TWOH Update

I'd like to point out that the entire manuscript is no longer available for free on this website. However, chapters 1 through 12 are.

I've done this because I'm about to embark on a promotional book tour... Well, a blog book tour, in which I'm posting guest entries on other writers' blogs. The easiest way to follow the tour will be at my Twitter page, www.twitter.com/peterjurich. The tour should be up and running in mid-July.

Also worth noting: When you order a copy of "Typing With One Hand" from the Lulu storefront to your right, the book now comes with a sample chapter from my current project, "Amsterdam" [working title].

Chapter 1

I hope you like this sentence.

At 21-years-old, I decided to try my hand at softball, never picking up so much as a mitt since I was three. I was nervous, but the tall brooding and bald man organizing the game eased my discomfort a little. “Hey, I’m Keith,” he said gruffly, extending a sweaty hand at me. “What’s your name?”

I shook his hand. “Peter,” I said. “How ya doin?”

Keith began sizing me up, trying to figure out what use I might be to his team of young college students. He ignored my question and instead asked his own. “So how long you been playing?”

“Eh, it’s been a few years,” I lied. “Sorry if I’m kind of rusty.”

“That’s OK, man,” he assured me with a hint of smile. “We’re all just playing for fun, right?”

Keith, a thirty-something with a gold stud in his ear, strode away to lay down the bases on the field as I sat with my friends in the bleachers waiting to get started. I was very close with most of the ten or so guys we had playing, so I felt fairly confident and unworried of the embarrassment I’d no doubt face. Once the game started, however, it became clear to me that Keith was not, as he said, playing for fun.

“COULD I HAVE THROWN THAT TO YOU ANY BETTER?” he yelled at me from shortstop when I missed a very easy catch on second base, which allowed the runner on first to advance. “C’MON!”

I let that comment slide and assured the large man that, no, he really could not have thrown it any better, and that it was entirely my fault. But even in the best of my politeness, he still continued to badger me. After I had successfully caught a ball, I hesitated in deciding which base to throw it to. In this instance, Keith loudly asked the entire field, “Would someone teach this kid the rules? C’mon!”

I couldn’t help but wonder if Keith had something to prove by consistently making fun of me in front of my friends. Was he even curious as to why I might not play softball as well as the others? Did he understand that not everybody grows up with a desire, let alone an ability, to play sports?

I wondered if he would understand; if there was a way to explain everything to him. I could tell him that my mother was an awesome softball pitcher back when she was in high school. Foreseeing the same future for me, she enrolled me in tee ball when I was just a toddler and I loved every minute of it, showing an impressive amount of sportsmanship and talent for the game. I could tell him how much fun it was being that carefree, spending Sunday afternoons on a team with matching turquoise shirts, being coached by our fathers while the sun shone brightly overhead. Would he understand?

Of course he’d understand! But what he would not understand is the one morning before kindergarten when I had finished my cereal. As I carried my bowl into the kitchen, my left hand started to shake.

“Mom,” I said curiously. “Look.” Mom and I both stared ominously at my shaking hand -- the hand I would catch tee balls with. Mom assured me that it was nothing and walked me to school, but only because she didn’t want to worry me.

Could Keith have imagined Mom running back home out of breath, scared out of her mind and checking her medical book? There definitely wasn’t enough time between innings to explain this to him, but if he asked, I’d have gladly obliged. After calling my doctor, Mom rushed me down to Children’s Hospital in Detroit where it was discovered that I was having my second stroke, a year after my first.

I wondered if Keith has ever had an MRI; if he’s ever stayed overnight in a hospital; if he’s ever had tubes fed into his body where tubes aren’t supposed to go; if he’s ever had a stroke. It probably would’ve angered the other players if I delayed the game, took Keith to the side and said, “Listen, I know you expect every young man in college to know how to play sports, but hear me out for a minute.”

The doctors at Children’s Hospital had found it a little coincidental that I should have two strokes exactly one year apart from each other. After doing some tests, they discovered that the bleeds in my brain were caused by the growth of not one, but three, very unwelcome brain tumors. “The tumors are located on the frontal lobe, the cerebellum, and deep in the ganglia,” they explained, “Because they reside in the right side of Peter’s brain, they are affecting the left side of his body.” This is because the two cerebral hemispheres that make up the brain are separated by a thick center group of fibers called the corpus callosum, which crosses information over.

