Sean Griswold's Head (19 page)

PFE

March 14 7:12
PM

Never mind.

• Sean's the one who makes me feel secure when everything else isn't.

• He introduced me to biking. He GAVE me a bike/valentine.

• He's tried to help me work on things with my dad.

• He knows
Seinfeld
episode numbers!

• He's wonderful and cute and kind and perfect.

I'd be nuts to let that all go.

Nuts.

I wrap my threadbare yellow robe around me. It's past seven, and I have not heard a peep from anyone else. Normally, I would be tickled to have such privacy, but there is an eerie emptiness in the silence enveloping my home. I suddenly want to fill the void with endless chatter. To tease Trent, or maybe even tell my mom about Sean.

I slam my bedroom door shut and stomp down the stairs, waiting for someone to yell at me to cut out the noise. I want Trent or my parents to take one look at me and ask what is wrong and I want to spill it out and let the comfort roll in.

“Anyone home?” I call after all my thumping and stomping has failed to get me noticed. “Trent? Mom?”

I walk by my parents' room and hear a muffled noise coming from the master bath.

“Mom? Where is everyone?”

I poke my head into the bathroom and discover that the “noise” is my mother sobbing into one of the just-for-looks hand towels. Of course this freaks me out. Like I said, she isn't a crier. Even more frightening is the fact that my germaphobe mother is lying down with her cheek pressed to the bathroom tile. She's in her workout clothes, spandex capris and a
GO GREYSTONE WILDCATS!
T-shirt, headphones still in her ears. It takes her a moment to register that I'm in the room, and when she does she still doesn't move.

“Mom? What's going on? Why are you crying?”

She finally pulls herself up and leans her elbow on the toilet seat. “Come give your mommy a hug, honey.”

No one, least of all my mother, has referred to her as “mommy” since I was five. I kneel down and she dwarfs me in a hug so stifling, I let out a gasp.

“Mom?” My voice is shrill. “Seriously, you're scaring me.”

She jerks away from me and looks down at the tile. “This floor is disgusting. I can't remember the last time I cleaned it.”

“Look at me!” I yell, and she finally looks me in the eye. She doesn't have to say anything, I already know. “It's Dad right? Is he all right?”

“He's okay … he's … This toilet seat looks diseased.”

“Mom!”

“We aren't going to Florida,” she says dully.

TWENTY-FOUR

The next hour is spent trying to coax my mom out of the bathroom. Once she stops crying, she insists on scrubbing the grout between the tiles, squeegeeing the shower door, and Windexing the mirror. She's about to reorganize the already alphabetized medicine cabinet when I physically force her out of the room and into her bed. She tucks the covers under her chin and lets out a deep sigh.

Her freak-out consumes me up to this point. Once she calms down, I realize I have no idea what happened to my father. It's like when you get an injury playing sports but don't realize how bad it is until after the game. The adrenaline blocks the hurt. That, or the cleaning chemicals just warped my brain. “Mom? What happened?”

She blows her nose into a soggy tissue. “Oh, honey. I'm sorry you just saw that. Your father had another episode. This time he went numb and … blind in his right eye.”

“Blind!”

“Which is most definitely temporary, shouldn't last more than a day or so, but it's the first time he's had this symptom and he couldn't concentrate on his patients. He sat down and when he went to stand up again he … couldn't. Trent left to pick him up from work and take him to the doctor since Dad obviously can't drive. Anyway, the meds he's on don't seem to be helping, so we're thinking about going to a specialist in San Francisco. And spring break won't be happening.”

I exhale. I knew this would happen. I
knew
spring break wasn't going to happen. It was just a lofty daydream. Specialist. It's the second time I've heard the word today. It's so sterile and cold. And yet some random stranger would decide my family's fate. Would decide Sean's fate. “Why'd you freak me out like that? The way you were cleaning that bathroom, you'd think you were getting the house ready for his wake.”

My mom shudders at the word. “Don't talk like that. Your dad will be fine. Just like before.”

“Just like before …,” I say, but leave it at that. Nothing will ever be like it was before. We both know it.

“Hey, I'll be right back.” I retrieve Dad's shirt from my room and slip it on. Mom looks at me funny when I come back.

“Isn't that your dad's shirt? He's been looking for it for weeks.”

“Yeah.” I crawl under the covers and snuggle next to her. “You think he'll care?”

“Are you ever going to give it back?”

“I'll buy him a new one. This one … I need this one for now.”

Mom nods and changes the subject. “Where have you been all afternoon?”

“At home. In my room.”

“I thought you were going over to Sean's house.”

I swallow. “Change of plans.”

“You two get in a fight?”

