Short Bus Hero (7 page)

Wendell’s mom, Elise, who works as a secretary at the church, said they were welcome to use the church parking lot, if they could do it on Saturday. And Donald’s dad, Dave, who works at Wal-Mart, said he could get supplies using his employee discount. It was November, but they’d been having unseasonably warm weather, so everyone agreed to have a car wash fundraiser the following weekend. Jason was congratulated by everyone in attendance.

Then the car wash happened.

They washed forty-two cars, which, by all accounts, was a very good turnout. Everyone’s noses were sunburned and they were exhausted. Washing cars was a lot more work than they had expected. But, it was an honest day’s work, and they are thankful for the community’s support.

But, at ten dollars per car, they only made four-hundred and twenty dollars.

They need half-a-million.

Parents and children alike shed discouraged tears as their dream melts before their eyes.

Lois is not worried, though.

She has me whispering to her to keep her going.

They need to think bigger, I tell her.

Of course, I’m a little tired of telling humans to think big, since they almost always fail at whatever it is they try to do, but, what the hell, I like this Ally kid.

Someone’s gotta renew my faith, you know?

6. Trypanophobia
/ trī-pănˈ-ə-fōˈ-bē-ə /
fear of needles or injections

“A
lly,”
Dr. Stone taps her knee with his pen. She pulls the foam-covered bud from her ear, disconnecting herself from the warbling David Archuleta on her iPod, and looks up. “Say, would you mind having a seat out in the waiting room while I talk to your mom for a minute?” Ally had always been wary of Dr. Stone. Even though his evil nurse was the syringe-wielding maniac, there was something suspicious about the doctor himself. He reminded Ally a little bit of Santa Claus. White hair, prodigious girth, and wire-rimmed ovoid spectacles. She knew Santa wasn’t real, of course. Dr. Stone reminded her more of the foul-smelling perverts who had played Santa up at the Century III Mall when she was little.

But, you know, what if the guy really was Santa Claus? That good and real Norman Rockwell Santa Claus. And what if Santa was her very own family doctor? What an awesome secret that would be! After every appointment, she’d remind herself not to mention her suspicion to anyone, on the off-chance that Christmas would stop coming if word got around. That would be tragic, not just for her, but for the whole world. And, with the holiday being only a few weeks away, she resolved to be extra tight-lipped. Not that she was much in the mood for celebrating, but she’d keep quiet, so the children of the world would still get their gifts.

Humans and their silly traditions. Santa Claus. Come on, people. Lying to your children like that. You should be ashamed.

Anyway, after Ally left the room, Dr. Stone, who may or may not be the “real” Santa Claus, turns to Lois, raises his bushy white eyebrows, and gives her a wistful smile. It makes Lois nervous. The toe of her Payless loafer taps against the gray-streaked linoleum. “You don’t think this is about just being sad because of the wrestling thing, do you? You don’t think she’s just depressed.”

Dr. Stone sighs and looks at his little laptop computer, the corners of his mouth and eyes turned downward. He’d seen this type of behavior in mentally challenged patients before. It was never “just” depression.

“How old is Ally this year?” He squints at the small computer screen through his spectacles. “Twenty-four?”

Lois nods in time with her foot.

Dr. Stone blows out a sigh. “It could be depression, but it could be something more, as well. Something as vague as what we call ‘reduced function’ in a patient with Down syndrome—not wanting to go to work, not wanting to participate in favorite activities can indicate a lot of things.” He looks like he’s waiting for Lois to respond. When she doesn’t, he continues. “A lot of my patients with Down syndrome start developing symptoms of dementia as they get older. Granted, Ally is fairly young, but there is still a real concern, even at that age. While it’s rare, and I hate to even think of it, it’s not completely unheard of for someone her age to start experiencing the very first symptoms of Alzheimer’s.”

And there it was. The bad news she’d been dreading since Ally was born. They’d been lucky for twenty-four years. Ally had been blessed with a healthy heart and, narrow ear canals aside, had been spared the health issues common to those with her condition. Lois’s foot stops tapping as a swirl of images flies around inside her head, memories and projections: changing Ally’s diapers as a baby, changing Ally’s diapers as an adult. Ally talking to her Barbies, Ally talking to no one at all; seizures, staring into space, Lois shaking a non-responsive Ally. She swallows a sour lump of nothing and looks up to the ceiling in automatic prayer.