Which brings us to the Shaky Left Hand.

Shaky has been with me for as long as I can remember and it’s annoying as hell. Removing the tumors involved the risk of minor brain damage and so, after my third and final brain surgery and a good portion of the year before, I was a vegetable: The left side of my body was completely collapsed, I had no feeling or control, and I was couch-bound. For reasons known only to the doctors, I had to wear an eye patch (which isn’t really as cool as it sounds no matter how much you like pirates.) The only comfort I found in my life was replaying Tiny Toon Adventures: How I Spent My Summer Vacation over and over and over again. Everyday.

Mom was wheeling me down to Oakwood Hospital in Dearborn three days a week for physical and occupational therapy. I eventually got better, but not one-hundred percent. My left leg swung to the side when I walked, and I still had a shaky left hand that, over the years, we appropriately dubbed ‘the Shaky Left Hand.’

Shaky Left Hands will get you in trouble. They will touch things that aren’t yours, spill things that stain, and they shake. People can and will ask questions.

But in the case of Keith the disgruntled softball man, Shaky Left Hands will prevent you from playing sports as a boy, submitting you to humiliation as a young adult.

But Keith would never understand.

Chapter 2

Allow me to give you a brief history lesson.

See, Mom had been planning her divorce ever since her wedding day when Dad got really drunk and mooned all of the friends and family. She didn’t feel that a full view of Donald’s ass was a very appropriate way of saying, “Thanks for coming!”

Later, in an unofficial interview (meaning she did not know she was being interviewed), Mom told me, “You know, Peter, one of my biggest regrets is marrying your father.”

It wasn’t her fault that she married him. It was the end of the seventies, and everybody was doing it. Not only was there pressure from her family, but also she and Dad were both wild socialites who wanted to spend the rest of their lives together looking for the next party.

Then again, marriage changed Mom. It took saying those eternal vows to make her understand that the life ahead would be full of hardship and woe if she didn’t buckle down, go back to school, and find a steady part-time job to support her family-to-be.

And Dad? Well… Marriage changed Mom; that’s still pretty important.

It was the honeymoon that really finalized Mom’s decision for divorce. Mom and Dad spent their honeymoon at Dad’s parents’ house in Florida. It was the most miserable time of her life, she said. To elaborate with an example, she was out in their backyard sunbathing one day when there was an eruption of noise from the house:

“Dad! I said get out of the kitchen while I’m making dinner!”

“It’s my kitchen, you son of a bitch!”

“Al, don’t talk to your son like that!”

“Stay out of this, Linda!”

“Seriously, Ma! Shut the hell up!”

“Don’t tell you’re mother to shut up, you little shit!”

The argument dragged on along with Mom’s regret.

Despite Mom’s unhappiness, all rejoiced the union. My grandmother on my Mom’s side couldn’t have been happier, and Dad’s side of the family celebrated in their own unique way: They drank a lot, had an argument or three, and called it a night. Dad was now content though. Before marriage, he had a wonderful city job and drinking buddies. But then his drinking buddies all went and got wives, so he figured he had to go and get one of those things too.

Still, divorce was always not too far from Mom’s thoughts, and would’ve been a go if not for the realization that, albeit Dad’s very obvious faults, Mom wanted to have a baby very badly, and therefore stuck it out. The next few years were difficult, yes, but who was she to know she’d spend them in the corner of people’s living rooms while her husband wittily entertained the fellow guests. “Yeah, so I fucked the Pollock last night,” he’d say. “Might as well been doin’ the wall!” And would everyone laugh at the charm! The grace! Have another beer, Donald! Goodness Donny, tell another one about your dumb Pollock wife crying in the corner!”

After some time, my parents had my brother, Alex. Mom now had her baby and was ready to leave the man she married.

But there was trouble again when Dr. Stern, who had delivered Alex, had made it his business to tell already stressed-out mothers how many children to have.

“You gotta have two kids,” he persisted.

