I hear Pookie scream behind me. “Give me that! What are you—” But she stops after grabbing the frame and seeing the picture. Her mouth drops open and her voice turns to a whisper. “What is this?”
“It’s your dad. Isn’t it cool?”
“But … no one knows what my dad looks like.”
“I know. It’s a composite drawing. Like the police do of criminals.”
She narrows her eyes at me.
“I don’t mean your dad’s a criminal, not that we know of.”
Her eyes get squishier.
“I mean, I’m sure he’s not.” I focus on the picture instead of Pookie. “See, here’s your round face. If you look at me and Mom, we have pointier chins, like our faces are upside-down triangles. Yours is a circle. Your dad’s must be, too.”
She’s staring at the picture now. And tracing the line of her dad’s chin.
“And Mom’s eyebrows are scrawny but yours are normal, so your dad’s are probably more like Mr. X’s, like caterpillars.”
She snorts and kind of smiles at the same time.
“Plus, your hair is darker than mine or Mom’s, so that probably comes from your dad.”
“How do you know his eyes are brown?”
“It’s basic biology. Didn’t you take biology? Did you even listen?” I’m starting to think maybe Pookie is the one who needs homeschooling. “Brown eyes are dominant. Mom’s are blue. Yours are brown. Your dad’s must be brown.”
She’s staring at her dad’s eyes.
“How did you get this?”
“Mr. X drew it for you.”
“Why?”
“Because I asked him. And because you’re his adopted granddaughter now.”
“What?”
“No, really. Mom even bought him a book on how to be a grandfather. He never got to have kids and he wants them. Well, his wife wants them and he’s getting used to the idea.”
“His wife is dead.”
“But she’s still here. She’s in the Beehive Cluster of stars in the constellation Cancer. You can see it through my telescope if you want to look.”
“Right. And how did she get into the constellation?”
“Automagically.”
“You are so weird.”
“But in a good way.”
“No, in a—”
“I got you a picture of your dad, didn’t I?”
She looks at the sketch again and nods. “You did,” she whispers. “It’s him. Thanks.” And she smiles. A real smile.
TURING TEST
The Turing test is named for Alan Turing, the brilliant British code breaker who helped keep Hitler from winning World War II. Basically, the test is whether you can tell if you’re texting with a human or a computer. He figured a computer could be programmed to answer questions in a way that you’d think it was human.
Mr. X’s drawing of Pookie’s dad is like a paper Turing test. Can you take a bunch of attributes and turn them into a real, live-looking person that someone can believe is her dad? It worked for Pookie. I think Mr. X passed the test.
Alan Turing would be proud of him.
I’m lying in my tree room almost asleep when I hear someone at the base of my tree room. Or maybe I dream it. Or uni-sense it. I blink and see a shadow but I’m not quite awake yet so I’m not sure who I’m seeing. I think it’s Mr. X, but then I realize the shadow is moving too fast for Mr. X. And it’s going to our house.
It’s Pookie.
I shine my flashlight at the bottom of my tree but I don’t see anything unusual. I climb down carefully and guess what? I find a rock. Another beautiful rock that looks like the universe.
And I realize that it was never Mr. X who was putting rocks by my tree room. It was Pookie. The whole time. That’s why Mr. X was confused when I thanked him for the rocks. That’s why Pookie was upset that I thought they were from Mr. X and Mom said it showed how much he cared about me. It was her all along.
And now I don’t know whether to thank her or if that’ll embarrass her or make her mad. Maybe she wants it to be a secret.
But why would she want to do something nice for me? She hates me.
Or maybe she doesn’t. Maybe she really does still love me but she doesn’t know how to say it. Maybe rocks are Pookie’s language of love.
I go back to bed and think about it some more and even though thinking about Pookie also makes me feel the cauldron on her back, I think the cauldron just got a little lighter.
“Come on, kid,” Mr. X says with a sigh.
We’re standing on the dock and the wind blows off the lake and a dark cloud blocks out the sun and I’m shivering.
