Going for the Record Page 6

  Heather pats his arm and takes the stethoscope out of her ears.

  “What happened?” Mom asks.

  “From what I can tell, it looks like he got hit with an intense bout of pain.”

  “Are you sure? He couldn’t move. He couldn’t talk.”

  “Pain can be a very debilitating thing. The first time it hits you with that kind of intensity it takes you totally by surprise.”

  Dad jerks into total alertness. “You mean it’s going to happen again?”

  Heather touches his arm. “In all honesty, Pete, probably. And the frequency usually increases as well. But there are things we can do.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m going to start you on some things to help you control the pain.”

  “You mean painkillers.”

  “Yes, Pete.” Heather speaks so soothingly. “For pain like you experienced today I’m giving you something called Roxanol. It’s a fluid. You mix it in a small amount of orange juice as soon as you feel the pain coming on and drink it down.”

  “Is it addictive?” asks Dad.

  “Yes. It’s very strong. And these pills,” she says, handing him a bottle, “are for lesser, more general pain. I want you to take one first thing in the morning and one in the evening. They’re timed-release so you always have some in your system. Between the two you should be able to manage your pain pretty well.”

  She also gives him some sleeping pills and anti-anxiety medication.

  All I can think is, thank God we didn’t go to Peoria.

  Monday, July 7th

  It’s a hazy day and the lake is like glass.

  “Let’s just drift,” Clay says, cutting the motor. Then he starts to laugh.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” But he snickers again, and the way he does it, I can tell he’s laughing at me.

  “What?”

  “It looks like you’re wearing your bathing suit on top of a white uniform.”

  I look down. Except for my forearms and the small section of my legs between where the top of my shin guards and the bottom of my shorts go, I’m white as a ghost. So I never got rid of my soccer tan from the week at ODP. Ha, ha. I haven’t exactly been in the mood to hang out at the beach lately.

  It makes me really mad, Clay looking at me and laughing. I cross my arms over my chest and give him a good looking-over, but I can’t find anything to make fun of. Nothing. No zits, no buck teeth, no braces, no wax in his ears, no weird-shaped toes. He’s not skinny or fat. He’s perfect—a perfectly bronzed beach boy in mirrored Ray Bans and a stylish pair of swim trunks.

  I’m not into teasing right now, anyway. I’d rather tell him about Dad.

  I lean back, slouching down in the soft vinyl seat of Clay’s boat. “My Dad’s been getting these pains. It’s terrible. You can tell when it hits him because he closes his eyes and grips something so hard his fingers go white. Then the trembling starts.” A lump is rising in my throat.

  “It must be really hard to watch,” says Clay.

  “It’s awful. I mean, I’ve been in a lot of pain before, but nothing like this. I can’t even imagine it. He can’t put an ice bag on it and numb it, can’t get off of it and rest it. Changing positions doesn’t help. He just has to give in to this invisible beating. The nurse came and gave him this painkiller called Roxanol. It’s straight morphine. But it either takes a while to kick in or his last dose is wearing off, and he absolutely refuses to take it again before he’s supposed to. He’s afraid of getting addicted to it.”

  “Afraid of getting addicted? Who cares!” says Clay. “I mean, if he’s going to die—”

  “I know.”

  I’m not going to cry today. I’m not. Not in front of Clay.

  “Hey, you better put on some sunscreen or you’re going to burn your lily white uniform.” Clay reaches for the sunscreen. “Turn around. I’ll put some on your back.”

  “I can get it,” I say, taking the bottle from him.

  He’s watches me, smiling the whole time. “You missed a spot.”

  “Whatever. Here,” I say and throw the bottle at him. “Go ahead if you’re so worried about it.”

  Clay puts on lotion like he does everything else—meticulously. When he gets near my straps, he paints it on with one fingertip. How can hands feel so much like ice on a hot summer day?

  He wipes his hands on his chest and reaches in the cooler for Cokes. I usually try to stay away from caffeine, but I take one anyway.

