St. Clair (Gives Light Series) (19 page)

when Rafael, Aubrey, and Stuart came running

down the dirt road and into the parking lot. The

three of them looked around; and when they

spotted us, they hurried over.

"The men are furious! The pump stopped

working!" Aubrey said.

"Yup," Holly said, and pointed at the broken glass.

"Wachikatu puningkun," Immaculata said with a

puzzling salute. She bent down to sweep up the

glass with her floral pink jacket.

"Those goddamn morons," Rafael said, fury on his

face. "What, are they so stupid they don't know

what a sinkhole looks like?"

"Possibly,"

Stuart

said.

"We

actually

overestimated their intelligence."

"Shocking," Holly said without conviction.

"This is terrific news!" Aubrey said earnestly.

"But we'd better hurry out of here before those men

come and find us."

I scooped the spark plug off the ground and tucked

it into my pocket. I'd found myself a new best

friend.

The seven of us walked back to school together.

Aubrey kept up a steady stream of conversation,

eager, excited, perplexed. Stuart was silent,

preferring not to socialize unless the reservation

was in peril. Annie linked her arm with mine.

"What happens if they come back with a new

motor?" she asked. Truthfully, I didn't know. I

guessed we could try breaking their motors again

and again; but that sounded tiring.

We walked into the schoolhouse and found Mr.

Red Clay standing at the lectern, his expression

unreadable.

"So," he said.

I sat down. I guess I thought I could pretend I'd

been there all along.

"Would anyone care to tell me why I walked into

an empty classroom this morning?"

"It's Saturday?" Aubrey attempted.

The resultant look on Mr. Red Clay's face made

the whole day worthwhile.

It's kind of strange that winter is such a pretty time

of year. When you think about it, it's the season of

death. Trees are dying. The sun is dying. Birds

flock together to fly away from all that death.

But when the frosty crocuses and the silver ferns

are poking out of the ground, when the sunlight is

weak and white like watery snow, it's hard to think

of winter as anything but magic.

The two month break from school helps, too.

I walked down the staircase one afternoon and

found Dad and Racine playing dice by the unlit

fireplace. Racine had a cute Santa Claus hat on

her head.

"Skylar!" Jessica said.

I gave her a hug. She giggled, tossing her braids at

me.

"I'm gonna live here," Jessica said. "Mommy's

looking at houses."

I threw a sly grin Dad's way. Sheepishly, Dad

pretended not to notice.

"It's not like I have any friends in middle school,

anyway," DeShawn said glumly.

"It's because of that attitude," Racine said. "How

are you going to make friends if you're already

convinced you won't?"

"Mom, I only ever make friends with people's

fists."

"Cubby," Dad said. "Are you feeling alright?"

I scratched my head, not entirely sure what he

meant.

Dad got up and crossed the room. He took my

shoulders and turned me this way and that. I

laughed, because I didn't know what the heck he

was doing.

"You've lost weight," Dad said.

I didn't think there was anything noteworthy about

that. But then Racine stood up, too, and similarly

surveyed me.

"Hey, you're right. And he was already skin and

bones."

Now that was uncalled for.

"Cubby," Dad said, sounding uncertain of himself.

"Are you on a diet?"

I rolled my eyes, forgetting to smile. Unless I'd

turned into a girl within the past month...

"Then what's wrong? Aren't you eating?"

I was ready to nod, but I stopped myself. Now that

I thought about it, I hadn't been swallowing very

well lately.

I ran two fingers over the front of my throat. It was

all Dad needed to follow my train of thought.

"I think I'd better take you to see Aisling," he said.

"Racine, I'm sorry--"

"Don't be sorry. Are you kidding me? We'll come

along for moral support." Racine put her hands on

my shoulders. "I know exactly what you need,"

she told me. "Christmas cookies. Of course, I

can't bake for crap, but we'll pick some up at the

supermarket after your checkup."

I smiled at her, flattered by the sentiment. In some

part of my mind, as shameful as it makes me, I

couldn't help but wonder whether this was what it

felt like to have a mother.

Dad left a note for Granny by the mantelpiece, and

I followed Dad, Racine, and the kids out the door.

It was maybe seventy degrees outside; winter or

not, you won't get much colder than that when you

live a stone's throw away from the desert. Jessica

hopped up and down and DeShawn showed me his

fire ant bites. Racine made DeShawn and Jessica

hold her hands. "Mom," DeShawn groaned. His

protests fell on deaf ears.

Dad led the way through the hospital's sliding

doors. "You again!" said the receptionist, gawking

at me. This was becoming a routine for the two of

us. Dad signed me in and we went and sat in the

waiting room. Granny's good friend Mr. Marsh

was also in the waiting room, his sun hat resting on

his lap. From the looks of it, he had a toothache. I

guess clove oil hadn't helped him any.

"Skylar," DeShawn said. "Do you know what

Marilu told me?"

I stared at him. Marilu? I hadn't realized they

were in correspondence.

"She says in the days before emancipation, Indians

would invite the people who escaped slavery to

hide on their reservations. Rosa Parks was part

Cherokee. I wonder why they don't teach that in

school?"

"Skylar?" The nurse poked his head into the

waiting room. "Dr. Stout's ready for you, hon." I

balked at his familiarity, but got up to follow him

down the hallway. Dad, Racine, and her kids

came after me.