“Why?” Mom asked.

“‘Why?’ You just gotta!”

“No, Dr. Stern. I’m very sure I don’t want and can't handle a second child.”

Nine months later, I was born. In my first breaths of life, I was named after a Catholic Saint, a Jewish doctor, Dad’s alcoholic buddy and a famous newscaster. In my second motion, I proceeded to sterilize my poor mother; after fifteen long and painful hours in labor with me, she had decided on no more kids and had her tubes tied. She wanted this done immediately, for Dr. Stern might walk in and say, “Only two kids?! Aww c’mon, Cathy!” I was supposed to be Elizabeth Marie, but Mother Nature switched gears on us, and Peter Joseph was deposited into the world.

In my first days, I had jet-black hair and dark skin (much like the chipper Dr. Stern who took offense to any implications to who the real father was). But over time, I developed into a healthy bouncing baby boy with two different-colored eyes.

“Alex was easy to raise!” Mom will tell you today. “All I had to do was tell him to sit in front of the TV and be quiet. If I came back a week later, he’d still be there quiet as can be!” I was a different story: “If I told you to sit down and be quiet, you’d giggle, take off your diaper, run out the front door naked and down the block screaming!”

In retrospect, it sounds like I was fun to raise, but that probably isn't very true. Among plenty of embarrassing incidents, my favorite is one that occurred in the middle of a crowded super market. I was sitting in a grocery cart that Mom was pushing when we passed an Asian family. I pointed to the boy sitting in a cart just like mine and said, “Look, Mom! Chinese kid!”

“What did he say?” the boy’s father asked Mom.

Acknowledging the child’s Sesame Street shirt, Mom very swiftly and smartly replied, “Oh, he likes Big Bird.”

I was an extremely energetic and rowdy kid. Too bad it had to be brain tumors that calmed me down.

Chapter 3

On the nights before going into surgery at Children’s Hospital, Mom would make me sleep on the rough blue couch in her and Dad’s room so we wouldn’t wake up Alex when we left at four in the morning. I hated sleeping on the couch with the way it was cold and uncomfortable and small and I still hate it.

Normally at night, I have dreams. Good dreams too! Sometimes I’m flying, sometimes climbing towers or swimming with dolphins and it’s the best! Not on these nights though. When I’m sleeping on the couch, my head is full of black. There are no dreams. And suddenly, I’d hear an alarm followed by whispers. In those few moments before I was fully awake, I’d imagine waking up on a bright Sunday morning in my own room. The whisper is Mom softly saying it’s time for breakfast. I jump out of my comfortable bed and rush into the kitchen where Dad is making bacon and scrambled eggs and putting it on Alex’s plate. I can pet our golden retriever, Molly, and eat fruit and pancakes until I burp loudly and the whole family laughs. We’re happy.

But that was never the case. The whispers were from Dad complaining about being up at this ungodly hour. Just as I finally got warm and comfortable even on the dumb couch, I could hear Mom coming over to wake me up. Being woken up is the last thing I wanted. Sure, the couch isn’t my bed, but it beats hospital gurneys.

The only thing I can think of that’s more annoying than being woken up for brain surgery is being woken up for school.

* * *

Blessed Spirit Private Catholic Elementary School is where Alex goes, and where I start going, too. I was so used to sleeping in and now Mom wakes me up at seven for first grade. In the morning, Mom dresses me in a white, button-down shirt, a hot and itchy red vest and tie to match. I need special plastic inserts in my black shoes or otherwise, I’ll walk even funnier than I already do. The inserts are hard and they give my feet blisters, but I’m told they make me walk straight. To be honest, I don’t care how I walk -- on my hands if I wanted to -- just so long as my feet don’t have to be in pain anymore.

I also can’t forget my weight. That’s really important.

A few weeks ago, Mom had to buy me a special two-pound weight. It’s soft and gray and wraps tight around my left wrist so that my hand doesn’t fly everywhere. The doctors say that the communication between my brain and my left arm is impaired so there are no neurotransmitters telling it to stay put. Without the weight, my hand raises upward to the ceiling. “Don’t forget your weight,” Mom says. I don’t and I’m off to school in the red vest that itches.