  “I thought your family had a big reunion this weekend.”

  “We did.”

  “How was it?”

  I scrunch my nose. “It’s hard to have a good time when you’re trying so hard. And I had to miss my tournament in Peoria.”

  “That’s too bad. Speaking of soccer, have you gotten any more calls from college coaches?”

  “Oh, geez!” I knock myself on the forehead. “I was supposed to call that coach from Notre Dame back!”

  “Leah, I can’t believe you. Don’t blow this.”

  “I know, but what am I supposed to tell them when they want to set up an official visit?”

  “Be honest.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Leah, if your dad knew his secret was screwing up your future, he’d want you to tell them. Besides, what are the chances those coaches would know anyone around here? Pretty slim.”

  “You’re right. The reason he doesn’t want anyone to know is because he’s afraid they’ll treat him differently. But I promised him I wouldn’t say anything. I don’t want to lie, Clay.”

  “Leah, people are going to find out. I mean, how many days of work has he missed? And what did you tell your club coach about missing the tournament in Peoria?”

  “I told him Dad got the flu on the way down and we had to turn around.”

  “See? You’re already telling lies.”

  I laugh, and Coke sprays out my nose. To make matters worse a burp’s rising in my throat—a big one. I already have Coke streaming out of my nostrils, so what the heck. It’s only Clay.

  I let it rip.

  “Leah!”

  “Oh, don’t get all stuffy on me. You know you want to, too.”

  Clay burps a weak little burp and smiles an even weaker smile. It’s against his nature to be crude. His family is very proper. I was going somewhere with them once and somebody farted. It stunk up their whole car. Nobody laughed or said anything. They didn’t even roll down the windows.

  Mom and Heather are sitting at the dining room table when I get home.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Shh!” Mom shoots a finger to her lips and nods at the couch. Dad’s lying there sleeping, white as a ghost and covered in sweat.

  “Sorry,” I whisper.

  “Another bout of pain,” says Heather.

  Mom flashes her bloodshot eyes at me and smiles. “I called Heather because your dad’s changed his mind. He’s going to try the experimental treatments.”

  I pump my fists in the air. “I knew it! I knew he’d come around!”

  CHAPTER 10

  Tuesday, July 8

  I feel like Clay’s my shrink. I’m always unloading on him, crying on his shoulder, or whispering into the telephone like this.

  “Dad’s finally decided to try the experimental treatments. He says nothing could be worse than the pain he’s feeling now.” I deepen my voice to sound like Dad’s. “‘I’ll never last to see Mary’s baby at this rate, much less see Leah make that team.’ He still wants me to go to national camp.”

  “Do you have your ticket to Colorado Springs?”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t mean I’m going. I can’t very well go if he’s on his deathbed. Besides, I haven’t played in so long.”

  “Oh, come on; it’s been less than a week.”

  “It feels longer.”

  “You’ll be fine. And that’s really great about your dad.”

  “Isn’t it? I feel like there’s hope now.”

  “Ha
ve you talked to the college coaches yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Leah.” The way his voice dips I can tell he’s really disappointed. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Quit bugging me about it, Clay. It’s my problem, not yours.”

  “Do you know how many people would give their right arm for a chance like this? I’m telling you, if I had even one half your talent—”

  If he had half my talent! Poor baby. He’s got it so tough. The last thing I need right now is his guilt trip. Does he think I like this? Does he think I don’t want to play college soccer?

  “What are you talking about, Clay? Or should I call you Clayton Thayer McGowen the third. Your parents have so much money you don’t have to worry about college. You want to go to Harvard. Ivy League schools don’t even give out athletic scholarships, so don’t give me this If–I-had-half-your-talent crap.”

  All of a sudden I’m yelling at him. I’m really flipping out.

  “You’re a filthy rich brat and you and your whole life are perfect. I don’t know why I thought I could ask you for advice; you don’t know anything about problems. And I am not living your dream either, so go find your own!”

  I hang up on him, and boy, does it feel good.

