wasn’t. I didn’t want you to think I was a loser.”
“It’s not that, Jeff. I don’t think you’re a loser. I just obviously didn’t think you were a virgin, and I feel majorly uncomfortable about the idea of being your first.”
Just what I needed—two stressed people. I didn’t know what to say to that. We lay back down and snuggled for a while, and finally she let out a long yawn. I asked her if she wanted to go to sleep.
“I think so,” she said.
I kissed her forehead. “Good night, Karen.”
You’d think I’d be depressed about how my junior prom came to an end, but I wasn’t. In a way, I felt relieved. I felt like I’d kind of betrayed someone. At some point, I was going to have to make amends.
* * *
•
The week before I left for the summer program at Boston College—I was very happy to be saying goodbye to my junior year—I had two important phone calls to make. The first was to Monique. I’d left a message on her answering machine a while ago, but that was it, and she hadn’t called me back. It’d been weeks since we’d talked about the dance, and I owed her an apology. I really should’ve invited her to the prom.
When her father answered, I worried something might’ve happened, sort of the norm when you’re calling people who’ve had cancer in their lives. But no. “If you’re looking for Monique, she’s in Hawaii,” her dad said. “She’ll be back in just over a week. I can take a message if you like.”
I covered the mouthpiece and sighed. My heart fell—we’d probably miss each other, which meant I might not get to speak with her for a whole month.
I asked him to say hi for me and hung up. I felt awful.
The next day, while I was going through my stuff and deciding what I needed for Boston College, the phone rang. Mom picked it up. Ten seconds passed, followed by a quick pitt
er-patter of feet crossing the floor above me and Mom shouting my name from the staircase. She sounded extremely excited.
I ran to the stairs. “What’s up?”
“Somebody is calling you from Moscow! I think it’s a big deal!”
I gave her a thumbs-up and raced back to my room. After sucking in a breath and exhaling, I picked up the phone.
“Hello?”
“Is this Jeffrey Henigson?”
“It sure is.”
“Hello, Jeff. My name’s Jack Matlock. I’m the US—”
“You’re our ambassador—to the Soviet Union! You were with President Reagan and Premier Gorbachev at the Reykjavík talks. It’s an absolute honor to hear from you.” I couldn’t believe he was calling.
“Why, thank you, son. I have to say it’s an honor to speak to you. Now would you tell me something? What the heck did you do out here, exactly?”
I told him the whole story, the bullet-point version, from my cancer to my wish, the trip with Youth Ambassadors of America, the interview in Leningrad, and the summit and my visit with the Velikhovs.
“That is very impressive, young man. I’ve got some news for you. That man who interviewed you is a popular journalist, and his article about you seems to have hit quite a nerve over here. At the end of it, he invited people to write you letters. The embassy has been flooded with them. Stacks and stacks, I’m telling you. You made quite an impression on the folks over here, young man.”
“I—I find that hard to believe.”
“You don’t need to believe anything, because I’m sending you the evidence. We’re not the US Postal Service, so we can’t possibly get all of these letters to you, but I asked my folks to find your phone number and your address, which your mother kindly provided. We’ll fill up a pouch and ship it out your way. You should have the letters in just a few days.”
“Thank you, sir. That’s very kind of you.”
“How’s your health, son?”
“Things are looking pretty good. My last brain scan was clear, so I’m good for a few months. Just have to keep at it.”
“Well, that’s very good to hear. Jeff, I’m afraid I’ve got to run now, but thank you for representing our country over here. It looks like you’ve done a very good job.”
* * *
•
The pouch came two days later. I happened to be the one to get the mail, and like I did when I was a little kid being handed a new model rocket kit by the postman, I ran it down to the house.
“Did it come?” Mom asked at the door, equally excited. I held it up.
I tore open one end over the dining room table and dumped out the letters. I couldn’t believe how many there were. Ambassador Matlock had told me he’d be forwarding just a small portion of the letters the embassy had received, which made it even more remarkable that this huge bag represented just a handful.
All of them had been opened, I noticed, a metal clip holding each to its respective envelope. The Soviets probably read everything going to the United States. I wondered if any had been censored and withheld. It would have been very Soviet Union–like.
Mom and I pored over the letters. “Do you understand any of them?” she asked.
“The only thing I nailed in Dr. Dillon’s class was the Cyrillic alphabet. So I can pronounce the words, but I don’t know what they mean.” All the letters so far were in Russian, handwritten in Cyrillic cursive.
“Here’s one in English,” Mom said. We read it together.
Hallo, Jaffe!
I’m sorry, I know English badly very. My name is Irina. My house in the Leningrad.
I and my friends want your life!
I’m glad to have the opportunity said this your, Jaffe!
You will be to live!
Soviet people do not want war!
Long live the cause of world peace and you!
Write! Good bye!”
“It’s beautiful,” Mom said, scratching her head. “Maybe those Soviets aren’t so bad after all.”
“Oh, Mom,” I said, “you crack me up.”
She looked at her watch and her eyebrows rose. “Oh gosh,” she said. “I’ve got an appointment.”
She hurried to get her keys. Just before stepping out the door, she said, “Show the letters to your father tonight—he’ll be impressed.”
