Sean Griswold's Head
Read Sean Griswold's Head Online
Authors: Lindsey Leavitt
Lindsey Leavitt
Contents
To Curry,
Every day I love you.
But today, you get a book.
Nothing creates a buzz like an Executive Deluxe day planner. Not that I have much experience with buzzes, especially of the chemical variety, but my brother did double-dose me on NyQuil once when I was eleven. That thirty or so minutes of faint inebriation had nothing on this feeling. Pure, organized bliss.
I hug the planner to my chest and slowly brush the leather. It'll cost me a third of my Christmas money, but this baby has monthly
and
weekly calendars, financial graphs, to-do checklists ⦠and did I mention the sweet, sweet leather?
“I can't believe you are spending that much money on an organizer, Payton.” My best friend, Jac, leans against the store counter. We're at the mall, taking advantage of post-Christmas sales, and I'm itching to prep my organizer for the new year. “You can get an electronic one for like fifty bucks more. And what do you really need to plan, anyway? You're a freshman, not a CEO.”
I smile serenely at my cute, ignorant friend. “I can't use my new highlighting system on a computer screen. And there's something about crossing off a task with a nice ballpoint, you know?”
“No. I really don't. But I love you all the same.”
Of course she doesn't get it. Jac just spent eighty dollars on these ridiculously impractical red boots that will match two outfits, tops. Now, my well thought-out purchase? I'll use it
every day.
“So you probably aren't interested in my highlighting system for our English readings. It's genius, really. Yellow for literary devices, pink for plot points, orange for conflictâ”
“Why orange?”
“Because I look like crap in that color. I'd fight anyone who made me wear it.”
Jac nods. Clothingânow that's something she understands. “Why not save the school stuff until we're actually back
in school
.”
“Midterms are only a few weeks away.”
“So let's enjoy our freedom while we have it.” Jac fingers a green wallet. “I'm actually surprised your parents didn't get you a planner for Christmas. They're usually, like, the best present-givers. Unlike my parents. This is the third Christmas in a row that my dad gave me diamond earrings.”
“Diamonds. Whoa. Daddy McThrifty strikes again.”
“Hey, I was going to regift them to you for your birthday, butâ”
“Okay. Yes. That does suck. In a non-sucking way.”
“You know what I mean.” Jac checks the price tag on the wallet and sticks it back on the shelf. “Your parents know you as, like, an actual person. It's almost weird how functional you all are.”
“True. But my dad got me a book on rocks. I haven't collected rocks since I was ten. TEN. If he had it his way, I would still be four. I bet he slipped antigrowth hormones into my eggnog last week.”
Jac giggles. “You hate eggnog.” Her phone buzzes with a text. She checks it and points toward the counter. “We better hurry, schnookums. My sister's waiting and I want to walk by Cinnabon again and see if Hot Freckle Boy checks me out.”
I hand the cashier my money with a post-holiday coupon and tuck my new planner into my messenger bag. Once we're by the food court, Jac achieves her desired catcall. And yes, I'm positive it's directed at her. I might get an occasional look from guys, but Jac ⦠Jac gets the whistles.
Fifteen minutes later, she leans out the window of her sister's Jeep. “Call me tonight! I need you to tell me what happens in
A Tale of Two Cities
before break ends.”
“You could read it, you know. Or buy the CliffsNotes.”
“Forget Cliff. Payton Notes are much better.”
I laugh. “I bet you wouldn't say that if Cliff was cute.”
“He'd have to be way cute to pull off a name like Cliff.”
I hug her good-bye and race into the house, excited to show off my toy to Mom and Dad. They're always teasing me about my organizational skills, but I know they love my neurotic tendencies. They never have to worry if I'll get my homework done.
“Dad!” I call. “I've taken anal retentive to a whole new level! Mom?” I bounce through the hallway, photos of the family from now back to my great-grandfather's infancy watching me as I go. No one. I peek into the garage. My brother Trent borrowed Mom's minivan because he claims it delivers the ladies. Dad's Acura waits alone in the darkness.
Huh. They were home when I left. Maybe they went on one of their ever-increasing walks along the Schuylkill River. They've been kind of weird lately, out together day and night. Gazing at each other like they do in a bad soap opera during a long good-bye.
Sometimes, I get a little worried that something is seriously up.
I mean, they're always pretty lovesick around each other, but what if it's more? A good soap opera would throw in a murder cover-up or an unplanned love child. Which would be gross, because that means my parents are still capable of ⦠doing the act that produces babies.
I hear murmuring coming from the bathroom, then laughter. My paranoia melts. They're laughing. Just like always. In fact, Mom's probably shaving Dad's head, a biweekly event almost as entertaining as color coordination. I jiggle the doorknob, and since it's unlocked, throw the door open. “Hey, baldy!” I sing. Then stare.
