Warhead

by Jeff Henigson

  I groaned. “Did you hear any of what I just told you?” It was a little irritating. She was the one who asked the question I was in the middle of answering.

  “I was listening. And I’m very happy you enjoyed your classes. I was just puzzling over what looked different.” The smile on her face grew, and then she snapped her fingers. “Shall we measure?” I looked over to Dad. He shrugged. I shrugged. Mom interpreted that as an enthusiastic yes from both of us. “Great,” she said, hopping to her feet. “Let’s go to the playroom.” Amiga barked.

  She brought us to the section of wall where Ted and I had been measured throughout our childhoods, the marks still there, at the top of the stairs leading to our old bedrooms. “You first,” she said to Dad. It was kind of awkward to see that exchange, with Mom telling Dad what to do, which was rare in our family. He obeyed and moved into place. She looked at his feet and frowned.

  While he was removing his shoes, she grabbed a tape measure and unfolded a step stool. She balanced a book on his head to get a level recording and marked his height on the wall, then measured. “Six feet even,” she said to Dad as he stepped away. She motioned to me. “Your turn.”

  The moment she had the book positioned on my head, a smile broke across her face. She shook her head slowly.

  “What is it, Phyl?” Dad said. She stayed quiet as she stretched out the tape.

  “Six foot one, Bob,” she said when she was finished. “Your son has finally got you beat.”

  For me, there was something kind of nice about hearing that, considering for my whole life I’d only heard about my father’s superiority. Mom had him on a pedestal, and in a way she was taking him down. I hadn’t matched his brain—I doubted I ever would—but something about it was still satisfying.

  Mom was putting the tape measure away and Dad was sitting down on the couch to watch NewsHour when the phone rang. I picked up. “Ted!” I said. We hadn’t spoken in ages.

  “Hey, bro, how was Boston University?” I wasn’t expecting a question from him, even if he did get it wrong.

  “Boston College. A total pain in the butt. That said, unless I somehow screw things up senior year, I’ll actually graduate with my classmates.”

  “Good job.”

  “How’s Penn?”

  “Fine. I mean, nothing much is going on. The semester is just starting.” I would have stayed on with him, just the two of us, but eventually Mom demanded I put him on speakerphone.

  When the call was over, Mom took in a satisfied breath. “So nice for us to talk together like that,” she said, touching her chest. It was definitely rare for us as a family.

  I thought Dad would switch on his news program, but the conversation with Ted seemed to trigger a question I’d expected him to ask at the dinner table. “Speaking of classes, Jeff,” Dad said, “how did you perform in yours at Boston College?”

  Just a few years before—perhaps even a few months before—I would’ve been drooling over the opportunity to present the results. It would have popped in and out of my mind the whole flight home, with me envisioning his question, practicing my response, and imagining the look on his face. Now things felt very different. I wasn’t eagerly awaiting his question. And now that he’d asked it, I wasn’t contemplating his reaction to my answer.

  I glanced at my watch. Ted’s call had reminded me that there was another call I needed to make myself. I looked at Dad and said, “I did just fine.”

  He nodded. I think he might’ve even left it there. Mom couldn’t, because she’d gotten the details when she picked me up at the airport. “Your son earned three A’s,” she said, crossing her arms.

  Dad looked at me, an eyebrow raised. “I thought you took four classes.”

  “I did. Mom’s just being particular. Pre-calc was an A-plus.”

  * * *

  •

  Monique’s mom answered the phone after hardly one full ring. “Hi, Mrs. Anstead, it’s Jeff Henigson.”

  “You call me Hugette, remember? Are you back from your trip? Monique will luh-ove to speak with you.” Monique’s mom was so animated.

  Over some noise on the line, I heard Monique ask her mom to close the door. A couple of seconds passed. “Hi, Jeff,” Monique said. She didn’t sound nearly as energetic as her mother.

  “How’s it going, Mo?”

  “All right. How was Boston?”

  “Amazing. I mean, boring in the sense that all I did was study my butt off, but I’m going to graduate with my classmates now, thank God.”

  “That’s wonderful. I’m really happy for you.” Her voice was in monotone. I was pretty sure she was angry at me for ditching her, but I didn’t want to bring it up.

  “How was Hawaii? You went, right?”

  “Yeah, with my mom and some girlfriends. It was pretty wonderful.” She sounded sincere. “I kind of wish we could’ve stayed there.” That was more wistful, like she really regretted having come home.

  “Well, I’d take Hawaii over Tarzana, too—no offense to your hometown or anything.” I was trying to be funny, but she didn’t laugh a bit.

  I felt the need to confess. “Look, Monique, I’m kind of dodging saying something that I need to say.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I owe you a huge apology. I should’ve invited you to my prom.”

  “You don’t have to apologize for that.”

  “No, I really do. I wanted to invite you. Seriously. I was planning on it. But then I had this awful nightmare in which your cancer came back and it completely freaked me out. So I kind of ran away.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, I know, totally uncool, and stupid. And I’ve been a jerk twice over—first for not inviting you, and then avoiding you, because I’ve been feeling all guilty and everything. Anyway, I’m really sorry, Monique. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

  “I just—”

  “Are you angry with me?” That was a stupid question. She had to be. “Look, I completely understand if you are. I deserve it.”

