The Google box was blank.
I couldn’t type.
My brain was a black hole
pulling every particle of Isa
into it
and forgetting everything else.
Look.
Isa stood behind me, her arm reaching over my shoulder.
She pointed to the screen
but I looked at her arm,
at the freckle just above the inside of her elbow.
It’s a really nice freckle.
Round
but slightly gross.
There’s a hair in the middle.
A really long hair.
You’re not looking.
My eyes traced her arm to get to the screen.
Isa tapped the monitor.
It’s not a touch screen, I said.
I know, dummy.
She smacked the back of my head with her other hand.
LOOK.
I looked.
Dr. Samuel Sawyer
Cincinnati Children’s Hospital
specialty: airway
Accepting new patients
We did it!
We found someone!
But wait.
Cincinnati?
Uuugh.
Might as well be Antarctica.
And of course he’s the only doctor
in the whole freaking country
who does this surgery.
I dropped my head on the desk.
A hand patted my shoulder.
I peeked open my eyes
saw the freckle one more time,
so pretty
so gross.
Nothing is perfect, is it?
Reckless is the word Mom used.
How would I know you were going to José’s house?!
she asked, slamming her hand on the table.
How would I know you wouldn’t be
wandering the streets
getting into trouble
getting picked up again
getting sent to juvie for real?!
How do we know anything?
That’s what I said.
Maybe I should have said
But I found him!
I found the doctor who can save Levi!
But I didn’t.
I didn’t say anything else.
I just stared at the table
while my mind went crazy
saying Cincinnati
Cincinnati
Cincinnati
over and over and over again.
Timothy!
Mom grabbed my arm.
Are you even listening to me?
You have to be responsible now.
You can’t go back to juvie.
You just can’t.
And she started to cry.
WEEK 24
I can’t tell Mom about Cincinnati.
Not until everything is perfect.
This won’t be one of those things,
the things that Timothy screws up.
This won’t be one of those things,
the things that Timothy thinks are helpful
until they aren’t.
This will be the thing.
The thing that makes up for everything.
No, Mrs. B.
I do not think my hopes are too high.
I will make this happen.
No matter what.
Yes, James.
I realize that making something happen
no matter what
is what got me into this mess
in the first place.
For real, though.
You guys.
You have to read these stories.
See these pictures.
Little dudes just like Levi,
who couldn’t breathe
who couldn’t eat right
who are now all grown up
playing baseball
eating tacos
laughing
talking
all because they wouldn’t take no for an answer.
All because when they heard let’s wait and see
they said, I don’t think so, nerds.
All because of Dr. Sawyer
and the surgery he invented.
This really could fix everything.
Cincinnati.
Like Ponce de León looking for the Fountain of Youth.
Like those bible guys looking for the Holy Grail.
Like Lewis and Clark looking for the Pacific.
We need money
supplies
a travel plan
appointments.
I am Levi’s Sacagawea
sitting in the front of the canoe
watching out for monsters
and following a map
that is in my head
and my head only.
Har har.
No, I don’t want a headdress, James.
It was just a metaphor.
Ha! That’s a haiku!
WEEK 25
How many balloon animals equal one plane ticket?
How many bags of popcorn
equal food and hotel and a car?
How many pitches at the dunking booth equal
one fixed trachea?
The crumpled Carnival of Giving flyer.
It’s smoothed out on my desk.
We have to get Levi to Cincinnati.
We have to.
Tortilla, warm
wrapped around a sausage.
Coke, cold
sweating in my hand.
Nose, burning
on fire from the sun.
Throat, scratchy
screaming, yelling, cheering.
That’s what I think of, Mrs. B
when you say to close my eyes,
imagine my favorite place
my safe place.
Darryll K. Royal—Texas Memorial Stadium
September
Football
Hand, firm
shoulder being squeezed.
Heart, pumping
arms raised in victory.
Smile, stretching
Dad looking so happy.