I wanted to whisper to her, to tell her that it isn’t Alzheimer’s, but, alas, I am unauthorized to make any such statements. So, I watch silently from the corner behind the doctor, bored by the human drama, but somehow feeling a little sad for Lois.

The prospect of my own empathy returning surprises me.

Huh.

Dr. Stone reaches forward and covers Lois’s shaking hand with his own.

“Alzheimer’s is a diagnosis of exclusion, okay? Do you know what that means?”

Lois shakes her head. She doesn’t think she knows what anything means right now. She stares at the white wires of hair curling out of the doctor’s right ear.

“Let’s run some tests on Ally. Blood work, an MRI, and see if everything there is normal, no intracranial lesions or atrophy—”

“You mean like a brain tumor?” Panic lights Lois’s eyes and snaps her to attention. Spinning red lights and emergency sirens fill the space of her head. The examination room spins around her.

“Well, among other things. Lois, the chances of something like that are extremely slight, and I don’t want you to worry.” He snorts as though her reaction somehow amuses him. “But, I know you will; you’re a mom, and mom’s worry. But, please, try not to. There is nothing to worry about yet, okay? We’ll take care of Ally.” He pulls out his prescription pad and scratches on it with a “Nasonex” emblazoned pen. “For the time being, I want to give her an SSRI, an anti-depressant, to see if that helps. If it does, she’s golden and I don’t think we have much to worry about, but I still want to run those tests, okay?”

Memories of her own mother’s long battle with depression come rushing into Lois’s mind. Instead of going to Girl Scout meetings or cheerleading practice after school with her friends, Lois had walked home and tended to her bedridden mother. Mental illness runs in families, she thinks, looking at Santa’s ear hair. She neglects to think about the hoarded piles of little pieces of life that fill her home, or the compulsion that drives her to build those caches. She hopes her daughter isn’t crazy.

Lois nods and looks at the floor. Telling her not to worry is like telling a race car driver to take the bus.

“It’s probably depression, okay? Let’s just make sure that’s all it is.” Dr. Stone takes Lois’s hand and helps her to her feet. “They’ll schedule the tests and call you. I’ll try to get her in sometime this week. It’s a little crazy with the holidays coming up, but I’ll see if I can work some magic over at the hospital.” His eye twinkles as he tips her a wink, and, for a fraction of a second, his Santaesque similitude reveals itself to Lois. “We’ll see if we can’t get you some good news for Christmas.”

She sighs, flashes a wan smile, and turns to go.

“Um, Lois,” the doctor says, handing her Ally’s prescription. Lois looks into his face. He looks a little more worried than he did a second ago. “There is one more thing about the pills. It’s very, very, highly unlikely, and I don’t want to worry you even more, but . . .”

And he gives her the standard suicidal ideation disclaimer that no one ever pays attention to. It’s the medical equivalent of that warning label they put on beer bottle labels. It goes something like, “antidepressants have been linked to an increase in suicidal thoughts and behavior in some patients, especially children and young adults.”

Lois doesn’t think much of it. Call it carelessness.

***

“Okay, here we go. I’m going to put you in, okay?” the radiographer says to Ally, through the mic. “Then you’re going to hear some noises, like, clicks and stuff, but don’t be scared, nothing’s going to hurt, nothing’s even going to touch you. Then, it’ll be about ten minutes, okay? Easy. Just close your eyes and listen to the music.”

Ally sighs. “Okay.”

The radiographer grins at Lois and punches a button. Machinery engages and Ally’s head penetrates the doughnut hole.

That’s when the screaming begins.

They finally call Dr. Stone, who authorizes ten milligrams of diazepam so they can complete the test. Ally and Lois spend the entire day at the hospital for a twenty-minute procedure.

When Ally refuses to go to Friday night karaoke, Lois arranges for a movie night at the Forman home instead. Ally even balks at that suggestion, but Lois insists. She needs to keep Ally in the fold. So, the kids watch a couple of DVDs in the basement while the moms hold down the kitchen table.

“What did you tell her boss?” Trish asks Lois, pouring herself a glass of wine from the Gallo box hanging precariously off the crowded kitchen counter. Someday, she’s going to help Lois clean this place up.

Everyone looks at Lois, wanting to hear her answer.

“Well, I told him that she’s going through a rough time right now and asked if he could give her a couple of weeks off.” She brushes a stray gray lock of hair out of her eyes and sips her chardonnay.

