How Evan Broke His Head and Other Secrets (22 page)

“W
ELL, OKAY, ” DR. Melon says.“Why don’t you come in and we’ll take some blood levels.”

“I’m in Yakima.”

“When will you be back?”

“I don’t know, ” Evan says. “I’m not sure.”

“Well, come in as soon as possible. In the meantime, raise your dose of Tegretol by one pill a day. And no driving.”

“I have to drive.”

“No driving, Evan.”

“I always get an aura, Dr. Melon. I always know when it’s going to happen. I can pull over.”

“And what happens if the next seizure is one that isn’t preceded by an aura?”

“I know I’m safe, ” Evan says.“I know it.”

“Evan, as your doctor and your friend, I am legally and morally compelled to tell you not to drive. That being said, you are an adult, and your decision on whether or not to heed my advice is yours alone. However, I will tell you that I will not sign your license renewal form until you’re seizure-free for six months. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Good. Anything else?”

“I want off my medications.”

Dr. Melon laughs heartily.

“Seriously, ” Evan says.

“You can’t do that, Evan. You know that.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for instance, in addition to all the other medication you take, you’ve been on heavy doses of phenobarbital for twenty years now. If you stop cold turkey, you’ll die. Your body will go into shock. Withdrawal. It’s a horrifically addictive drug. I’m serious when I say it could kill you.”

“So I’ll go off everything else.”

“But the other things are what keep you from being a zombie because you’re on so much phenobarb. You know that.”

“Uppers?” Evan asks.

“Uppers to counteract the downers. The downers to counteract the seizures. The mood enhancers make you feel almost normal. The marijuana takes the edge off. You’re a twentieth-century pharmaceutical cocktail, you know that, Evan. You’re a toxic dump. You’re the true test-tube baby. They made you, they destroyed you, now they’re making you able to deal with your own destruction. You’re Robocop after they drilled his brain out that second time, you know?”

“Who’s this ‘they’?
You’re
my doctor—”

“You know, the second one.
Robocop II.
The one with the psycho kid, where they give the guy open heart surgery while he’s still awake.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. But
you’re
my doctor. You’re the one who’s giving me the drugs.”

“Because you came to me too late. If I only could have had you when you were twelve, right after the accident, Evan. I could have saved you. I could have done things. I would have stopped them from pumping that garbage into you. I could have protected you.”

“But you weren’t there, ” Evan says.

“No, I wasn’t. My great regret.”

“Mine, too.”

“No one was looking after you, Evan. The doctors said, ‘Give him this, ’ your parents said, ‘Okay, ’ and the nurses gave. No one thought of how it might damage you later in life. No one wanted to help you. They just wanted to stop the seizures.”

“But you could have—”

“
I
could have stopped them. I
would
have.”

“You would have stopped the assault to my system.”

“That’s right. I would have stopped the assault. I would have helped your body heal itself. It would have been hard, sure. It would have demanded sacrifices. No more McDonald’s, for instance. But is that such a great sacrifice, considering the condition you’re in now? Is it worth becoming a toxic waste dump, a pharmaceutical depository, just so you can go to a fast food joint and stick more polluted foods into your body, irradiated corn and antibiotic-saturated meats?”

“No.”

“No. But what’s done is done. Ours is not to condemn the past, but to improve upon it. You want to undo it now? You want to get off all your medication? I told you, Evan. You’ve been on this garbage for twenty years. Give me twenty years, and I’ll get you off of it. That’s how long it will take. May those brain butchers burn in hell. You were just a child.”

“I don’t believe you, ” Evan says.“It wouldn’t take twenty years.”

“I suppose not, ” Dr. Melon agrees wistfully. “It might not take
someone
twenty years, but that’s how long it would take me. I’m old, Evan. I’m too entrenched in the Medical Establishment. Oh, I have a leaning toward holism, yes, and if I had found a different path as a young man, I would have traveled it. But you need a true naturopath now, one who has the tools. If you truly want to be free, there are people who can help you. I know people. I can give you names.”

“I have a girlfriend.”

“Ah.”

Ah. Dr. Melon fathoms the depth of Evan’s request now. Behind every action there is a motive. Look for the source. Always look for the source.

“I can give you Viagra, ” he says.“That would help.”

“Viagra?” Evan exclaims.“I want
fewer
drugs, not more.”