As she stepped out, I gathered the letters, grabbed the pouch, and headed downstairs, where I laid everything across my bed. My eyes landed on one letter with beautiful cursive. I unclipped it from its envelope, and a photograph, black-and-white, with the name Natalia Pozemova handwritten on the back, fell out.
Natalia, if she was the person in the photograph, was a young woman. She stood in light snow in front of a row of apartments. There was a thick wool scarf wrapped around her head, and her body was covered in a heavy fur coat. Her dark brown eyes had a gentle feel, and her nose and lips were soft and full. She wasn’t smiling, but she didn’t need to—her warmth, despite the wintry backdrop, came through.
For a moment I thought about what I’d write to her if I spoke her language. I’d thank her for reaching out to me. I’d tell her how heartwarming it was to know that a step I’d taken toward creating peace in the world had positively affected a human being on the other side of it.
I smiled as I set down Natalia’s picture.
Methodically, I went through dozens more letters. Several included photos or drawings; one had a booklet. There was a bunch of postcards, some with pictures of buildings I recognized from our tours in Leningrad and Moscow. I flipped over one of them to find WORLD PEASE handwritten in multiple colors along the back.
There was one typed letter. It came in an envelope that was different from the others—not the airmail kind with a watermark image of some famous Soviet building or leader, but a heavier, plain white stock with nothing other than my name, typed in English, on the front.
I pulled out a bundle of folded yellowish-brown paper. There were thirty numbered questions spanning three pages. I flipped to the last page and found the typed name of the author—Nikolai Sivach, the journalist who’d interviewed me in Leningrad.
Tucked between that page and a blank one was a folded-up newspaper clipping. The article took up about half a page, and there was a picture of me in the top-right corner. The title appeared in big block letters toward the center. I could make out the letters, even the pronunciation—Oohodya, Oostaiyoos—but I had no idea what it meant.
I sat there for a second thinking about what to do. There was only one person I knew who spoke Russian.
I picked up the phone and dialed 411. I prayed that Information would have Dr. Dillon’s number.
They connected me, and Dr. Dillon answered on the second ring. I recognized her voice, always deep and elegant. “This is Jeff from Poly,” I said. “You know, the guy who dropped out of your class last year.” I thought she might be upset, but instead she asked me how I was feeling. We’d spoken before about the trip, but I told her about the article and the letters it seemed to spawn. She got excited and said she’d love to see them. I told her that would be great and everything, but I was leaving for the whole summer in just two days, and I was really curious about the article’s title.
“You remember the Cyrillic letters I taught you, yes?” she asked.
“Yup, I think so,” I said.
“Great. Just read them out to me, one by one, and include any punctuation.” I did. She pronounced the two words out loud, not far from what I’d come up with. I was dying to hear what it meant.
“The literal translation is, ‘In leaving, I will stay.’ ”
That didn’t make much sense. “What do you think Mr. Sivach meant by that?”
“Well, Russians are famous for nuance in language, and I imagine he is no different. I can only take a guess, based on your medic
al condition when you went there.”
I clutched the phone. “What’s that?” I asked.
“I think he’s saying—and I’m sorry if this is difficult to hear—that while you’re likely going to die, you’ll live on in the hearts of Russians. It’s quite poetic. Beautiful, actually.”
I found myself needing to get off the phone. I told Dr. Dillon another call was coming, thanked her, and hung up.
Deep in my chest, I could feel my heart pounding. I closed my eyes, breathing deeply and trying to calm myself, but it didn’t seem to help. An image formed. It was the same icy backdrop as the one in Natalia’s photo. I was in the center of it.
What flooded my mind then was death, death in a dozen forms. It was the cancer cells that had inundated my brain, the potential for my surgery to go the wrong way, the possibility of radiation and chemotherapy destroying too much of me, or killing me down the line by not having destroyed enough. There was my wish, which I learned about from people who were dying, and its incomplete realization, which, for that moment up in the hills with the coyotes, brought me close to dying by my own hand.
I grabbed the pouch, filling it with Mr. Sivach’s article and letter and the many other letters his article had sparked. I stood there for a moment, nervous and unsure what to do, until I caught a glimpse of my desk. I knew what was in the large bottom-right drawer: three old photo albums that had been sitting there, untouched, for years. I pulled them out, setting them on top of the cabinets behind me. In their place I put the pouch and quickly closed the drawer.
I opened my eyes. It was warm outside, and I’m sure my room was warm as well, but I found myself shivering.
All through the three-course dinner Mom had prepared to mark my return home from the intensive summer program at Boston College, she kept looking at me strangely. She and Dad seemed genuinely interested in hearing about the whole experience—in total contrast to when I came back from my trip to the Soviet Union—but there was something else on Mom’s mind. Her eyes kept examining me, her head would tilt to the side, and no matter where I was in my story, she had a contemplative look on her face. I was seconds away from asking her what she was thinking about when she yanked her napkin from her lap and tossed it onto the table. Amiga was startled. She jumped out of her bed and rushed over to Mom, who, while petting her, said, “I do believe you’re taller than your father.”
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