  “I’m not angry with you. Not at all. You got scared. The whole thing is just…weird.”

  “How so? I mean, yes, I was acting weird, no doubt, but like what specifically are you talking about?”

  “I…I don’t want to freak you out.”

  I drew in a breath and let it out quietly.

  “What’s up?” I said, trying to sound calm. She stayed silent for several more seconds. I could hear her breathing. “Please, Monique, tell me.”

  “My leukemia came back.”

  I felt as if a stone had struck me in my stomach, knocking the wind out of me. I snatched a pillow from my bed and held it against my chest.

  “When?”

  “A month ago.” My whole body tightened. I spun around and looked at the calendar on the wall behind my couch. I was switching into action mode.

  “So you’ve got a bone marrow transplant scheduled, right?” I needed her reassurance. She told me once that her last transplant had been so excruciatingly painful that she didn’t think she could ever do it again. They stuck her in an ICU, loaded her veins with high-dose chemotherapy—a form that was much more intense than anything I’d ever been through—and then, for several hours, they irradiated her entire body. The point of all of that was to kill every cancer cell in her body. The transplant came after that hellish eradication, its purpose to generate new, cancer-free blood cells from the freshly injected bone marrow. She was in intensive care for weeks. I understood her fear of going through all of that again, but she’d already made the consequence of avoiding it clear: she would die.

  For several seconds, she stayed quiet. I clenched the receiver. As calmly as possible, I repeated myself. “When are you doing the transplant, Mo?”

  She let out a quick burst of air, then spoke quietly. “I’m holding off for a bit.”

&n
bsp; I moaned. “What the heck is ‘holding off’ supposed to mean?”

  “This is my third relapse, Jeff. Why would it work this time if it failed twice before?”

  “I know it’s awful, Mo. But you can’t give up.” My mind went to Steinbeck. “You remember the whole fate-versus-free-will thing in East of Eden, right?”

  “Of course. You deluged my ears with talk about that.”

  “Well, I really think it’s where you are right now, Mo. You’re feeling like your fate has been written for you, but the truth is you’ve got a choice. Don’t give up. Please, please, please do the transplant.”

  “Look, I’ll think about it. But can we talk about something else now?”

  I sighed. “Like what?”

  “Do you like the Beach Boys song ‘Kokomo’?”

  “Seriously, Mo?”

  “Yes, seriously.” It was obviously a diversion, but I let her get away with it. She needed to talk about something else. “Kokomo” was on a mixtape I’d listened to a lot in Boston, and I really liked the song. It had been her absolute favorite in Hawaii. She told me all about the trip, how she would stay there forever if she could, just relaxing on the beach and swimming in the ocean with her friends. After sharing a story about a sunset dance party, she yawned. I knew she needed some sleep.

  “Promise me you’ll think about the transplant?” I said, squeezing that in after saying my goodbye.

  “I promise,” she said, and hung up. For several minutes, I lay on my couch and cried.

  Just like in the weeks and months after her dance party, Monique and I talked a lot after that. Even though she’d forgiven me for disappearing, I still felt guilty. And that just made me commit myself more to convincing her to get the transplant, because I knew if she didn’t, she’d be the one to disappear. We’d spend the first half of our conversation on that, with her listening to my latest arguments, after which we’d move on to school and family and friends. She was still cheerful, and I think happy to talk to me, but her optimism was missing, as if she didn’t believe things were going to come around her way. Over and over again, I kept telling her to trust me.

  At the same time cancer returned to Monique, I concluded it was done with me. My MRI came out clear, and Dr. Gourevik told me I could drop down to just two scans a year instead of one every three months. “I’ll do that for one more year,” I said. “But if the next two are clear, I’m only going to swing by here once a year.”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Dr. Gourevik said. I was pretty sure I already had.

  At the end of August, Monique and I were having one of our evening chats. “You haven’t harassed me yet about getting a bone marrow transplant,” she said.

  “I thought I’d let you tell me in excruciating detail all about your mani-pedi first.”

  “Ask me about the transplant.”

  “Are you gonna friggin’ get one?”

  “Yes!” she shouted into the phone. I jumped to my feet and screamed.

  “Everything okay down there?” Dad hollered from the staircase. He was watching NewsHour.

  “Yes!” I shouted back. I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. “When are you going to do it?”

  “As soon as my doc says I’m ready.”

  “Oh, Monique, thank you so much!” I screamed again.

  She laughed.

  I heard a pitter-patter of steps upstairs. “Are you okay?” Mom called.

  “Fine!” I shouted.

  “Don’t freak out your poor mom,” Monique said.

  “Oh, Mo, I’m so happy to hear this. I know it’s going to work this time.” I so hoped it would.