My dad is bent over the toilet seat, pants pulled down just enough that I see the top of his left butt cheek. Mom is standing behind him with a hypodermic needle in her right hand, poised to make a poke. They both startle when I barge in. Mom jerks so the needle grazes Dad's skin. His pants slide lower and I almost see Way Too Much. I slam the door shut.
Not paranoid. Something was up. But I thought “something” was more along the lines of my parents sharing a cute midlife crisis. Not shooting each other up with
drugs
.
“Payton!” Mom yanks the door back open. “Honey! Wait!”
I'm still standing at the door, my mouth hanging lower than my father's pants. He's behind her in a second, fumbling with his zipper. “Sunshine. Let's go to the living room. We need to talk.”
There is talking, but none by me.
The good news: My parents aren't drug addicts.
The awful, horrible, what-the-freak-just-happened-to-my-life news: The needle was filled with medicine. Medicine for my father's multiple sclerosis, aka MS. A disease that, up until about ten minutes ago, I was completely unaware he had.
“We're sorry we didn't tell youâ” Mom starts.
“And we were going to!” Dad says, flopping down next to me on the leather couch. Mom stands behind him, arms folded. “We were justâ”
“âwaiting for the right time. There's still so little we know about it. We wanted to get a clearer idea of where this was going. And now to find out like thisâ”
“âwe wish you hadn'tâ” Dad says.
“âbut since you didâ”
“âwe'll just have to make the bestâ”
“âof an unfortunate situation,” Mom finishes.
Unfortunate situation? Are they
kidding
me? It's a crippling disease. Isn't it? I've always lumped it in there with cerebral palsy and Parkinson's and ⦠a bunch of other diseases I really don't know anything about.
Seriously. Unfortunate situation. Highlight that line yellow for use of a literary device: Crude Understatement.
“Well, I'll just spill it.” Dad sighs when I give no sign of responding, other than finally closing my mouth to relieve my aching jaw. “The numbness in my left hand started last spring when your mom and I went to Cancun. It went away when we came home so ⦠I didn't do anything.” Dad picks at a loose string on his T-shirt. “I forgot about it. Tried to forget about it. But then, during the summer, my hand started tingling again. For weeks. And I kept it to myself, just like I've kept the fact that I've felt ⦠off ⦠tired for years.
“I finally told your mom and got tested and they found these sheath lesionsâthey're kind of like tumorsâon my spine. The doctor sat us down and told us about MS.”
Tingling. Numbness. Tumors.
Mom eases down next to me and smoothes my hair. I flinch.
“I know it all sounds scary, but there're different kinds of MS. Right now, your father will have a relapse, then go into remission, then relapse again. So far they've been spread outâit's still a manageable case. But some people”âMom glances at Dadâ“decline faster. Continually. It can get better, or it could get worse. Nothing is predictable. So this medicine helps. Well, he just started, so we hope ⦠we hope it'll help.”
Summertime. Like six months ago. That's how long they've known. They
knew
. And I had no clue. No clue. How ⦠how
could
they?
“
Mi sol
, there is no way to tell you how sorry we are,” she adds. “We feel horrible. I guess there never really is a right time to hear this. We told your brothers, and then we were going to tell you too. We just hadn't decided ⦠when.”
They told my
brothers
? There's a steady pounding in my ears, and my stomachâno, my gutsâfeel like I've swallowed a kitten and the little fur ball is trying to claw his way out. This is such crap. Parents don't keep things like this ⦠how could they have ⦠and my brothers knew! This somehow makes it even worse. Once again, I feel like I'm just this stupid little girl. They all shared in this knowledge, walking around
knowing
while I just continued on with my regular life. Everything they've said is tainted now. Every day was a lie.
I'm going to explode in a minute. Explode from the pain.
Dad paces. “I know how much you worry about things. Remember the time I sprained my ankle in pickup basketball and you called every orthopedic surgeon in the city? I didn't want you worrying about me until we had a more concrete plan.” Dad stops pacing and kneels down in front of me. “Sunshine, I can't even begin to tell you how sorry I am. I'll fill you in from here on out. Every detail. Things are going to be fine. I promise. All right?”
My mom shifts on the couch. “Is there anything you want to say?”
I leave without answering and lock myself in the bathroom. Dad's medicine is still balanced on the sink. I knock it over.
I promise.
Yellow highlighter againâirony. How could they promise me the truth when my whole family has lied to me for the last six months? Six months I spent believing everything was as perfectly aligned as my highlighting system, not blackened with an unknown illness.
I lean over the toilet bowl and throw up.
Fine.
Fine was my color-coded life before. Things will never be
fine
again.