and sitting next to Mom.
Timothy is always there
with a crease between his eyes
but a smile on his face.
How is Timothy not coming?
It has to be killing him
as much as it’s killing me.
Right?
I feel dizzy.
I realize
he might never come to Cincinnati again.
He’ll be at doctor school
if he passes this stupid test
and then Timothy will be gone
poof
and what will I do?
And that makes me think of Xaviers
which is, duh,
a boarding school
which means I’ll be there alone
not just without Tam
but
without anyone.
I grab the notebook off his desk.
I write:
He writes back:
I take a minute to breathe
because Timothy
can be so dramatic
jeeeeeeeeeez.
He takes the pen:
I slam
the door
because I do understand
but
I don’t have to like it.
I’m still working on your mom,
as far as boxing goes.
Dad and me.
One last visit
before the trip.
Oh
I say.
Well
I wasn’t holding my
breath.
And then we both laugh
because breathing jokes
yeah
so hilarious.
Have a good trip, Sport.
He says this out the window
of his car
so ready
to drop me off.
Sorry I’m not coming along.
He looks at my shoes
when he says those words
and it’s weird because
why would he even say them?
He has never
not once
come to Cincinnati
with us.
Timothy hugs me tight.
You’re going to do so fine.
Better than fine.
It’s what he always says
before I go to the operating room
but now he’s saying it
in his bathrobe
on the front porch.
You’ll like it!
No, really!
Mom, just drive.
Trust me.
The Cat Tornadoes blare,
and it’s weird
hearing them out loud
not jammed in my ears.
The music expands
rolls around us
blows out the windows like a fog
clearing up the day
crisping up the moment
making us sing so hard,
except the sound from our mouths is drowned out.
The music is too loud, too large.
Mom’s mouth has a sideways clench,
her eyes are almost slits
as she drives
as she squints
against
the sun.
I tried handing her sunglasses
she waved them off
I don’t like how they dull the colors,
she said,
and it’s such a beautiful morning.
So she keeps squinting,
fighting against the glare
saying no to the easy answer
and I think
it’s no wonder I’m her son.
We stop a lot
because the road is like a hypnotist
making Mom sleepy
even though I feed
her candy
and Cokes
and jokes.
Timothy usually drives
half the time
and goes too fast
and makes us laugh
and it’s weird
without him here.
I wish I could drive
or think of something to say
to keep her awake.
It’s like a mother and son vacation
Mom says
in the convenience store
with the floor
covered in sticky spilled
something.
We can do fun stuff while we’re there
Mom says.
What about the zoo?
You’re not too old for the zoo, are you?
We walk back to the car
and I think of the animals
I used to love
my heart breaks
because they don’t realize
their home
is a cage.
House arrest
for life.
This old place
I feel like we’ve been here
a hundred times.
Maybe we have.
Dark green carpet
turning light green
where people have walked
from the bathroom
to the bedrooms
to the kitchen
and back.
A hotel
of apartments,
shabby
but fine,
clean but old.
One day
maybe someone will say that about me:
I bet he used to be
really nice.
I bet he used to be
kind of fancy.
Now he’s old
but at least
he’s clean.
I smile,
give a little wave
to the baby
in the elevator.
His eyes droop—
he looks so tired.
His mom does, too.
I point to my neck,
I had a trach like you.
I kneel down
show him my scar.
He has one hand on a bottle,
he’s chewing it, smiling around it.
His other hand touches my scar
then the elevator dings,
our floor.
Mom squeezes the other mom’s hand
as we walk out the door,
so many feelings
in one elevator ride.
I wish we could tell them he’ll be OK
I wish we could be sure.
We always come to the zoo
if it’s 8,846,365 degrees
or if it’s too cold to breathe,
we always come here.
The giraffes are my favorite
and I love the polar bears
and the lions, always sleeping
and the penguins
dancing to their own tunes.
The hospital gives us free tickets.
Sometimes we come before
everything.
Sometimes we come after
everything.
Sometimes I eat a pretzel and
run around.
Sometimes I’m too tired and
get wheeled around.
But we
always
come.
So here we are,
but this time
just me and Mom.
It feels a little empty
and unfamiliar
not having Timothy.
This hospital is part of me.
I’ve been coming here
once
twice
sometimes three times
every year,
forever.
I look out the big windows
so many flags
in a half
circle,
the pickup zone
for when it’s time to go home.
I can see the flags bloom
from the waiting room
wind whipping them big
wind whipping
them small
my heart also whipping
big and small
as I’m called
down the hall.
No I don’t want those socks
to cover my cold toes.
No I don’t need a doll
to see where IVs go.
No I don’t want a TV
to watch baby shows.
I do need Spaceship Blanket, though
and only Mom knows.
Dad was never gonna come
obviously
I did think maybe he’d call
or text
but he hasn’t.
Spaceship Blanket
hidden under my gown
covering my legs,
keeping me safe.
I put a sticker on it,
the one with my name
patient number
birthday
date.
The sticker that’s on everything
you want to get back
after surgery
after recovery
when it’s time to go home.
I know
they’ll find it
hidden under my gown
and when I wake up
it will be by my face
in case
I need it
to calm down.
