Tell Me Something Real Page 4

  When I followed him to the beach, he seemed determined to walk away from everything, maybe even his illness. Now he stands statue-still, radiating calm like a steady breath.

  He wipes sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, bruised from an IV. “Why don’t you ask me something real?”

  I kick a washed-up piece of seaweed, slimy on my foot. “Like what?”

  “Something that means something. Do you know how many times someone has asked me what grade I’m in or what’s wrong with me? Everyone from the phlebotomist to the grocery store clerk.” He gives me a weak smile, and his words sound more like a plea than anger. “Like, what’s your favorite book? Answer that one.”

  I squint in the sun, nervous about his dare. Sheet music doesn’t count. “Agatha Christie, I guess. I like them all. And Then There Were None is a good one. Maybe her best. She’s easy.”

  “Easy? Your favorite author is easy? Your sister, the older one, seems more like the fluff type. Not you.”

  I look away with a scowl. “You don’t know anything about her,” I say. “Besides, taking care of my mom doesn’t leave much time for serious reading.” I don’t defend myself by summarizing To Kill a Mockingbird or reciting lines from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. “There’s a collection of poems.”

  “Does it have a title?”

  We stand in the same spot, on the packed sand where, when the tide comes in, as it is beginning to do now, crabs will emerge. Our presence scares away the pelicans. Seagulls caw overhead. When I look at him, I see he is interested in what I have to say. Genuinely interested. He isn’t mocking me.

  “Leaves of Grass.”

  “See,” he says. “That’s what I meant by real.”

  “Your turn.” I don’t look away from him. With anyone else, I would have. Except for Adrienne and Marie.

  His face changes when he smiles, truly smiles, even if it’s fleeting. Without hesitation, Caleb says, “On the Road. Kerouac. His poems are amazing too. I’ll read you some while we’re roomies.”

  Never heard of him. I walk past Caleb and brush his hand with mine. An almost accident. “Come on, let’s keep going.”

  It takes him a minute to catch up. I remind myself to slow down, that he is sick. His confidence makes me forget. I listen to our feet slap the sand, which fills the spaces between my toes. It doesn’t take much for the ocean to claim you. I don’t want to turn around and head back to the clinic. I don’t regret coming with him, but I learned from Mom that each word is a risk. It takes a certain amount of courage to converse, especially when one of the primary topics of conversation is terminal illness. I tell him about Whitman’s poems, Dad’s asshole boss, and about Mom. That is enough for now, unless he is the courageous one. As we walk, I glance over my shoulder, looking at the clinic, now small in the distance.

  “To answer your original question, I don’t think I have a grade anymore. If I hadn’t gotten sick, I’d be starting my senior year. But I missed most of last year, so I guess I’m back to being a junior. If I go back. Nothing freaks people out like sitting next to the walking dead in calculus. They acted like I was contagious.”

  “Your friends?”

  “Not really. Well, some of them. Mostly the people I saw every day but didn’t really know. And my friends couldn’t handle it, especially when my hair started falling out. They tried for a while, but things got weird. They couldn’t just hang out with me and talk. You know, like how we’re talking now. It was like I had to pretend that I wasn’t sick to make them feel okay. Then I got too sick to hang out with anyone.”

  “Same with us.”

  “How come your Mom still has her hair?” he asks.

  I stop. “What do you mean?”

  “After chemo.”

  “She didn’t do chemo,” I say. “We came straight here.”

  He frowns and runs a hand over his patchy crew cut, confused, but doesn’t respond.

  As the sun drops from its heights, we wander until we spot a cluster of fishermen huddled over the day’s catch, and Caleb says he’s getting hungry. He looks pale except for big red blotches spreading across his skin like a rash. Sweat runs down his face, and I realize he probably won’t tell me when he needs to take a break. I look at Caleb and then at the group of fishermen. His breathing changes, his exhalations grow louder. I touch his arm and he grabs my hand. There is no way he’ll be able to walk back.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say.

  As soon as I let go of him, he drops to the sand.