“It’s an answer. I don’t like it, either, but it’s an answer. I told you, Evan, as a medical doctor, I have an obligation to inform you of all your options. We could also give you a penile implant. You could pump.”

“Pump?”

“Stiffen it up a bit. You get semi-erect, yes?”

“Yes.”

“So. Also, there are various apparatuses on the market. Sex toys, as it were.”

“What?”

“They make a dildo that straps onto your thigh. It would satisfy your partner, though it wouldn’t really help you . . .”

“Dr. Melon, I don’t—”

“Oral sex is a fine answer. You know, most women don’t climax during penile penetration. The angle is wrong. Mutual masturbation is a wonderful experience. Many fully functioning couples practice this by choice.”

Evan groans. Sex talk with a New Age neurologist. Where else but Seattle?

“Doctor Melon.”

“Yes, Evan?”

“I have to go.”

“Come see me as soon as you get back to Seattle so we can take a look under the hood, Evan. I can give you some names then, if you like.”

“I’ll call you, ” Evan starts to hang up, but then stops.“Doctor?”

“Yes?”

“Could you really have saved me if you had gotten me when I was twelve?”

Dr. Melon considers the question long and hard.

“
Someone
could have saved you, Evan. I might have been that someone. But I suspect I would have been too afraid to try, just as I’m sure your parents were.”

A
COUPLE OF days later and they’re both feeling fine. They’re in a groove and the thick layers of Dean’s resentment and anger have been shed like so many molted skins. Being sick together was good for them. It was the father-son experience they’d never shared before:
Remember that time when we ate that chicken and got so sick we
went to the hospital because we thought we were dying? Ahahahaha.
Little does Dean know it’s all a big lie.

He doesn’t know and Evan’s not going to tell him. Evan’s going to let it ride, because when you’re at the table and the dice are rolling your way, you should never do anything to break the flow.

Dean is out with his buddies for the day, having taken only lunch money with him when he left. Evan is out in the yard, in the baking sun, weeding the garden. He finds it pleasant work. He wears a broad-brimmed hat that he found in the closet. He uses tools with orange plastic handles he found in the garage. He drinks homemade lemonade when he’s thirsty and mops his brow with a kitchen towel when he sweats. He feels the earth under his fingernails. It is moist, crusty on top, but damp underneath. It is dark and rich in color, like coffee grounds. It smells of dirt and decay and nutmeg. There is something alive and crawling in every handful; there is something dead.

A slightly familiar car pulls up to the curb outside Tracy’s house. Evan’s seen the car before, but he doesn’t know where. Out steps a familiar woman. He’s seen her before, too; but, like the car, he doesn’t know where.

She walks toward him, a slight woman wearing sunglasses and a hat rather like the one Evan is wearing. She’s wearing slacks cut from some ultra-artificial fabric that looks much too hot for the day; in contrast, her flowery blouse looks quite cool as it billows in the breeze. She takes off her sunglasses; he recognizes her. She removes her hat; he knows who she is. She speaks:

“Hello, Evan.”

It is the second time Tracy has appeared to him in the form of a ghost. And it is the second time the ghost of Tracy has dissolved into Tracy’s mother.

“Mrs. Smith, ” he says.“What are you doing here?”

“I DON’T KNOW when Dean’s coming home, ” Evan says uncomfortably. Ellen is sitting on Tracy’s couch, drinking Evan’s lemonade. She still hasn’t told him why she’s here.“Did you come for a visit?”

She nods.

“He won’t be home until dinner, probably. Do you want to wait? You drove all this way.”

“Evan, ” she says, “I came to talk to
you
.”

“Oh?”

“Frank has been transferred to Coeur d’Alene.”

Now
this
is something to talk about. Frank has been transferred. If she’s come all this way to tell Evan that, then there must be strings attached.

“I hear it’s beautiful there, ” he says with a smile. He doesn’t add that he also hears it’s infested with ultra-right-wing psychotics. “I’m sure you’ll love it.”

“I’m not going with him.”

Ah. Just as he suspected. So many strings attached it’s a freaking ball of twine two stories high.

“We’ve legally separated, ” Ellen explains. “We’ve filed the papers. We’ll get divorced once we sell our house.”

“And then what will happen?”

“That’s what I came to talk about.”

Of course.

Evan stands up and makes a face at her, but he says nothing. What is there to say?