Just like that
my safe place is ruined
because he couldn’t have been happy.
It was just a trick.
I open my eyes and poof, he’s gone.
Another trick.
That’s why I hate this, Mrs. B.
My happy place stinks.
Dear Sir:
To Whom It May Concern,
Hey, you!
Hello there, Dr. Sawyer, Sir,
Hello.
Dear Dr. Sawyer,
I saw on the Internet
that you are a famous doctor
who can fix babies’ tracheas
tracheas that babies have that are not working right.
My brother Levi’s trachea does not work all that great.
It is very tiny.
He has a trach to breathe.
I think you might be able to help him,
but we live in Texas
and you are in Ohio.
Can you still help him?
Please write back soon.
Your friend,
Thanks,
Bye,
You better help!
Sincerely,
Timothy Davidson
You guys really have your hands full
with this one.
Mary says this when she’s suctioning him
and he’s barfing
because she’s suctioning too deep
and now she’ll have to change the ties
(that should be chains)
for the 87,000th time today
and I will help
because I am a nice person
and because Mom isn’t home from work yet
and because I don’t want Levi to get a rash.
But seriously.
This one?
She calls him this one?
His name is Levi, by the way.
That’s what I say when we’re finished.
This one right here. This baby.
His name is Levi.
You should call him that sometime.
I go upstairs after that.
Otherwise Mary will call the agency,
tell them Mom isn’t here,
and that will get us in trouble.
And even though Mary stinks like a triple fart
we still need her.
A nurse every day is a luxury,
or so Mom keeps saying.
It feels more like a curse to me.
The one good thing about hating Mary,
I mean disliking Mary times a million,
is that I get to go to José’s house a lot more.
(Only with Mom’s permission,
and only when José’s mom is there,
and only because the judge said it was OK,
so don’t get all sweaty about it, James.)
Go cool off, Mom says.
So I go cool off.
By playing Halo
and killing aliens.
By seeing Isa doing her homework
and feeling my face turn red.
By eating as many snacks as I can stand
and feeling my belly burst.
Maybe I should send Mom over there one day,
where everyone is yelling and laughing,
and pushing and knocking into stuff.
Where everything is so messy
but so easy,
where she can cool off, too.
A vacation for an hour
in José’s crazy living room.
Wow, you guys did all this?
I don’t mean to sound surprised
but I kind of am.
The turtle has an engine
where the hole used to be.
It has headlights
in its formerly empty eye sockets.
No seats yet
but there are new tires,
and those tires have zero holes.
Yeah, we did all this,
José rolls his eyes, hits my shoulder.
I did all this,
José’s dad rolls his eyes, punches José in the shoulder.
With help! José laughs.
With help, his dad says.
It looks great, I say.
Less like a turtle every day.
They both hit me on the shoulder
and we all laugh.
WEEK 26
Breathless.
I hate to use that word.
You know.
But this is how I actually felt
driving to Mrs. B’s office.
Mom said,
You’re acting really weird.
I said,
No, I’m not!
But my knee was bouncing
my fingers tapping
my eyes watching the
slow slow slow
speedometer.
Then we were there.
I sprinted up the stairs
accidentally banging the door to the office
when I threw it open.
Mrs. B’s eyes grew and grew
along with her smile
when I said,
Hey, Mrs. B!
I saw the tiny shrug
she shared with Mom,
then we were in her office.
I was bouncing on her couch:
So? What did he say?
Just by her face I knew to stop bouncing.
She tucked her hair behind her ears,
she sucked her bottom lip for 1.2 seconds.
No response yet,
she said.
I was breathless again
but this time the opposite way,
the punched-in-the-stomach way.
But! She held up her hand.
It’s only been a week.
He’s very busy.
Take a deep breath, Timothy.
Give him time.
Time is not an easy thing, Mrs. B,
when Levi could use so much help
right this very second and the next second
and the one after that.