I’m not so brave
I’m not so old
to not feel happy to see it
when I open my eyes.
They’re ready to wheel me out.
I hear a ding,
my phone
in Mom’s bag.
I reach in
pull it out
Breathin easy?
a text
from Dad.
I smile
I didn’t even know
he knew
we say that.
No text from Timothy.
No call either.
Did he forget the day?
Did he not remember?
Before I open my eyes
I am awake.
My throat hurts bad,
scratched raw
from tubes
and probes.
The room tilts
my stomach flip-flops.
The toughest part of being knocked out?
When you have to wake up.
I try to move my hands
so I can move Spaceship Blanket
in case I barf.
Maybe I moan.
Maybe I’m moving too much.
I feel hands on me
soft voices
Oh look! He’s up.
I try to talk
but my throat is too dry.
Levi.
Levi.
Open your eyes.
I push through the fog
wade through the storm
swim up from the bottom
try to surface, re-form.
And then when I make my eyes
open, I feel them go wide
because on the other side
of the bed is Timothy
holding his journal
where he’s written in big letters:
How?
is the first word I manage to stammer
as Timothy
hands me
blue juice
and a straw.
I take a sip.
My throat comes alive.
How? I say again.
I bought a plane ticket,
just one way.
I couldn’t stand being at home.
Dr. Sawyer smiles.
Waking up, Levi?
I nod.
Look at that oxygen level!
He taps the monitor.
It blinks
99 percent.
That,
he says,
is a thing of beauty.
Just like this.
He holds out two photos,
pink circles, gooey and gross.
This is your airway before
and after.
Just had to get my laser
and zap the scar tissue
here
and
here
and
here.
Now you’re good as new, Levi.
I could roll a bowling ball
through your throat.
Ouch, I say.
He laughs.
Everything really does look great.
He takes Mom’s hand.
I know you were worried,
but this was routine.
No big deal.
After those zaps,
Levi has one of the
biggest
clearest
reconstructed airways
I’ve ever seen.
He turns to me now,
his smile taking up his whole face.
You’ve always been such a fighter.
And I hear
you’re fighting still
but this time in the ring?
I nod.
And you’re thinking of going away to school?
I nod again.
Your mom wanted me to tell you:
I don’t see any problem with that.
Either one.
I really don’t.
Just keep in touch
for your regular checkups.
He shakes my hand.
I shake his back.
Thank you for letting me be your doctor, Levi.
And good luck, Timothy.
Good luck, Annie.
All my best to you all.
And now
We can still . . . ?
My heart pounds,
hope bubbles up
catches in my
giant throat.
Visit Xaviers
on the way home?
Yes, Levi.
A promise is a promise.
Mom lays her head on my chest
and I can’t quite tell
if she’s happy
or sad.
And then
we are in a
big
strange
new
Xaviers
world.
Dr. Strong
(for real!
That’s her name!)
shakes my hand
and Mom’s
and Timothy’s, too.
She’s the principal person,
the leader of the school.
What a perfect
superhero name she has.
So supercool.
Thank you for setting up this tour.
Timothy is so polite.
Mom says nothing.
I think in her eyes
I see dollar signs
spinning
like in a cartoon.
A whole classroom with pedals under the desks
for when your body says go
but your teacher says stay.
The desks don’t actually move
but your feet do
they just move and move and move
like they are powering the electricity to your brain
and to your fingers
like you are plugged in
with so much energy
flowing through your wires
that thoughts
fly out
like
Students live on campus,
Dr. Strong says,
for the full effect
of the Academy.
If you live nearby
of course you can go home on weekends
and always holidays
and you can get a pass for special occasions.
Timothy’s hands are in his pockets.
Mom’s eyes are so wide
I think her head
is going to
explode.
Can we see the dorms?
I feel like I am asking to see a king cobra
or a live alligator.
I have never though
t of anything more exotic
than living away from home.
Small room
two beds
two desks
one sink
big window.
Bathroom
down
the
hall.
One whole room
for a stranger and me.
I don’t know what to think.
I can barely imagine . . .
a tiny room as my home?
A roommate I don’t even know?
No Timothy watching over me?
No Mom at all?
One last thing . . .
Dr. Strong
(still her name!!)
pushes open two big doors,
we walk into the gym,
and in the corner . . .
It’s a boxing ring.
My heart sings
as I run over
grab some headgear
grab some gloves
jump in the ring
before anyone can say a thing
and it feels like coming home
as I jab the air
whoosh my breath
dance my dance
until I sweat
until I realize they’re staring
Mom and Timothy
Dr. Strong
and some coach I don’t know.
I drop the gloves
take off the headgear
say
Sorry about that
it’s just . . . been a while
since I was in the ring.
A big smile spreads across the coach’s face.
Dr. Strong nods.
And Mom and Timothy?
Look so surprised that I bet,
I just bet,
I could knock them both out
not with a left hook
but with a sneeze.
I’m not saying I will die
if I don’t go to this school
but probably?
I will die.
Before her front door
even opens
all the way
I say:
Did you do it?
Did you poop in a hole?