I shut my eyes and don't answer for a while. It's like I've experienced the three degrees of burns. Finding out about my dad's disease and lie was the first degree and it stung, finding out about Sean's headaches was the next, but now, with my dad relapsing again, I'm on my third degree, the one where the nerves are so scorched there is no sensation.

“
Mi sol
?” She strokes my hair. “Tell me what happened.”

Sometimes, the only thing worse than pain is its absence. By opening up, it's like cutting myself to make sure I still bleed. So I do. I lay it all on the line. No more silent treatment. I tell her about the Focus Exercises, about the field research at the Hall of Terror. I tell her about Jac and the valentines, the real reason I wanted out of counseling. I tell her about the bike rides, the time Sean and I almost kissed, how he said he likes me and how he laughed about the PFEs. I tell her he's perfect.

I don't tell her about his headaches. Or about the struggle I just had in my journal.

My eyes are wet, and so are my mom's and we cry together, nestled under the covers, nestled there until Trent and Dad finally get home. Dad looks like a pirate with a patch over his eye and a black cane at his side. They climb into the bed to share a crowded Chinese feast.

“Hey, that's my shirt,” Dad says.

“I'm borrowing it. Is that cool?”

His good eye crinkles a bit. “Maybe if you wear it, they'll actually win a game.”

My dad looks the same, more tired, but you wouldn't look at him and say—That man looks sick. Except when I see my mom cut up his food for him and I think—That man, my dad,
is
sick.

No one mentions the tears, and no one mentions the spring break that never was.

I wait for Sean at his locker the next morning. He looks like a mythical god today, his blond hair glowing and his smile alight. I want to kiss him so bad, but I don't. I can't. I need to be strong.

“Hey!” He leans against his locker, intoxicating me with his new bike scent. “What's up?”

“Nothing. How was the doctor?”

“They didn't detect any superpowers.” He winks. “No big deal. I'm sure everything is fine. So we still doing
Seinfeld
this afternoon?”

“That's what I wanted to talk to you about.” I look down at my nails. “I don't think it's a good idea.”

“Don't tell me you want to watch
Friends
instead.”

“No, not that.” I try to look back up at Sean, but I can't quite make eye contact. I focus on his forehead instead. “I … actually, I don't think us hanging out …
period
… is a good idea.”

Sean's smile fades. “Why?”

Why. Now there's the question. Because last night my dad came home looking like Bluebeard the pirate and I don't want to see someone I like/love hurting like that ever again. I know if I said that out loud, it would sound completely crazy. I don't think it's the most sane, or even best choice I've ever made, but I thought about it all night.

It just seems stupid to open myself up to the potential for more pain. So maybe he doesn't have a brain tumor, maybe it's just headaches. If there isn't that problem, there will always be another—Jac drama or Focus Exercises or … anything. Anything can come between us and I can't control that. Here, now, THIS I can control.

Now my heart breaks on my own terms.

“Because, because I was using you for my Focus Exercises,” I say, stumbling on the lie. “That's what this was all about. That's why we were even … friends. So I think it's best, you know, if we both just kind of move on.”

“If this is about your focus things, I already told you I'm over it.”

“Yeah, well, I'm not.”

“You're not,” he says.

“No.” I raise my chin. “I can't write about you anymore, and that's why we were hanging out anyway.”

“All right.” Sean runs his hand through his hair. “All right. Is this about something else? I'm really confused.”

“No. It's just … you're just going to get in the way of what I need to do. I need to be alone.”

Sean takes a step closer to me and lowers his voice. “Look, if you need space, I can give you space. Call me the space man. I know things are tough but—”

I don't deserve him. I don't deserve the worried look he's giving me. I really wish he would stop being so wonderful. “Yes. Space.” I try to make my voice flat. “For good though. Forever. Nothing personal.”

“Nothing personal, huh?” Sean asks, his voice catching.

“I'm sorry, but … I'm sorry. That's how I feel.”

I'm reminded of the movies where the main character takes in a wild animal and for whatever reason, has to let it go. They go out to some field, usually at sunset to serve some metaphorical purpose, and lets the animal loose before turning away. The animal doesn't budge so the person starts yelling at the animal, “Go on, boy. Get out of here. We don't want you!” And the animal doesn't understand, thinks it really isn't wanted when really,
really
that couldn't be any further from the truth.

Sean looks away from me. “I think I know why you like
Seinfeld
so much. You're just like Jerry. You have something good with someone and let the tiniest flaw ruin that. I don't know what checks I have against me, what you see wrong with me, but just so you know, everyone has flaws.” He shakes his head, and I die a little inside when he turns away from me. He pauses before looking back and saying, “Everyone, Payton. Even you.”

It's the truest thing he's ever said. Except, he's not flawed—he's so perfect that he manages to end an argument, end a relationship, with a dead-on
Seinfeld
reference. I watch him walk away and lean my head against my locker.

