After Ever After (9780545292788) (5 page)

In phys ed a few days later, it was my time to put Tad to work. Just getting dressed in shorts is a chore for him, but he eventually came out onto the floor. I think a couple of kids noticed that he was prepared, for a change, because there was definitely some whispering as he wheeled his way across the gym.

When we went into the workout room, he asked me, “So what's the plan, Jeff? Do I just jump on the treadmill and start running? Or are we doing calisthenics first? I do a mean jumping jack, except for that part where your feet are supposed to leave the floor. OK, it's more like I'm miming along to ‘Y.M.C.A.,' but still….”

I stopped him. “Listen, the important thing is that we start you off slowly, with low-impact activities. The key is to build your aerobic capacity, while developing the major muscles in your legs, without exerting too much stress on your joints before they can handle it. Oh, and we have to work on your
flexibility. You've probably lost some range of motion.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What?” I said. “You think you're the only one who can use a computer? Plus, I talked to Mrs. Roling.” She used to be our physical therapist at Children's Hospital, and I knew she was constantly preaching to Tad about the importance of forcing himself to walk. “Anyway, let's begin with a few stretches, then get you on the exercise bike.”

We got into position on the canvas mats in the corner, and I tried to get Tad to stretch his hamstrings and quad muscles. Needless to say, he complained. “Dude, this
hurts
! Is it supposed to hurt?”

I gave him my best Dalai Lama smile. “All progress is painful. Now reach for those toes!”

After a little while, Tad declared himself ready for the bike. He looked like he had just swallowed a cockroach, but I guess he thought the bike sounded better than doing more work on the mat. At least until he started pedaling. I had it on the lowest setting, but it had just been so long since he had tried
to do anything major with his legs that he got tired super-fast.

By the end of the first minute, Tad was panting, “Can't you turn this thing down? It's brutal.”

“Dude, if I made it any easier it would just spin in the breeze like a pinwheel. Keep going for one more minute.” Just then, I happened to look up at the big plate-glass window that separated us from the main part of the gym. There were several kids peering in. One of them was Lindsey. Tad looked up and saw, too. He muttered, “Watch this!” Then he started moving his legs faster, and proceeded to pedal a whole extra minute before he leaned forward and hugged his knees until his breathing slowed.

Three minutes of even the lightest possible pedaling was a huge accomplishment for Tad, and I told him so when he finished. “Don't patronize me,” he snarled. “Now it's your turn. Let's get you going with some free weights.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “What do you mean, my turn? It was my turn when you tutored me in math
the other night. That was the deal: You tutor, I train. So why should I —”

He tilted his head toward the big window. “Chicks dig muscles,” he replied. “So get over here, you little doughboy. This won't be so bad. I'll even do it with you.”

That sounded fair, but I knew Tad had massively strong arms from pushing his wheelchair around. Meanwhile, I had twitchy, chubby little sausage arms. I sighed and picked up the lightest pair of dumbbells for curling. They weighed five pounds each. Tad grabbed a fifteen-pound weight in each hand. He counted me through three sets of twelve repetitions, matching me rep for rep, and by the end my muscles were shaking uncontrollably. Sweat was pouring into my eyes. Tad had recovered completely, and looked like he was out for a casual little wheelchair jaunt in the park.

“Are we done yet?” I gasped.

“Sure,” he said. “Except for the push-ups, the sit-ups, the reverse curls, the lat pull-downs….”

I groaned. Tad barked, “Fine, Mister Bird-chest.
Have it your way. You think it's easy for me to work my legs? You think I'm hanging out in this wheelchair because it's some great fashion statement? Go ahead, keep your wussy spaghetti arms. See if I care.” Then he zoomed out of the room.

I didn't understand what I had done wrong, but I felt guilty anyway. I did a set each of push-ups and sit-ups, and staggered to the locker room. I hoped Lindsey hadn't been able to read the numbers on my weights.

 

In English class, Miss Palma told us we would be starting a unit on reading and writing biographies. She told the class that “in order to get us in the biographical frame of mind,” we had two journal assignments for the week:

• Write down, as closely as you can remember, a conversation that you have heard.
  
• Write a letter to a person you admire.
  

I knew exactly what to do for the first one, and I got started before Miss Palma even finished speaking.