The nurse took my vitals and left the five of us in

the exam room, DeShawn eyeing a cross-sectional

anatomy chart. Dr. Stout walked in and threw her

hands in the air.

"Now what?" she said.

"Sorry, Aisling," Dad said awkwardly. "Cubby's

having trouble swallowing lately. I was

wondering if you could help us."

"Of course I can. I can do anything."

Racine and I exchanged a look.

Dr. Stout pulled on a pair of latex gloves. She

stuck a tongue depressor down my throat--ow--and

peered inside.

"Well, well," she said.

"Yes?" Dad asked.

"The problem must be subpharyngeal. I can't make

it out like this. I need to stick a camera down his

throat."

Oh, jeez, I thought. I looked at Dad, then jerked

my head at the Hargroves. I waved my hand.

Immediately, he knew what I was saying. "I think

this is going to take a while," he said to Racine.

"It's not very fair to keep the kids around. I'm sure

they'll grow restless."

"True enough. You kids wanna go buy Christmas

cookies? DeShawn, get your head out of those

stirrups."

The three of them waved goodbye--I got a kiss

from Jessica--and left the exam room. Dr. Stout

led Dad and me to a small laboratory just off the

X-ray hall.

I have to say that I didn't really like the looks of

that laboratory. The rest of the hospital was a

warm caramel color. This room was austere and

white. Dr. Stout spent a while firing up what

looked like a very sleek computer. She pat her

hand against a paper-covered tabletop a couple of

times. Discomfited, I sat down.

The worst was yet to come. Dr. Stout took an

insidious-looking spray can of something-or-other

out of a side drawer and approached me with it.

"Open wide," she said. I shot Dad an alarmed

look. Dad grasped my shoulder. It was all I

needed to feel safe.

Dr. Stout sprayed the gunk down my throat. I'm not

joking when I say it tasted like metal and vomit.

All at once, my tongue went numb. It was such a

weird feeling that I sat biting it until Dr. Stout

whacked my shoulder.

"Lie down," she said.

I'd never felt so uncomfortable as I felt when I lay

back on that paper-covered table, waiting and

vulnerable. I gazed at the buzzing, fluorescent

lights on the ceiling until my eyes watered.

Something hooked and metallic--like a scythe--

hovered above my face.

"Open wide," Dr. Stout said again.

Dr. Stout stuck the scope down my throat. I didn't

even feel it. Her face obstructed my view,

shadowing me.

It's strange how two completely unrelated events

can look similar when your mind is idle. I

remembered fingers in my mouth, painted nails

scraping the insides of my cheek.

Dr. Stout turned her head to look back at the

computer monitor. I couldn't see what she was

seeing. She turned around suddenly. She looked

down at me like she had never seen me before.

She slid the scope out of my throat and started

pressing my face with her gloved fingers; around

my ears, and beneath my chin. It actually hurt a

little.

"Do you know what the problem is?" Dad asked.

Dr. Stout moved away from me and peeled the

gloves off her hands. I sat up, rubbing the soreness

out of my spine. I looked toward the computer

monitor, but the image had gone blank.

She folded her hands and cracked her fingers. I

had the weird idea that she was trying to figure out

exactly what to say.

"Aisling?"

"Hm?"

"His swallowing...?"

Dr. Stout tossed her latex gloves in the garbage

bin.

"When the vocal cords heal from a traumatic

laceration," Dr. Stout said, "oftentimes the old

wound leaves behind scar tissue."

"Yes," Dad said, and sat next to me on the table.

"One of his prior physicians told me about that.

The scars, I mean."

"Over time," Dr. Stout said, "nodules or polyps

can form on top of the scar tissue. Vocal folds are

especially at risk for polyps because they're

covered in mucus."

I crossed my eyes at the thought. That sounded

gross.

"Is that why he's having trouble swallowing?" Dad

asked. "Is there a medicine for that?"

Dr. Stout rubbed a kink out of her shoulder.

"Aisling?"

"Hm?"

"The polyps?"

Dr. Stout cleared her throat. She rubbed her

forehead with the back of her hand.

"There's always a...certain risk," Dr. Stout said

slowly. "That polyps can become cancerous."

My ears felt muffled, like when you dip your head

underwater. All the volume had turned off inside

my head.

Cancer? That didn't make sense. I started

laughing. That
really
didn't make sense, because I

was as healthy as they come. Except for, you

know, the mute thing.

The mute thing had given me cancer.

No, I thought. That's crazy. That's absolutely

nuts. I wasn't one of those little bald kids you see

on St. Jude commercials. I was--

Cancer? What?

The volume clicked back on inside my head.

Ironically, though, both Dad and Dr. Stout were

dead silent. Dad wasn't sitting anymore. He was

standing on the floor tiles, his whole body very

still.

Suddenly, Dad said:

"He gave my boy cancer?"

I didn't need to be told who "he" was.

"Listen, Paul," Dr. Stout said. "We know about it,

so we can do something about it. But I have to call

an oncologist--we don't have one on the

reservation--"

"What's going to happen to him?"

"I'm not an oncologist," Dr. Stout stressed.

"But you are a doctor. You must have some idea

what will happen to him."

I was still laughing at the idea of it. I couldn't

stop. Dad didn't notice, though. Maybe that's a

good thing.