  I rush over to the men and in my limited Spanish ask them if they have some water and if they’d drive us back to the hospital. One man, the oldest, sprints to his truck. Another man lifts a bottle of soda from the sand and hands it to me. It’s warm, but I run to Caleb and instruct him to drink it. While he drains the bottle, I try to act calm, talking with the fishermen as they pack up their catch of crab and snapper. My stomach turns at the smell. I’m too scared for Caleb’s health and whatever punishment awaits me at the clinic. Mom won’t approve of my walking a dying boy closer to death.

  “Hey, these guys are going to drive us back, okay? Do you want me to help you up? Their truck is right over there.” I point to the road.

  Caleb nods and reaches for my hand. His palm is hot and sweaty and I try to pull him to his feet, but my hand slides from his and I teeter backward. The man who gave me the Coke and another fisherman walk over and lift Caleb from the ground.

  We ride in the back with the rods and bait. Caleb leans against the side of the truck with his eyes closed. I inch toward him, my clothes catching on the tackle. I hear my shorts rip, and my skin burns where hooks dig deep into my legs. It’s a quick drive, and when we pull up to the clinic, Caleb’s doctor runs out and helps him out of the truck. Guadalupe rushes over to Caleb and checks his pulse. Satisfied, she scolds me first in Spanish and then again in English for not telling anyone where we went. I disappeared with a patient and she was frantic. Our mothers, she says, are furious.

  I look past her as Caleb disappears through the door.

  Guadalupe scoops my chin in her palm.

  I shake free. “He’ll be fine. Maybe he just needs some water.”

  “Mija, you’ve got to be careful with the sick ones. They’re not like you.”

  I hang my head as she rushes back inside. I sit on the stairs to inspect my legs, which are covered in sand and torn by tackle and reek of dead fish. Trickles of blood run down my skin, escaping from the many scratches and punctures. At first, I cry for my cuts and shredded clothes, and then for Caleb. I sit until the sun disappears and the Mexican sky brings out its enormous mantle of stars. I’m not sure how long I’m outside before he offers me a plate of tamales. He looks better, just plain lymphoma sick.

  “I never should’ve let you walk like that. I wasn’t thinking of how sick you are. I mean, you’re dying. Sorry, I guess I’m not supposed to say that.”

  His skin is pink in some places and a horrible white in others. I keep looking at the unevenness of his color to remind me that he is ill, like Lupe said.

  He sits down and hands me a fork. “I just got dehydrated, and you should know that I’m not dying.”

  “I’m sorry I said that. Really.”

  He coughs into his hand and, just like Mom, makes this terrible hacking sound. “I’m not dying. Really.”

  “Then why are you here? You’re sick. Obviously.”

  “This isn’t a last-ditch thing for me. My mom just wants to cover all of the bases. She’s not satisfied with remission. She wants me cured.”

  “You’re in remission?” I stare into his eyes, startled by how beautiful they are, green and as big as teacups.

  “They think so. I just need to finish this course of treatment. I risked my mom’s wrath to bring you those tamales, so you’d better eat them.”

  “You ate already?”

  “Soup and a saline drip.”

  I look away and raise a bite to my mouth. He is the first person besides my sisters and
the nurses who truly understands. I don’t have to explain a thing. Maybe it’s because of my healthy white blood cell count and lack of parental supervision, but this boy seems different. Or maybe it’s me who is different. I can talk to him. I can break the rules. I can be a little bit like Adrienne. I sneak a glance at his profile, and for the first time, I feel with my body instead of my brain. I take another bite even though I know the rumbling inside my middle isn’t coming from my stomach.

  I practically jump when he taps my arm.

  “Thanks for being my tour guide.”

  Four

  At the clinic, we come and go as we please. Unless Mom is sleeping, we’re permitted to visit, sitting by her side as the Laetrile drips into her veins. We scavenge the kitchen. We sunbathe in the courtyard. I’d broken the rules by walking on the beach, but overall, rules are few and far between. We are captive to Mom’s leukemia, quarantined in Mexico, but we have the freedom to pass the time as we please.