I thought the whole point
of me sending that e-mail
from your e-mail address
was to get the doctor to e-mail back
FASTER.
I will find the money to give to Dr. Sawyer.
All the money he needs.
But finding the time to wait for him?
You can’t have bake sales for that.
I already know.
I know.
I know!
Thank you, Mrs. B, for explaining to me how it works.
But I already know.
I read it on the website.
You call.
You make an appointment.
But then what?
It’s the then what that needs the answers.
It’s the then what that worries me.
It’s the then what that’s making me e-mail him.
When I tell Mom the Cincinnati plan
I need answers for ALL of the then whats
plus probably some extra ones, too.
I need so many answers.
José opened the door.
I guess I looked surprised
when I said, Oh, hi. It’s you.
Who did you think it would be?
He laughed.
I swallowed.
Because
um
I thought it would be Isa.
I thought I would tell her that Dr. Sawyer
hadn’t responded.
I thought maybe her long eyelashes
would dip down
and her dark eyes would look up
and she would say,
Oh, man. That stinks, Timothy.
And I would nod.
And maybe she would pat my arm.
My face flushed
and José narrowed his eyes.
then he said,
She’s right here.
GORDITA!
he shouted
making me red-hot mad
and then there she was
and he was gone.
Simpering.
It’s a word I didn’t know.
I thought it meant something to do with food.
But that’s not it.
Simpering is smiling
when you think you’re better than everyone else.
Simpering is looking at your hands,
shrugging,
then smirking and saying words that cut like knives.
It’s amazing how long you have managed,
simpered Mary.
He really does have complex medical needs,
doesn’t he?
simpered Mary.
We all need four hands, don’t we? Just for one baby!
simpered Mary.
I can’t even simper back, because I’m scared.
I’m scared she’s up to something.
I can see it in her eyes.
Those big, stupid cow eyes.
Who are you to tell us what he needs?
I screamed it.
So loud.
So loud.
My throat felt like I’d swallowed sandpaper.
She doesn’t know him.
She doesn’t know anything.
She thinks happy leg means he needs a new diaper.
What does she know?
Zero things.
None of the things.
And she’s always talking in that baby voice.
That fake, awful baby voice.
She thinks he should be moved to a facility.
She thinks he needs more care than we can give him.
I give him ALL my cares!
The only thing I can care about is Levi!
And it’s the same with
Mom.
I know it.
If you could die from caring too much, she would.
A facility?
What does that even mean?
A permanent hospital?
A nursing home, like for old people?
Could she take Levi from us?
Could that happen?
I want to scream.
And then puke.
And then scream some more.
WEEK 27
Just so you know
I’m not speaking to Mom
possibly ever again.
I can’t believe she actually agreed to do this.
I can’t believe we’re going.
I can’t look at her.
I can’t talk to her.
This can’t be happening.
It smells in here
like the hospital
like juvie
like cleaning tables in detention
like the smell is a warning
ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE.
I hope Mom can smell it, too.
I hope Mary chokes on it.
A tour of the facility is not a commitment.
Mom mumbled that sentence
in the car ride home
while Mary suctioned Levi
and I bit the corner of my thumbnail so hard
it bled
red drips of blood.
His head is so fuzzy.
I mean, it hardly counts as hair.
And his eyes are so bright
like there is a power source
inside his head
with extra voltage.
And his smile is so wide
it goes from one side of his face to the other
but not in a creepy way,
not in a Joker way.
And his fingers work so hard
to tell me what he wants
to tell me what he needs.
And his happy leg
goes crazy
just goes bananas
when Baby Signing Adventure comes on TV.
And he signs
more more more.
And he signs
yes yes yes.
And he signs
please please please.
So I turn it up
and I pull him into my lap
and we learn new signs together.
And I swear to you
if anyone tries to take him away
I will risk juvie to keep him out of that place,
that facility.
Mom says:
The state will pay for the facility
if Levi’s doctors say he needs it.
There’s a special program.