  CHAPTER 11

  Thursday, July 10

  Paul came up last night so he can help Mom drive Dad down to Ann Arbor for the procedure today. He’s getting Dad’s breakfast while Mom and I are in their bedroom packing for the trip.

  “It’s not supposed to take very long or be very complicated,” says Mom. “Dad will be in and out. We can bring him back home in a couple days.”

  I hand her Dad’s dopp kit. “What exactly are they going to do to him?”

  “They’re going to put a tiny pump inside him, right where the cancer is. It will administer drugs to the area, drip after drip, all day long. That’s how they’re going to do chemotherapy. They think it’ll be more effective than having him take it orally or intravenously, because they’ll be able to send it directly to the area. That way it’ll be more concentrated, and the side effects won’t be as bad as they are when the drugs circulate throughout the entire body.”

  I help Mom carry stuff out and arrange the backseat for Dad with quilts and pillows.

  When I get out, he’s standing there hunched over, one arm leaning against the car. “Thanks for making my bed, Weez.” His voice sounds forced, like he’s holding his breath. “We’ll be back in a couple days. Be good to your Grandma.”

  Where is Gram? I look around. Paul makes a quick “over there” with his eyes towards the house. There she is, peering out the bathroom window. She ducks out of the way when she sees me looking at her. Poor Gram. I wish I hadn’t looked.

  I kiss Dad as Paul lends him an elbow and helps him into the car. Dad ducks in slowly. Even in the plush back seat he doesn’t look comfortable.

  After Paul closes Dad’s door, everyone has glassy eyes. Mom and Paul don’t say goodbye, just look at me and try to smile.

  As they drive away, I look long and hard at Dad’s head through the back window. I have a terrible feeling this might be the last time I see him.

  It’s just Gram and me. Alone and waiting. A whole weekend alone together. I wish I hadn’t gotten in that fight with Clay, but I want him to know how mad he makes me.

  This is the perfect time to call Coach McNall and the other coaches, with Mom and Dad gone now and Gram in the bathroom. I’ve got to get this monkey off my back.

  My heart is racing as I punch in the phone number. What a chicken.

  “Notre Dame Soccer.” It’s Coach McNall.

  “Hi. This is Leah Weiczynkowski.”

  “Leah! Good to hear from you.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner about planning an official visit, but my dad is really sick, and I can’t commit to a date right now. I just wanted to tell you that.”

  There. It’s out.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Is he going to be okay?”

  “He’s got cancer.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  “I would’ve told you sooner, but he didn’t want anyone to know. He still doesn’t, but I thought it’d be okay to tell you.”

  “Thanks for telling me, Leah. I was a little concerned when you hadn’t called back. We’re very interested in you, you know. Don’t worry about the official visit. It can wait. And again, I’m so sorry about your dad.”

  When I hang up, that awful weight is gone.

  Wouldn’t Clay be proud of me?

  Friday, July 11

  This hulking man is ringing our doorbell. Two skinny younger guys are coming up behind him carrying some huge metal contraption.

  “American Cancer Society,” says the big guy. “We’ve delivering the equipment you ordered. Where do you want the bed?” He hoists up his pants.

  “Um, I don’t know. Let me go ask.”

  Gram’s at the kitchen sink rinsing our breakfast dishes. “Gram, some guys are here from the American Cancer Society. They’re delivering a hospital bed, and they want to know where to put it. What should I tell them?”

  She holds up her hand, I’ll take care of it, and marches to the front door.

  “There must be some mistake,” Gram says to the man. “We don’t need that thing. You can take it back.”

  “Hey, all I know is somebody put in an order to this address and it’s my job to deliver it.”

  “Well, no one here ordered it.”

  “Maybe not, ma’am, but hospice did. Is someone here under hospice care?”

  “Yes, but he’s fine. We don’t need it.”

  “If I could use your phone, ma’am, I’ll call the main office and see if there’s been some mistake.”