And just like I knew it would, I can feel my heart break again.

TWENTY-FIVE

PFE

March 15: 4:41
PM

Topic: The quest for a new Focus Object

• My bedroom ceiling has that popcorn covering on it that causes asbestos or something but at least hides a bad paint job.

• I wonder if the builders knew how many hours I would spend admiring their ceiling handiwork, creating shapes and images from the swirly designs in the ceiling?

• There's a vampire right above my bed, a bicycle in the far left corner, and I swear the water stain next to the closet is an exact replica of Sean's head.

• Bet that's loaded with hidden meanings. Ms. Callahan would have a field day if she ever read this thing. Maybe her insights would actually help.

• Great, now I'm missing Ms. Callahan. Solitary confinement really does cause insanity.

Breaking up with Sean (well, we weren't together. Cut things off? Unfriended?) makes me realize just how much I hate to be alone. I cry a lot when there is no one to witness it. Being alone makes me think about things … about Sean, which is a topic I need to UN-focus on from now on.

Un-focusing, as it turns out, is harder than focusing. I can't just turn off my brain or my heart. I may have pushed him away physically, but the boy is still haunting me.

So I double my spin class sign-ups. Spin is the best brain emptier. Luckily, I discovered that Trent has a secret crush on Yessica and use this information to con him into driving me to the Y in exchange for an introduction. He makes me practice the conversation we'll have, the conversation that begins, “Oh, there you are, little sis. I was just helping out a senior citizen in need at the pool. And who is your friend—”

Trent's got the punk rock at full ear-destruction mode. He stops at a red light and uses his free hands to wow me with his air guitar skills. I look past him at the shopping complex right next to the gym and see a florist. It reminds me of our biology lesson on pollination, which makes me think of Miss Marietta and boom—an idea. A fuzzy idea, but it seems important for some reason.

“Hey, can we stop at that flower shop real quick? It will only take a second.”

“Sending tulips to your boyfriend? Let me guess the card—‘Our tulips should be one lip.' ”

“He's not my boyfriend,” I snap. “And even if he was, things are over now, so stick to your stupid air guitaring and shut up.”

The light turns green and without saying a word Trent turns left into the shopping center. He parks in front of the florist, turns down the music, and says softly, “Take as long as you need.”

It's 5:50 and the sign on the door says they close at 6:00. No one is behind the counter, so I clang the bell.

“Hello? I know you're about to close but I need—”

A woman so small and skinny she could be Tinker Bell's body double appears from the back room, dressed in a prim periwinkle suit, a tulip pinned in the lapel. She looks like she should be at afternoon tea, not selling carnations in a strip mall. When she speaks, it's with a British accent.

“What can I get you?”

“Flowers.”

“I think we have a few of those lying around.”

I close my eyes and form my words carefully. I hadn't realized why exactly I was here until this point.

“My teacher's dad died.”

The woman, Fern according to her name tag—although that is too cute of a coincidence to be real—clucks her tongue. “Are you looking into a burial wreath?”

“You mean those things with carnations? Heck no.” I scrunch up my nose. “I want something for her. Is that weird? I didn't know her dad, and I've never done this. I mean, never bought flowers for … a situation like this.”

“There are plenty of flower rules. What color and when to send and what size. But the best rule to follow is your instincts. If you want something to comfort her, think of who she is as a person and what kind of flower would give her happiness or peace.”

Miss Marietta as a person? I know maybe three things about her. She likes, or maybe liked, to party. She likes science. Her dad is dead. What flower sums it all up? Exotic flowers seem too wild for her, but traditional roses are too tame. And who came up with condolence flowers anyway? They're a slap in the face. Flowers die. Why give the mourner more to mourn about?

I look around the shop, my attention diverted by a large banana plant in the corner. It reminds me of Miss Marietta's lectures, how her eyes sparkled when she shared the joys of pollination. “We can learn a lot from the plant world,” she'd said. “Survival seems unlikely. The fate of you and your posterity are usually beyond your control. A strong wind. Forgiving soil. A hungry insect. But there's a certain amount of grace, giving yourself up to the hope that things will work out if you, the plant, just produce as many seeds as possible. With enough work, enough effort, one of those seeds will grow.”

“This is going to sound weird, but do you send just regular plants?” I ask. “It seems kind of sad to send something that will die when someone … isn't here anymore. I want to give her something alive.”

“She'd have to take care of it.”

“Yeah. I think that's the point.”

“I have just the thing.” Fern plops a large, worn catalog onto the counter and flips to the back. “There. How's this?”