“I’ve done what you asked, ”Ellen says. She looks to put down her glass, but she can’t seem to do it; there are no coasters on the coffee table and she can’t bring herself to set a sweating glass on a wooden tabletop without a coaster. She resolves to hold it. “I’ve done what you asked. I’m getting divorced from Frank. I love Frank, but you forced me to examine my life and our relationship and think about what
I
really wanted, what was most important for
me
, and what was most important for Dean. It think the answer is simple: I’ll move here and raise Dean. It’s best for everybody involved. It’s closer to Seattle for you to visit whenever you want; you can keep a room for yourself here. Dean can attend his old school, keep his old friends. It will be as close to the way it was before the accident as we can make it. It will be back to normal, almost.”

Yes. That’s true. Back to normal.

What’s only slightly funny is that a week ago Evan was desperate to have Ellen sit before him and tell him she would take Dean off his hands. Now, it makes him queasy.

He and Dean have gotten someplace. They have a history. Evan’s not so sure he wants to give it up. What’s to prevent
him
from moving to Yakima and raising Dean in this house and his old school and all of that? Not much. A flimsy job at a guitar store. Not enough.

“No, ” he says.

She freezes. Then a quick thaw. She sets down the glass in spite of herself and her hands, little birds, flutter to her face.

“Evan, I—”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Smith. But I’m keeping him.”

Jesus Christ, what is he saying? He’s keeping a
kid?
Is he
joking?
Does he understand the implications of what he’s doing? He can unload Dean right now, no worries. What on earth? . . .

“But I left Frank.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Smith.”

“I left him. I’m all alone.”

“I’m sorry.”

“But I did what you asked!”

She tips her face into her hands and holds it while she cries.
“I
did what you asked, ”
she repeats over and over again.

Yes, she did. But things change, things are different. Evan has cleaned up Dean’s vomit. He’s cooked Dean’s meals, washed Dean’s clothes. They’ve spent time in the hospital together. They’ve fallen asleep on the same bed watching TV. They have a history now. A short one, but a powerful one. They are father and son. Evan knows it. He knows it to his very core.

“No, ” he says firmly.“No.”

She looks up at him, her face a mix of shock and despair and anguish.

“What?” she asks. She needs to hear it again, to galvanize herself, somehow wrest herself out of the stupor she’s in.“What?”

“I’m keeping him.”

“But, I—”

“It’s the way it is. I’m his father and he’s my son, and that’s the way it is. I’m sorry. I know this must be hard for you.”

“But, I— But you—
You just met him!
”

“And you haven’t seen him for five years! So?”

“No, no, no. I saw him all the time. We’d meet. We would. Tracy would bring him to Richland and I’d meet them there. We’d eat in a little restaurant. Or we’d pack a lunch and eat in the park, it’s very pretty, you can see the bridge. I saw him all the time. Every week. Every Wednesday unless he had a dentist appointment. Every Wednesday. Every Wednesday.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Smith.”

“No!” she cries. “No! You have no right! You didn’t want him! You wanted her to have an abortion!”

Evan stares at her incredulously.
He didn’t want an abortion!
How many times does he have to say it? First Brad, now Ellen? Everyone pushing his own truth. Well, Evan’s got his truth, too.

“That’s not true!” he yells. “That’s a lie! When she told me she was pregnant, I told her we would get married and raise the baby ourselves. I told her we could do it. But she said no, so I gave her money. She insisted on the abortion and took my money, and then she didn’t do it; and then you stole Dean from me!”

Ellen, shocked, clasps her hands over her mouth.

“Oh my God, ” she says through her palms. “Is that true? Oh my God.”

“Yes, it’s true. And then you went into hiding.”

“We didn’t go into—”

“You stole him away from me.”

“We didn’t steal . . . Tracy said . . .”

“What did she say?” Evan demands.

Ellen stands; her eyes are wide and they search the room distractedly.

“Oh my God, ” she repeats. “This is all a terrible mistake. A terrible mistake.”

“Mrs. Smith—” Evan starts, but he doesn’t say more. Her search has become more frantic. She is desperate to find something. She doesn’t see Evan and doesn’t hear him.

“A terrible mistake, ” she repeats in a hoarse whisper to herself. “Terrible.”

And then she finds it. The door. Her eyes lock on the door and draw her to it; her hand turns the knob. She glances at Evan. “A terrible mistake, ” she says again. And then she leaves.