“It’s too cold.”
“It’s cool but it’s not cold. It’s summer in Maine. Now, come on.”
I shake my head. “I’m not ready yet.”
“Sure you are.”
“Nope.”
“Just take off the life jacket, will you?”
This is the third day in a row Mr. X has said it’s time to take off my life jacket. He says I’ll be safe. There’s nothing to worry about.
That’s hard to believe.
I look over at Pookie in her chair. She’s wearing her sunglasses and earbuds and I can hear the music from here, so she wouldn’t notice me even if I screamed for help. And is Mr. X strong enough to save me from drowning? He’s really, really old.
“Come on, Julian … my adopted grandson.”
And because he says my name and calls me his adopted grandson, I decide to try.
I turn away from him and close my eyes. The clasps snap really loudly when I undo them and they echo in my ear. The zipper sounds like a train rushing down the track about to crash. And my heart is beating way too fast and loud. I let my life jacket slip off but I hug my chest to keep from shivering.
Mr. X lets out a swear word but not in an angry way. In a shocked way because he’s looking at the scars on my chest, which he can see even though I’m trying to cover them up. “What happened to you?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Well, operations.”
“Operations?”
“On my heart.”
“Your heart?”
I wish he wouldn’t repeat everything I’m saying. It’s making me nervous. I can tell because I’m shivering more. Or maybe it’s getting colder.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be swimming.”
“T-t-told you.”
“Is it bad for your heart? I didn’t know. Your mother should’ve told me! She’s a doctor, for—wait a minute … not a very good doctor, right?” He starts swearing and pacing on the dock. “Put that life jacket back on!” he barks.
I try to pick it up but I keep dropping it because I’m shaking so much.
“Come on!”
I finally get it and stick one arm in and it takes forever to put the other arm in, and Mr. X’s swearing and moaning and pacing isn’t helping at all.
It takes seventeen tries to snap the plastic buckle. I counted. When I finally do, it’s not a relief at all. In fact, it feels like it’s squishing my chest and all the air is coming out of me and none is going in. What’s worse, I can’t unsnap the buckle now and I can’t breathe!
In between gasping for air I’m screaming, but it sounds like someone having voice lessons because I’m shaking so much my screaming comes out all quivery and in short bursts.
Mr. X is swearing at the top of his lungs and that’s probably what brings Mom running down to the dock, finally.
She’s screaming and swearing louder than both of us … about me being blue and can I breathe and do I feel weak and why didn’t I call her and I can’t seem to say that I WAS calling her and so was Mr. X but I don’t think she’d hear me anyway because she’s in a complete panic.
Mom shakes Pookie’s arm as we pass her. “You were supposed to be watching him!”
Pookie jumps up.
“I’m sorry,” Mr. X and Pookie say at the same time, except Mr. X sounds reall
y sorry, and scared, and Pookie just sounds mad.
“He’s fine, Mom! Jeez! He’s having a panic attack, right, Julian?”
“I guess so,” except my voice sounds so strange I say, “Maybe, I don’t know.”
Actually, I’m feeling a little better now so Pookie’s probably right.
“It’s OK,” I tell Mr. X.
“Are you sure?” he croaks.
“I’m fine.”
“See?” Pookie says.
“I’m not taking any chances!” Mom says, dragging me to the car.
I keep trying to squirm out of her grip and run back to Mr. X, who looks panicked, but Mom gets REALLY strong when her adrenaline surges so I just keep yelling back to him, “It’s OK! I’m all right! I’m OK!” but it looks like he can’t hear me and anyway Mom pushes me into the car and slams the door and all I can do is look out my window and see Mr. X wavering on the dock like he’s all ripply and I guess that’s when I pass out.
