Not the day when I met his brother, Johnny, and Finn got suspended.
Not the day he stopped being my friend.
Not when he transferred out of our school.
Not a few months later when my dad gently informed me that the Major Tom song wasn’t real.
Not in second grade when Em moved to town and became my best friend and we told each other all our secrets.
Not when I got older and realized Finn didn’t forget his lunch money—he just didn’t have any.
Not when Charlie got cancer.
Not when Charlie got better.
Not even years later, when I was learning to drive and heard that song “Space Oddity” for the first time again and remembered Finn, whose eyes were thunderstorms, who believed he could learn to fly.
Eleven
“DR. MCCULLOUGH! LISTEN TO THIS!”
I look up from the Harvard course catalog I was browsing.
Dad turns up the volume.
The music is not my favorite. It’s edgy and off-key, reminding me of when my heart feels like it’s going to jump out of my chest.
“Laurie Anderson. ‘O Superman.’ I didn’t have this one yet,” he says.
Dad is a music fanatic. A lot of the music he likes makes me nervous—it’s experimental, loud and disorganized, wild on its edges. But I love watching him listen, how his whole self seems alert, intrigued, how you can literally see all the stress from his workday melt away.
I put down my Harvard course catalog, making sure to memorize the page number before I do. I’m not a fan of folding down page corners. “Where’d you get it?”
“I picked it up at Shake It Records on my lunch break.”
“In Northside?”
“In Northside,” he says proudly.
I smile, surprised, trying and failing to imagine my dad wandering the tattoo parlors and art galleries of that neighborhood. “How do you know about Shake It Records?”
“Your old dad had a life before you and your brother, you know.” He settles back in the seat, pleased with himself.
“Time to eat,” Mom calls from the kitchen. “And turn it down, Phil.”
“It’s stunning. That’s the sound of someone doing what they love.” Dad sighs wistfully before turning down the music.
I get up and follow him into the kitchen, my mind still caught up on whether or not I should take an extra class at Harvard first semester.
Yesterday, after Em dropped me off, I immediately went upstairs and fell asleep on top of my sheets, the air around me still, my room stuffy. When Mom woke me up for dinner a few hours later, at first I couldn’t remember what day it was, or even where I was, but then, with a sinking feeling, the morning came back—the HealthWheat and Laurel and Dr. Gambier—and claiming continuing nausea, I went right back to sleep as soon as she shut my door.
Fifteen hours later, I woke up.
The heat had broken overnight, and the morning was the perfect amount of warm: no humidity, puffy white clouds, a light breeze making my curtains drift lazily back and forth from the windowsill.
My stomach didn’t hurt.
I’m going to Harvard. I’m going to be a doctor.
Just thinking the words steadied me, and I slid out of bed and stood and stretched, ready to tackle my day. I reassured myself that getting sick the day before was just a hiccup—a product of first-day nerves and a gross old box of HealthWheat. On Tuesday I’d be ready to jump back into my internship.
The first thing I did was write Ruby.
Dear Ruby,
It was nice to meet you yesterday. Thanks for all the nice stuff you said about me. I’d be happy to meet up sometime.
Sincerely,
Parker McCullough
And then I spent the morning digging through my Harvard orientation packet and making lists of what I’d need to get for my dorm room. The afternoon was for starting Toni Morrison’s Song of Solomon, the novel every freshman was reading as part of their First Year Experience, as well as reviewing the course catalog, debating how many classes I could squeeze in beyond the normal course load.
Five feels doable, but maybe I could do six, I think, entering the kitchen right as Dad, clearly still giddy from his new album, sneaks up on Mom and surprises her with a kiss.
She shrieks.
Charlie, already at the table, startles.
We all realize it at the same time: We caught Mom staring at Charlie from behind again.
My mom has always been a daydreamer, content to sit quietly amid their friends while Dad talks about the Reds or music or work. As a kid, I remember finding her more than once in front of the Christmas tree, her eyes lost in a content reverie.
But since Charlie’s last bout of cancer, her daydreaming has turned to uneasy vigilance: carefully watching my brother from where he can’t see her, every muscle in her trembling with the effort of staying still, like she wants to go hug him but she’s worried if she moves she’s going to lose him.
One time when Charlie caught her, he pretended to pick his nose, breaking her trance and earning him a playful swat on the arm. Tonight, though, he just looks back down at his plate.
Mom shakes her head and returns Dad’s kiss.
I sit down next to Charlie, wondering if I should say anything about Erin, but I’m distracted by what we’re having: meat loaf, Charlie’s and my most hated food. When we were kids, every time Mom made meat loaf, he and I would chant, “Meat loaf, beet loaf, I hate meat loaf,” our favorite line from the movie A Christmas Story. Even though we haven’t done it for ages, I sneak a glance his way, wondering if he remembers it, but he’s smashing a piece of American cheese on the mashed potatoes Mom’s just dumped onto his plate.
She joins us, placing her napkin on her lap with a flourish. “So, Charlie, you want to tell them, or should I?”
Even though she doesn’t seem upset, my chest reflexively tightens.
“What’s going on?” Dad asks, his voice clipped.
Charlie won’t meet anyone’s eyes as he mumbles, “Dr. Travis called today.”
“On Saturday?” I ask, my heart thumping.
“Don’t worry—it’s good news,” Mom reassures us.
Charlie shrugs. “She just wanted to let me know my latest test came back good.”
“Better than good,” Mom chimes in. “His white blood cell count is back to a nearly normal level. Dr. Travis said this is one of the quickest recoveries she’s ever seen.”
Dad slams the table delightedly, making me jump, and leans over to pull Charlie into an enormous hug.
Charlie’s limbs are slack, his face unreadable.
“So, does this mean you’re cancer-free?” I ask.
“You saw how ‘cancer-free’ turned out last time. Seven years later and, surprise, it’s back!”
“Now, Charlie,” Mom starts. “You know there are all those studies connecting positive thinking and recovery.”
“It could still come back. It came back once. It can come back again. No positive thinking’s going to help with that,” Charlie snaps.
Mom flinches, and Charlie immediately mumbles, “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. I know it’s a lot to process. I’m really glad you’re starting support group next week.”
Charlie gives an unconvincing nod.
“Well, I think it’s good news,” Dad says, holding up his beer in a toast. “To one of the fastest recoveries Dr. Travis has ever seen.”
“Hear, hear,” Mom says, raising her iced tea.
Charlie and I join, raising our glasses of water, but I can tell by his expression, he’s still in a mood.
“Have you called Coach Franklin to share the news yet?” Dad asks.
Charlie’s face twists in annoyance, but Mom jumps in before he can say anything. “Well, Charlie just found out a few hours ago. But I thought I could give him a call on Tuesday, if that’s okay with you, Charlie?”
“I guess,” Charlie says.
“With a little bit of practice, I bet you could get back into fine pitching form for next season in no time at all,” Dad says, his eyes lighting up. “You’ll be ready for those college scouts this year!”
“Will that work for you, Parker? Not going to sabotage it this time?” Charlie asks under his breath.
I frown.
“Everything okay over there?” Mom asks.
“It’s better than okay. It’s fantastic,” Charlie says, and I roll my eyes.