  Gram leads him in to the phone while I stay at the door, guarding it, so these two guys can’t sneak the bed in behind our backs.

  “They said hospice requested it,” I hear the big man say to Gram. “It could be weeks before another bed becomes available, and this is a good one. I’d take it if I were you.”

  Gram hesitates. “Fine. But where on earth are we going to put it?”

  “How about Paul’s old room?” I say.

  “That’s a good idea. It’s just a sewing room now.”

  The guys bring in the bed and clang around setting it up. They carry in a mattress, a walker, and a wheelchair. The big guy gives Gram some papers to sign, and then they’re gone.

  After they leave I take the wheelchair and the walker out to the garage, fold them up, and throw a boat tarp over them. But there’s nothing we can do with the bed. We can’t even budge it.

  Gram closes the door to Paul’s room, and we don’t say another word about it.

  Saturday, July 12

  When I wake up, everything washes over me at once. I remember Mom and Dad are gone, and why. I remember that I haven’t spoken to Clay since I hung up on him four days ago. I don’t even want to get out of bed.

  Well, it looks like the highlight of my day will be walking up to get the mail. Lately I’ve been getting letters from colleges coaches all over the country.

  I wait until it’s ten-thirty and I know the mail’s there, and then I mosey up to the end of the drive.

  It’s kind of fun getting the mail: Let’s see, who wants me today? I stand in front of the mailbox and rub my hands together to stir up some luck.

  So much junk. Catalogs, magazines, bills. And seven letters for me! One from Texas, one from Penn State, one from Clay, one from SMU, one from Drake—

  One from Clay? I tear it open.

  Dear Leah,

  I’m not sure what happened, but I’m sorry about our phone call the other day. I know you’re going through a lot right now, and you’re right, I should mind my own business and quit getting on your case about how you’re handling the phone calls from college coaches.

  Let me know when you feel like doing something. I’m here.

  Love, Clay

  P.S. I can’t help it that
I was born into the family I was any more than you can help it that your Dad is sick.

  Love? What does he mean by Love? He can’t love me. We’re best friends. I would never write love in a letter to him. I might sign it your friend, but never love. He knows how I feel about that. He wouldn’t write that just to bug me, either, especially not when he’s trying to apologize. And he wouldn’t throw it in there casually, like, Luv ya! That’s not his style. No, if he wrote it, he meant it.

  This ruins everything. How can I do anything with him anymore, knowing how he feels? I wouldn’t know how to act.

  So all this time he’s been pretending, buttering me up, waiting, hoping I’ll come around, or grow up, or whatever. Mom and Gram were right.

  I guess I should have seen it. How he was looking at me the other day on his boat. How he tried to put his arm around me the night I told him about Dad. He must really like me, too, if I haven’t driven him off with my burping and sweaty grossness. Not exactly sexy stuff.

  I shove the letter back into the envelope; I don’t want to think about it.

  CHAPTER 12

  Sunday, July 13

  You’d think the President’s coming to visit, the way Gram’s acting. We even skipped church today. She wants everything to be perfect. We’ve cleaned every square inch of the house, and Gram’s cooking up a storm.

  We hear the car pull in and run to the door.

  Paul helps Dad out of the car, and I wait for him to rise to his full height, but he never does. He’s hunched over like an old man. Paul gives Dad an elbow and guides him up the walk-way. Dad’s leaning heavily on Paul, grimacing.

  I must look worried because Mom comes in ahead of them and whispers to us. “Don’t worry. He’s fine, just sore from the incision.”

  “Hey, Pops, welcome home!”

  “Hey, Weez,” he says flatly. “Did you hold down the fort for us while we were gone?”

  I smile, glad to hear his lines are still the same even if his delivery is off. Because, boy, is it off. His voice is weak and airy. He looks a lot thinner, too. I can see the hollows in his cheekbones. Maybe it’s a good thing the American Cancer Society brought that stuff. It looks like he’s going to be needing it. He could use that walker right now, that’s for sure.