That’s how I get to see the barely mediocre (Mom’s words) medical facility nearest to our house. I’ve come to and am feeling much better, except for being in a hospital. Also, Mom’s yelling at the emergency room receptionist that she’s a doctor and she knows when something is an emergency or not and demands to see the doctor on duty, who is a young guy and Mom treats him like he’s Pookie and eventually he starts acting a little like Pookie even though he’s a grown-up but he orders tests anyway because Mom keeps screaming, “Tetralogy of Fallot! Tetralogy of Fallot!” like a crazy person and I have blood tests and an echocardiogram and I don’t know what else because I go into a parallel universe and see Rudy who I haven’t seen in forever and we ride bikes together that aren’t even stationary so it’s not that bad.
TETRALOGY OF FALLOT
It sounds like a cosmic phenomenon, like Transit of Venus, but it’s not.
Transit of Venus is when Venus passes between Earth and the sun so it looks like a black dot, or hole, in the sun.
Tetralogy of Fallot is when there’s a hole in your heart, plus a lot of other stuff that makes your heart not work right.
Mom says it’s not that bad because I will live to be an adult, which I figure means either eighteen or twenty-one depending on whether you think an adult is getting to vote (eighteen) or getting to drink (twenty-one).
You might be thinking, “Hey, you’re a smart kid—how come you haven’t looked this stuff up before?” Well, here’s the answer. Who wants to know when they’re going to die? It’s like a standardized test. I mean, you know it’s coming, you know you can’t avoid it, and you know it’s going to be bad. The only way to handle it is to try to not think about it at all.
The only problem is this: Sometimes fear gets even huger when you try to pretend it’s not there.
Like the elephant in the room.
Sometimes you just have to jump in.
It’s dark by the time Mom and I drive home. She’s mad that Joan didn’t come to the hospital even though I remind her that we called both Joan and Pookie a kajillion times to let them know what was going on. I pat her shoulder and remind her I’m all right. The tests were fine.
She agrees that the tests were fine, totally fine, all fine, nothing to worry about.
Which makes me start worrying.
As soon as she watches me drink my chocolate milk and gives me a bag of marshmallows and sends me to bed, I hear her calling Joan and whispering, and crying, about the tests.
Mr. X is waiting on his patio and stands up when he sees me.
“It’s OK,” I lie. “Everything’s fine.”
I sit on my glider chair and Mr. X sits on his bench, but bolt upright.
It’s like we’ve reversed roles. He’s the one who’s all anxious and I’m the one who’s feeling strangely calm. I’m not even wearing my life jacket, just holding it.
“Is there anything I can do?” he says.
“You already have.”
“But I haven’t even taught you to swim.”
I shrug. “I’ll probably swim. Some day.”
“I wish I could’ve done more.”
“You’ve been my friend. You listened when no one else would. And … ”
“And what?”
“And maybe you can see the magic in the universe?”
“I don’t know about that. How would that help you, anyway?”
“We’re all connected. Whether it’s in this life or up in the stars. Or in parallel universes. You’ve got to see that.”
He nods.
“I have to go now. There’s some stuff I need to take care of. With my family.”
He nods like he really understands. I know he does.
“Bye, Mr. X.”
“Bye, Julian.”
I head down to the lake to see Pookie, who’s sitting on the dock under the stars.
“Wait!” Mr. X calls.
I turn around.
He’s standing up, wavering. “Will we see each other again?”
“Of course,” I tell him. “It’ll just be in a parallel universe. See ya, Mr. X.”
“See ya … grandson.” He smiles. A whole smile. And I grin back at him.
I get to the edge of the dock and call out to Pookie.
“Oh, you’re back. So … panic attack, right?”
“I think so.”
“I figured.”
“But … well, I came to say goodbye.”
“Where are you going?”
“I think I’m going to die pretty soon.”
She rolls her eyes. “And they call ME the drama queen!”
“No, really. Did Mom tell you what’s wrong with me?”
“That would take a week, squirt.”
“I’m serious. I mean the, you know.”
She cocks her head. “Do you know?”
“Sort of, except she hides it from me.”
“She doesn’t want you to worry. If you ask me, she blows it out of proportion. You’re fine.”
I don’t answer and her voice changes.