“What did he say? Did he fire her?” Sylvia is well enough to journey out of her own house again. She isn’t supposed to be drinking wine, but, half a glass? Come on, who is that going to hurt? Mixing it with her pain medication will make her throw up later, but she thinks, it’s fun being a little tipsy, here, in Lois’s chaotic kitchen.

“No,” Lois says, “he was very understanding, actually. He’s a good guy, said she can come back any time, just let him know when she’s ready.” Lois took a long sip from her wine glass. “Now, I just wish we’d hear something from the doctor.”

Barbara puts a hand on Lois’s shoulder. “God, I know, all this waiting must be so hard for you. It’s hard for all of us.”

“We said a prayer for you the other morning at bible study, when you were at the hospital,” Trish says, adding another hand to her shoulder.

“Thank you for that,” Lois says, smiling. “You know, we’re all worried about dying and leaving them alone, but…” She exhales. Tears well in her eyes. “It hit me the other day…what if it was the other way around?” She wipes her dripping nose on a tissue. “What would we do without them?” She looks at each of their faces, in turn. No one has a legitimate answer. None they can speak, anyway.

They all gather around Lois for a group hug. The women breathe predictable sentiments of: “No, that won’t happen,” and “Oh, Lois, don’t even worry about that.” But, deep down, Lois’s tearful question ignites a spark, illuminating a shadowy specter that had been born in every single one of them the day they discovered their children’s plight. She sees the horror in their hollow faces.

Days pass, as Lois makes half-hearted wooden Christmas preparations, while Ally chokes down her pills and neglects her personal hygiene.

The whole family worries.

Surprisingly, I worry, too.

Every time Lois drags Ally to the grocery store or wins the hair-washing victory, some unseen devil blindsides her, telling her to enjoy these mundane pains-in-the-neck while they’re still available. Ally could be taken from her at any time. It’s a hard fact of life. Lois takes to drinking in the afternoons in an effort to quell the monstrous reminders.

She starts a new collection: empty liquor bottles.

She hides them under her bed. With the shirt box full of used Kleenex. She hopes Earl never finds the bottles. He doesn’t mind her having an occasional drink, but if he knew she was becoming a secret drunk, she’s sure he’d have something to say about it.

Lois sits in her cramped kitchen, at the round oak table piled high with crap, the refrigerator at her elbow, mixing a Jim Beam and Coke. She’s avoided Jim Beam ever since throwing up a copious amount of it as a teenager riding the Jack Rabbit at Kennywood. But, it’s the only booze she could find in the house, and now she’s developed a taste for it.

With Earl napping in the family room, Kevin out at band practice, and Ally up in her room, she thinks now might be a good time for some self-medicating. Her glass is half-empty when the phone rings, making her jump.

Dr. Stone. At last, Ally’s test results.

Nausea blossoms in the pit of Lois’s stomach. She knew she shouldn’t have messed with that Jim Beam.

“Lois, I’m looking at Ally’s MRI right now, and, I’ve got to tell you…”

Lois holds her breath, closes her eyes, and thinks please, God.

“…I’m not seeing anything abnormal here. Her blood work looks good, too. How’s she doing with the pills? You seeing any change?”

No, there hasn’t been any change.

“Well,” the doctor says, “those things can take up to a month to kick in. Listen, everything is fine, so give the pills a chance to work and I’ll see you in a couple of weeks. If she starts acting strange or anything, call me, okay?” Ally needs to be closely monitored as she begins her treatment for depression. Dementia can sneak up on those with Down syndrome, but Dr. Stone doesn’t think that is the case. Not yet, anyway.

So, her official diagnosis is depression. Certainly real and not good, but it’s the least of all possible evils. “You all have a Merry Christmas, and tell Ally’s she’s still my favorite patient.”

Lois hangs up the phone and closes her eyes. Dodging a bullet sure feels amazing. Especially at Christmas. She skips into the living room and hugs Earl, waking him from his nap in the recliner.

“Good news?” Earl says, pretending that he’d just been “resting his eyes.” Lois hates it when he wastes his afternoons napping, but at least it gave her a chance to have a drink.

“She’s okay. Everything is normal. No brain tumor or cancer or anything.” Lois laughs and shakes Earl’s hands.

“She’s depressed, then?” he asks, suppressing a yawn.

“Yeah, he’s going to keep her on the anti-depressant and see how she does with that. But, that’s much better than getting brain cancer for Christmas.”