  I never venture to the pediatric floor, avoiding children hooked up to needles and fluids. The morning after our walk, though, I wake wanting to see Caleb. Maybe it’s guilt. I need to see that he’s well. I want to prove Lupe wrong—that he isn’t like the other sick kids. He actually has a chance to survive.

  As soon as I climb the stairs to Caleb’s floor, a stout nurse, far older than Lupe, shoos me away. I wait an hour and try again, but there she is, darting in and out of rooms. I wonder which is his.

  Adrienne sees right through me. She doesn’t believe my made-up excuses to go inside: that I’m checking on Mom or using the bathroom or wanting a snack immediately after breakfast. After my second failed attempt to check on Caleb, I walk into the courtyard to her smirk.

  “Love at first sight?” she says.

  Adrienne laughs when I tell her to shut up. Marie sits with a book in a shaded corner, hiding from the sun, which rose with furious intensity. I want to escape the heat and the nurses. I want to feel like I felt yesterday, when Caleb stood still and had his eyes on nothing but me.

  “Are you just going to stand there?” Adrienne asks, squinting at me. She’s immune to the fireball in the sky. Adrienne’s skin radiates pink for an hour, then turns to honey. She’s Alectrona, the Greek sun goddess. Adrienne raises her arms, as if she’s summoning solar powers. She makes a simple stretch look divine.

  I plop down on an empty chaise. My mind flashes to yesterday, to the beach, to welcoming the waves on my feet. To Caleb. Yes, I want to make sure he’s feeling better and that I didn’t somehow end his remission with our prison break to the beach. But I also want to walk next to him.

  I’m in orchestra—not band. The piano requires the most space, a true centerpiece. I like it that way. I’ve never understood the giddiness of band, of marching alongside someone, playing the same melodies. With the piano, I don’t need anyone else—the music is mine, the orchestra a mere accompaniment. Yesterday, though, I started to understand the appeal of being in unison.

  “Don’t be such a coward,” Adrienne says. “Just go up and act like you know what you’re doing. Walk like you belong there and no one will stop you. It works all the time at school.”

  “I don’t even know what room he’s in,” I say.

  She raises her eyebrow at me. “You can figure it out. Go now, because you’re driving me nuts just moping here.”

  “I’m not moping.” I sound petulant, which doesn’t help my case.

  I’m on the receiving end of her dramatic eye roll. She picks up her magazine. A dismissal.

  “Fine,” I huff.

  I reach the pediatric floor in time to see the nurse disappear into a room. I peek through the open doors. A redheaded boy, a little older than Marie, dozes. An older girl sits on her bed, with slumped shoulders. She glances up and meets my eyes. I’ve never seen her before. The girl could be an apparition with her pale skin and dark hair, such startling contrast in color. She looks like she’s never been outside, never seen the sun. I freeze midstep. It feels wrong to leave her here. I should go into her room and ask her name. She turns away before I find the courage to do so.

  “You slumming?” Caleb asks.

  He must have been watching me and the girl from his room across the hall. A smile fills his face, and I know that’s what I woke up wanting: to see him smile again. To be on the receiving end.

  He sits up, and I’m overcome with the urge to touch his face, to put my finger on the cleft in his chin. I sit a safe distance away and tuck my hands into the pockets of my jeans. Suddenly, I don’t trust myself. My boldness is a surprise.

  “How did you sleep?” I ask.

  He smiles at me again and I dig my hands deeper into my pockets.

  “You snuck up here to see how I slept?”

  I nod, smiling back at him. He’s contagious in all the right ways. “I guess so.”

  “I slept, but mostly I’m bored shitless. I want to take another walk.”

  “I know,” I say. “I’d love to go to the beach again.”

  He shakes his head. “The beach would be nice, but I meant I want to take another walk with you.”

  I’m brazen and chickenshit at the same time. I want to join him on the hospital bed and closely examine the freckles on the backs of his hands. I’d like to feel his skin on mine in the same way I can’t resist warming my palm over a candle’s flame. I don’t feel like myself, yet I’ve never felt more like myself.

  Who the hell is this boy?

  “Me too,” I say. I look him squarely in the eye and allow myself to be seen.