“Aren’t you?”
“I had some tests at the hospital.”
“And?”
“And she called Joan and was crying on the phone and she gave me these and said I could eat them all.” I hold up the marshmallows for Pookie to see.
She grabs the bag and looks at it more closely. “Joan must’ve bought these. They’re not even organic.”
“I know.”
Pookie swallows. “This wasn’t supposed to happen for a long time.”
“What wasn’t supposed to happen?”
She stands up fast. “I can’t believe they wouldn’t tell me!”
“Tell you what?!”
Joan’s Outback skids into the driveway, spraying gravel everywhere, and Joan leaps out, taking the front stairs two at a time.
Pookie grabs me by my life jacket except I’m not wearing it anymore, just holding it, and we run to the house like we’re in some weird relay race where neither of us will let go of the baton life jacket.
Joan is reading the letter from the hospital, saying, “It says increased risk of—oh! Hi, kiddos,” she says when she sees us march in.
“Don’t hi, kiddos us!” Pookie yells. “He’s my brother and why didn’t you keep me in the loop?”
It’s silent now except my heart that’s pounding and I want to say, “Why didn’t you keep ME in the loop?” but my throat is closed up and I’m having enough trouble just breathing.
Pookie makes a croaking sound and her voice is whisper-shout-y and cracking. “This is so unfair! I can’t believe you two! I would’ve been nicer to him if you’d told me he was going to die now!”
I gulp as much air as I can. “I’m going to die now?”
“Of course not!” Joan says, but Mom gulps a sob and I don’t know which one of them to believe.
“Tell me the truth!” Pookie yells the words right out of my brain.
“Your mother is overreacting.” Joan sounds so sure I almost, I want to, believe her. She looks at M
om. “Really, Michelle, did you even read the whole thing?” Joan reads the letter out loud, but I can’t follow because the words come out too fast and they’re too medical and my ears are too nervous.
“So what does it mean?” Pookie says when Joan finishes.
“It means we have to be careful, like always, but there’s nothing new to worry about.”
Joan and Pookie glare at Mom. Mom starts to say something, but I finally open my mouth and speak first. “You mean, I can still live until I’m eighteen? Or maybe twenty-one?”
“What?” Joan says. “You have until fifty or sixty, at least.”
“Fifty?” I say.
“Or older,” Mom says, glaring at Joan. “They might come up with a complete cure.”
I stare at them. “Fifty is ancient!”
“I wouldn’t say ancient,” Joan mutters.
“Joan!” Mom barks. She turns to me. “Did you really think you would die so young?”
“Yes!”
“Why?”
“Because you always go into a panic like I’m about to die!”
“We just wanted to keep you safe,” Mom says, “because there are risks with tetralogy of Fallot. That’s why you can’t play contact sports and you have to take antibiotics and we don’t want you to get too stressed and—”
“Why did you have to whisper all the time? That made it really scary, like it was so bad you couldn’t tell me!”
Mom looks at Joan, who folds her arms and raises her eyebrows, before looking back at me. “We—I just didn’t want you to worry.”
“Well,” says Pookie, “that obviously backfired.”
“I always said it would be fine,” Joan points out.
Pookie snorts. “But when you say that, it’s never fine.”
“That’s not true!” Joan says.
“What about drama camp, huh? It’ll be fine. Guess what? The drama camps are probably full for the rest of the season! And Mom ditching her career was going to be temporary? It’ll be fine? And what about this B&B disaster? It’ll be fine?”
The arguing continues after I escape to my tree room until Pookie slams doors in the pantry so it’s just Mom and Joan whisper-shouting with Mom saying stuff like, “Pookie can just—” and then whispering, and Joan saying, “I can’t live with her—” and then whispering, and then I hear my name and Mom saying, “Well, I’m going to go talk to that doctor right now and make sure!” and Joan answering, “Fine! I’m going to finish the last thirty minutes of my shift so I can actually get paid!”
The Incredible Magic of Being Page 13