The one conversation that has been rolling over and over in my head all summer is the argument my brother, Steven, had with my parents when he told them about his plan to take a break from college and travel around Africa playing hand drums. I'm not proud to admit this, but I heard every single word by eavesdropping. There's a big, square ventilation pipe that goes from the kitchen right through the corner of my closet, and I discovered a long time ago that if you put your ear against the cold gray metal of the pipe, you can hear whatever anyone is saying down there.

The secret pipe has always served me well — I haven't been surprised by a Christmas present since I was seven years old — but on this night I shouldn't have listened. At the peak of the argument, my mom said, “Steven, you're being ridiculous. Don't you know that there are people counting on you?” And Steven went
off
:

“Don't you get it, Mom? That's why I have to leave. I want to find out what it's like to worry about myself for a change. I want to do what I want.”

“You get to do what you want. You chose your own college. You chose your major. In another year, you'll be choosing a career. So what in the world are you talking about?”

“Mom, I chose NYU because Annette was going to Juilliard, and she told me we should be in the same city for college. Plus, I wanted to be close to Jeffrey, just in case he … just in case. And I thought about going to the Berklee College of Music in Boston anyway, but Dad wanted me to minor in accounting so I'd have
something to fall back on
. Right, Dad?”

“Yes, but —”

“So I kind of chose a college. I kind of chose my major. I guess I'll kind of choose a career. But I'm sick of
kind of
having a life. Plus, no matter where I go, it's not like anybody ever leaves me alone anyway.”

“What are you talking about, Steven?” Dad asked. “We've only visited when you've asked us to, and we —”

Steven cut Dad off with a sigh. “It's not you, Dad. And it's not you, either, Mom. It's just … look, I want to know what it's like to go through one day of my life without getting three text messages from Annette. How am I supposed to figure out my future if I can't even think on my own for one single day? And then there's Jeffrey.”

“Steven …” my father said in his scary-dad warning voice.

“No, listen, Dad. I've always done everything for that kid. Right? When he was in the hospital, I always — well, you know
all that stuff. But he's been past the five-year point since the beginning of my sophomore year, and I'm still, like, his human crutch. He e-mails me every day, Dad. Every day. ‘Steven, what's the answer to this math problem?' ‘Steven, do you think the Beatles are cool?' ‘Steven, what should I wear to a middle school dance?' And he expects me to answer in real time. You know how many nights I've come home tired after a long day of classes and band practice, and then had to e-mail Jeffrey back before I could start my three hours of studying? So many times I've thought about just blowing him off for a day, just until after the big accounting exam or until I finish the huge paper for English or until I just get some freaking sleep. But then I picture him the way he looked the first time he ever came home from the hospital, when he threw up on my shoes. Remember that?”

It was silent downstairs for a while, and I thought really hard about leaving the closet, closing the door, climbing into bed, and covering my head with my pillow so I'd have no chance of hearing any more. But I stayed.

Dad broke the silence. “Steven, we all remember that. But it was a long time ago, and … listen, why don't you just take the semester off and stay around here? Don't roll your eyes, son, I'm serious. I could get you a job at the firm, and you could get
an apartment in town. You could earn some money, get a head start on paying back your school loans. We could promise to leave you alone, and Annette … well, she would be in New York, wouldn't she? So you could live your life for a while.”

“No, I couldn't. Being in town is the worst. Every single person who ever sees me says, ‘Hi, Steven. How's your little brother feeling?' Or ‘Hi, Steven. How's Annette? Have you popped the question yet?' Nobody ever says, ‘Hi, Steven. How are you doing?' I just want to be in a place where people look at me and see me without all this baggage around my neck. Is that so terrible?”

Mom said, “No, it's not so terrible. But … Africa? That's so far away.”

“That's the point. No computer. No cell phone. Just me and the drums.”

Mom's voice broke then. “Steven, I understand why you're upset. We should have understood it a long time ago, I guess. But I don't know whether I can
handle
this. You, out of touch, in
Africa
? You were the child we never had to worry about.”

“Well,” Steven said, “maybe you should
start
worrying.”

My family has always been big on the italics.

 

The letter assignment was even easier. I banged it out in one sitting a few days later.