  * * *

  •

  I visited Monique in the hospital whenever I could, though all the school-related stuff made it challenging. I put together a mixtape for her, just like the ones Paul had made for me, and of course I added “Kokomo” to it. We played it in the hospital room.

  “It’s a damn good song,” I said, and Monique nodded. Her mom, who had been sitting in a chair reading a book, looked over at me with one eyebrow raised. I caught my mistake. “Darn good, I believe I was saying.”

  “Yes, Jeffrey,” Hugette said with her French accent. “I believe you were.”

  Monique giggled.

  Norman, Monique’s dad, showed up a few minutes later. The polio he’d had as a kid might have weakened his legs, but boy, did he ever have a strong grip. “Jeff!” he said as he vigorously shook my hand. “So good to see you!” There was so much enthusiasm in his voice it felt like he was saying hello to his son. “How are things?”

  “Well, your wife nearly shot me a minute ago,” I said, “but somehow I made it through.”

  Norman smiled. “Hugette knows a good man when she sees one,” he said, and patted me on the back. It felt in that moment like the four of us were a family, with the only confusing part being whether Monique was my sister or my wife. Which one, I couldn’t exactly say.

  On Monique’s second day of “high-dose” chemotherapy, I flew to the East Coast for a round of college interviews. It had been so unsettling a few days before to learn that the schedule for my trip conflicted with the one her doctors put together for her transplant. I told my parents I wasn’t going to go, but when I visited Monique in the hospital that afternoon, she practically threatened me.

  “Don’t you dare think of missing a college interview because of me,” she said sternly.

  I was worried about her—something that must have shown up in my face.

  She smiled confidently back at me. “I’ll be fine, Jeff. Just swing by when you return, and we can listen to our favorite song.”

  I reached down and hugged her then. I wanted to do more, say more, but both her parents were in the room, a few feet away from us. The moment just didn’t seem right. “Okay,” I said, grasping her hand. “I’ll see you the second I get back.”

  The whole flight out, I was thinking about Monique. It was a lot like coming home from the Soviet Union, when my mind was focused on my new friends and everything we’d done together. The moment I arrived in New York, I called the hospital. It took ages for them to get Monique’s mother on the line. “How is she?” I asked.

  “She’s hanging in there,” Hugette said. There was some hesitation in her voice, which concerned me. “They have her in isolation.”

  I quietly groaned. “I’m so sorry I went on this trip.”

  “She absolutely wanted you to, Jeff. I heard her make you promise.”

  “I know. It’s just—”

  “She’s going to be fine, Jeff.”

  “Well, please tell her I called, Hugette.” That wasn’t the whole of what I wanted to communicate. I think Hugette sensed that, because she stayed quiet. I bit down on my lip. “Okay, I guess what I’d really like you to tell her, if you wouldn’t mind, is…that I love her.”

  “She knows, Jeff. But I’ll tell her anyway.”

  My college trip was a whirlwind tour of four schools. I didn’t do a very good job of “being present” during the interviews—which Mrs. Cobb, our college advisor, had told us to do. At Princeton, an assistant dean interviewed me in a group setting with three other prospective students. I completely checked out in the middle of it, wondering when Monique’s transplant was going to happen. “So…Jeffrey,” the lady said.

  I looked up at her and she smiled curtly.

  “How would you respond to a situation like that?”

  I had no idea what she was talking about.

  That evening, back in my hotel room, I had a very brief conversation with Hugette. She said the transplant would take place the following day. The second we hung up, I did something that wasn’t normal for me: I got down on my knees to pray. I’d prayed before, like at Sylvia’s gravesite, but not like that, on the floor. It took me a while to feel co
mfortable, but finally I closed my eyes and clasped my hands together.

  “Dear God, I’m going to ask you for something really, really important. Could you please completely heal Monique? Take all the cancer cells out of her body and don’t let them come back—not those ones or any other kind of cancer. And give her a long, healthy, happy life. Amen.” I forgot something. “Oh, one more thing: also give her love. Or let her know she’s loved.”

  With my eyes still shut, I thought about how much I wanted Monique and me to be on the same track, squarely on the road to recovery. I didn’t say it out loud; I just let it float through my head. Monique and I had been through so much suffering, though hers was obviously worse than mine. Once she got through this, maybe we could go through life together. We could graduate high school, go to colleges not far away from each other, and maybe, if it felt right for both of us, we could let ourselves fall in love.

  I checked in with myself. I decided I’d covered everything. “Amen.”

  I opened my eyes then. My prayer felt finished. I took a deep, satisfied breath. Something somewhere was telling me Monique was going to be fine.

  * * *

  •

  When I arrived at LAX two days later, Mom was waiting for me. I could immediately tell something was wrong. The way she waved at me when I got off the plane seemed almost frantic.

  I was nervous myself, and had been for the whole flight. I’d called the hospital twice but couldn’t reach Hugette or Norman. Neither the guy I’d spoken with the day before nor the woman I’d talked to that morning would give me any information. The lady at least sensed my desperation. When I blurted out “Can you at least tell me if Monique is alive?” she said she was. She also took a message from me, which she promised she’d get to Hugette.