She points to an exotic-looking tree with sharp crimson flowers and palm tree–like bark. The name has one too many syllables for me to pronounce. Three feet tall, according to the catalog description, and first found on a Polynesian island. Folklore says the blossoms are reincarnated souls looking for peace. “Perfect. Is it expensive?”

“It's not a handful of dandelions. But, like you said, it's perfect.”

“I'll need a card too. And I want to write it myself.”

She leads me over to a rack of cards. I pick one out, wispy clouds with “Deepest Sympathies” on the front, and stare at the vast, white blankness inside. I'm supposed to fill it with words of solace. Somehow, “Sorry about your dad” doesn't seem right. Maybe I should color the whole inside of the card black, because that's how I felt when I found out about my dad, and that's how I'd feel if he … was in the same situation as Miss Marietta's dad.

“When do you want this delivered?” Fern asks.

I have no idea where Miss Marietta lives. Until recently, she was my lush partying bio teacher, not a person with a home and a father. My bright idea is dimming with each step. “You know, I don't even know where it's going exactly.”

“It's a special order, so it won't be ready until Thursday. Why don't you call me and let me know what you want to do then. And that'll give you time to work on the card.”

The store door chimes tinkle as Trent huffs in. “Can you hurry? You don't want to be late for your class.
I
don't want you to be late for your class.”

I hold out my hand. “Give me some money.”

“Whatever, beggar. I'm broke.”

“Yeah right. We both know you make crazy money.”

“It's all in savings.”

“Then give me Dad's just-for-emergencies credit card.”

“You're going to use Dad's own credit card to buy him flowers?”

I scoff. “I'm not buying flowers for Dad.”

“I thought you said you and that boy were off.”

I pat my open palm. “They're for my teacher.”

“Look, sis.” Trent shifts uncomfortably. “I saw this episode on
Dateline
and guys can get in some serious trouble—”

“My
female
teacher whose dad just died. Do I need to deliver his eulogy to you or will you give me the money?”

He grumbles but hands me the credit card. “You better pay Dad back.”

“I will. Just as soon as I get a job.”

He swears under his breath and walks back to the car. Five minutes later I join him, still-blank card in hand, wondering what I could write that would possibly do Miss Marietta any good.

Yessica is in a particularly heinous—or maybe it's good—mood that evening. It's hard to tell because no matter the range of her emotions, she kicks our butts. Tonight, I'm faking the ride, too busy thinking about everything else to care about my intensity level. Around me, the other riders are in a similar mode, going through the motions and praying Yessica won't single them out. Halfway through the ride, Yessica senses the class apathy and turns off the music.

“All right. We're going to take a break. Story time. Go ahead and cruise, you'll know when it's time to go again.”

Too tired to care, we comply.

“I want you to imagine you're in the African wilderness. That's right, an African wilderness. Straight-up
Lion King
here, folks. You're walking down a trail, no,
crawling
down a trail because you're so thirsty. Put that water down, Frank.”

Frank ducks his head and sticks his bottle back in place.

“So. You're thirsty. You see an oasis in the distance, and you know the only way you're going to survive is if you get to it. Okay, start pedaling. Don't go nuts, resistance is low, let's just get it going.”

We pedal, glances passed among strangers. A safari in the middle of spin class. Now it's happened. Yessica has lost it.

“You're almost out of energy, so it's going to take everything you have in your core to make it. You're focused on that oasis. You're not worrying about how you look in your safari wear or how much it hurts to keep going. All that matters is the water.”

I'm getting into it now, less aware of what the other spinners are doing. I like the whole not-thinking thing. Jungles, oasis, whatever … just keep me going.

“Now, Africa isn't the most forgiving place, and as luck would have it, a big old jaguar is behind you now on the path, eyeing your butt as you pump on that bike.”

I look back at my butt. I could feed the whole jungle.

Yessica flips the music back on. “Welcome to the Jungle” by Guns and Roses blares from the speakers. “Now get going! There is water at the oasis. Water and fat antelope that will make that jaguar forget about your scrawny butt. You're biking toward something and away from something but it's the same direction. The same goal. Now, straight sprint until the end of the song. GO! GO! GO!”

Faster and faster my legs turn, except I'm not thinking about the ride or the pain. It's something Yessica said. Biking toward something and away from something and it's the same place. I should be getting something out of it, I know it, but I can't quite grasp how it applies to me. I wish I had someone to explain it better.

The song ends and we all grab our water bottles. Yessica begins the toweling off ritual. You know, I bet Yessica and Ms. Callahan would be great friends. They could sit around and spit self-help garbage out to each other. And they're both big on the focusing thing. Except Yessica's a little more one-dimensional. Her solution to everything is to spin harder. Ms. Callahan, if I were still seeing her, would slow the wheels down. Maybe Ms. Callahan is like the water or jaguar or something. Whatever—the metaphor is played out.