Going Bovine

Page 25

Help me. Help me. Help me.
“Cameron? What’s the matter? Cameron!” Mom yells. “Jenna—get your father. Frank! Frank!”
Mom falls on top of me with her full weight, but I’m fighting her. I’m not trying to. I just am. Stop. My brain’s screaming the order, but my legs aren’t getting it.
“Cameron?” Mom’s eyes are wide with fear. I want to tell her, warn her, but I can’t make the words. And the fire giants are so close. Feels like I’m melting from their heat. One bends down, cocks its head. Its flickering tongue snakes out and licks along my arm to the shoulder, sending hot shards of stabbing pain through me. It laughs that terrible laugh I heard in the cotton fields. I can’t wake up and I can’t make it stop. And then the only sound I hear is my own terrified screams.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
In Which I Recount the Untold Joys of MRIs and Open-Backed Hospital Gowns
“Okay, Cameron, just hold still for a second.”
I’m lying on the conveyor belt part of an MRI with the feel of cold medical stainless steel against my bare ass. They’ve made me wear this ridiculous, open-backed hospital gown that I swear is made out of tissue paper, and my buns are freezing. They let me keep my socks on, though, like that’s supposed to make me feel better.
This is my third doctor’s visit in four days. I’ve had questions asked, blood taken, reflexes tested, MRIs examined, and one biopsy sent off. I’ve been poked and prodded in places I’d always prided myself on keeping untouched for that one special doctor who gives me a ring and a promise someday. “We just want to rule some things out,” they all say—doctor code for “brain tumor/cancer/meningitis-TV-movie disease of the week.”
The conveyor belt moves me through the metal circle till I’m mostly inside. My body’s shaking, and I don’t know if it’s whatever is wrong with me or just the fact that I’ve been nearly naked for hours on end. The disembodied voice from the MRI control tower reverberates in the cone. “Cameron, we need you to lie perfectly still, okay?”
“Okay,” I answer, but my voice doesn’t go farther than the metal over my head.
The thing starts up, taking snapshots for some doctor’s photo album. Nobody warned me about the sound. Kerchung-kerchung-kerchung, like a giant stapler traveling across my skull. Shit. I can’t wait to get out of this thing. After what seems like ten minutes past forever, a tech comes in, takes the IV out of my arm.
“You’re done,” he says. “You can get dressed.”
I’m sitting on my bed, reading Don Quixote when Dad comes home. He knocks and lets himself in.
“Hey, buddy.” The last time Dad called me buddy I was eight and had the measles.
I look up briefly. “Hey.”
“How’re you feeling?”
“Okay.”
“Yeah?” He asks like he really wants to know.
“Yeah. You know. Okay.”
“Yeah.” He nods and picks up a Great Tremolo LP and pretends to read it. “This guy any good?”
I shrug.
“Your mom told me about the, ah, the doctor’s visit. I swear those guys don’t know their asses from their elbows. Anyway, Stan in my office—you know Stan Olsen?—he gave me the number of a specialist in Dallas. I made an appointment for Tuesday.”
“Okay.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing, Cam. Viruses can mimic all kinds of things. The doc will probably throw us out for wasting his time.” Dad puts the Great Tremolo LP down. He looks at the junk-strewn floor like it’s causing him actual pain but he only clears his throat. “Cameron, what did you see? When the toaster caught on fire? Your mom said something about fire giants.”
“I guess I was just getting sick.”
Dad thinks it over, nods. “Speaking of fire, maybe I’ll build us one tonight. We could toast marshmallows, watch a movie?”
It seems like a bad time to point out that it’s sixty degrees, not exactly cozy fire weather. “Sure.”
“Okay. Well. I’ll, ah, just … chop some wood. Okay, buddy?”
I hear the sliding doors into the backyard open and close. When I peek out my window, Dad’s standing in the yard with his hands on his hips, just looking around like he’s never really seen our backyard before. He picks up the ax, takes a halfhearted swing at a puny log. Then he drops to his knees and closes his eyes for a minute. I’d almost swear he was praying. But my dad’s a scientist. He doesn’t believe in religion. He leaps up and swings the ax down hard on the log, putting his whole body into it again and again till there’s nothing left but a mess of splinters.