  Yesterday, I thought he would be a nuisance, nothing but one more thing to manage. A burden. Now, I wonder about the color of his pajamas and if he sleeps with his shirt on or off.

  Adrienne is going to give me endless grief.

  He leans into the cushions, and then all I can think of is Mom. The same bed and the same pillows. My eyes search for an IV, but Caleb is tube-free. A relief. I focus on his face and try to see him—not his illness.

  I hear footsteps, heavy and purposeful, most definitely belonging to the nurse.

  I stand before she walks into the room. “I have to go, Caleb.”

  He leans forward. “Hey, promise me we’ll take a lot of walks when we’re roomies.”

  “I promise,” I say.

  She enters with a scowl. Before she can speak, I slip out of the room.

  Caleb’s mom has a commanding presence, warm and authoritative at the same time. Her cropped hair emphasizes her deep green eyes and cheekbones as prominent as cliffs over the sea. She wears a long skirt and peasant blouse, which look incongruous, like Roman columns on a modern building. It’s easy to picture her as a military general, a sea captain, someone taking charge in perilous situations.

  Barb fills my arms with a box of clothes. Our house seems to shrink considerably as the Dunnes move in. We haul in books, dishes, towels, and toiletries. An entire crate of vitamins.

  I guide Caleb to my room. He looks around, and I’m suddenly shy of my lavender quilt and “Hang in There” kitten poster. However, I’m proud of Adrienne’s hand-me-down copies of junior English novels: The Great Gatsby, A Separate Peace, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, The Crucible, and My Antonia. Nothing fluffy. I returned Leaves of Grass to the library when school ended for the summer.

  He places his skateboard wheels-up on my bed and sits down while everyone carries boxes into the house. With Caleb its occupant, my room becomes foreign territory. Barb stands outside the front door, inspecting contents and directing. When we finish unloading their massive Suburban, I pick up a stack of Caleb’s T-shirts and place them in the dresser. I’m not being polite; I want to see his things rest in my drawers, hang in my closet. I haven’t felt this possessive since I had dolls.

  I reach into his suitcase and pull out his shorts and jeans, sloppily folded. I smooth them out and fold them again, aligning the hems. Caleb concentrates on a box and tosses a clear produce bag onto the floor. I spot his toothbrush and want to run my fingertip along
the bristles simply because it’s been inside his mouth. The toothpaste pushes against the bag, poking a hole through it. I finish folding the stack of clothes and fill the rest of the drawer.

  In her room, Adrienne blares “You Sexy Thing” by Hot Chocolate, just one song in a series of taunts: “Boogie Fever,” “(Shake, Shake, Shake) Shake Your Booty,” and “That’s the Way (I Like It),” which she sings as she dances down the hall. My punishment for falling for one of the sickies.

  I glance at the now-empty suitcase and zip it closed. Caleb places a stack of books on the bedside table, obscuring the view of my alarm clock. I scan the titles: a token math textbook among books about the Beat Generation, poetry by Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Allen Ginsberg. He throws his pillow onto the bed and kicks the box aside, the hollow cardboard buckling with emptiness.

  I don’t know what to say. All of my real thoughts are inappropriate. Since leaving him at the clinic, I’ve spent my time remembering the brief moments when his skin touched mine. After our beach excursion, I kept sneaking into the pediatric wing, where we talked in his room until the stout nurse evicted me. He read bits of Kerouac poems, lines about Buddha and meditation and jazz—all things I never considered, and honestly, that bore me a little. I tried to listen but ended up concentrating on inconspicuous parts of his body, parts likely overlooked by anyone else: the curve of his big toe, the rough skin of his elbow, the mole beneath his left earlobe. A scavenger hunt.

  “Here,” he says, cradling a shoebox. “I wanted to show you these.” He sits on the floor, cross-legged. Our knees bump, but he doesn’t move away. He spills the contents onto the carpet—dozens of slides and a few photos. I pick up a slide and raise it to the light. A miniature Caleb smiles back at me with a wide grin. He must have been nine or ten, around Marie’s age. Healthy looking, almost frenetic, like he’d been doing jumping jacks. He stands on a porch bundled in a hat, scarf, and mittens.