Room 109 is my homeroom. When I go there, there are other kids dressed like me in red, white and black. There are big tables in rows going up and down the class with nametags by each of the four chairs at a table. I find my nametag and sit down next to a kid with dark curly hair. He’s admiring a gold ring on his right hand. It’s worth admiring so I speak up. “I like your ring,” I say to him.

“Thanks!” the boy says. “It has a picture of Jesus on it.”

I don’t know who Jesus is, but he gets brought up all the time at home! Seriously, all I hear about is Jesus, Jesus, Jesus! Alex says, “Jesus opened the gates of heaven,” but I don’t know what heaven is! Mom says, “Jesus was crucified,” and I don’t know what crucified is! Dad says, “Jesus, where the fuck are my damn boots?” and I don’t know who he’s talking to!

I was going to ask the boy who Jesus is, but he says, “I love Jesus with all my heart. He died for my sins and I love him for that.” Then he kisses the picture of Jesus on the gold ring. Blessed Spirit Private Catholic Elementary School doesn’t make sense.

But my questions are soon answered because Mrs. Jones teaches us stuff. Mrs. Jones has short blond hair, and you could fit the world in her smile. She teaches about the Jesus guy and all about religion.

See, a really long time ago, the angel Gabriel told Mary and Joseph that the fruit of their womb will bear the light of Jesus. They said OK and so Jesus was born on Christmas. That’s why we give gifts to one another and Grandma says, “Oh, isn’t this sweater lovely?” Jesus grew up to be a carpenter like Joseph, except Joseph couldn’t do miracles like Jesus. (Miracles are like magic tricks, but you can’t say that aloud in class.) Jesus’s real dad is God in Heaven who sent Jesus to earth to be crucified and die for our sins when the pilot says.

And so Jesus had the Last Supper and died the next day on the cross. When he died, his Holy Spirit opened the gates of Heaven for us.

And that’s why the dark-haired boy kissed his ring.

* * *

Once a month, we walk down the hall in two single-file lines to Mrs. Adamson’s class to say the Rosary. This is the worst part of the month ever. What they do is they march all of the first graders down to one classroom and make us sit Indian-style on carpet pieces for about an hour and a half and listen to Mrs. Adamson do rosary and we have to say about a hundred Hail Marys. We’re given plastic rosaries to follow along with and if we were caught not following, we were told to say five extra Hail Marys when we go home and maybe God will forgive us.

I always get mean looks whenever Mrs. Adamson gets to the part where Peter denied Jesus three times. The other kids glare at me like it’s my fault, but I didn’t deny Jesus! I would never deny Jesus ever! If the soldiers asked me if I knew Him, I’d step right up and say --

“Peter,” Mrs. Jones whispers, “sit still!”

“But I wouldn’t deny Jesus!” I say back. “And now everyone is mad at me and my knees hurt from sitting Indian-style and the inserts hurt my feet and I lost my place in the rosary!”

“Say your Hail Mary!”

Brendan is a big suck-up, and sometimes he cries during the part where Jesus is nailed to the cross. “That’s mean,” he whines when Mrs. Adamson describes how the soldiers whipped him and put on the crown of thorns. He wipes a tear from his eye and everyone kind of giggles at him for being a big baby. Only babies cry.

* * *

To use the bathroom, we gotta wait for the bathroom break, which is when the class goes into two single-file lines of boys and girls down the hallway. We get into two separate lines because boys are not supposed to touch girls. That’s called “inappropriate.” We’re allowed to use the bathroom only five boys at a time and if you want, you can use the drinking fountain for as long as it takes the person behind you to tap on the shoulder three times and say, “1-2-3!” If you’re caught going over the limit, or if Courtney tattles on you, you gotta get back in line, and you can’t use the drinking fountain for the rest of the day.

There are strange things against the wall in the bathrooms too. I’m told they’re toilets but they’re not, because you sit on toilets. But I guess you’re supposed to pee in them. Everyone knows how to use them fine, but I still don’t get it. What if the boy next to you has prying eyes? Or what if your Shaky Left Hand slips and your pants drop and pee goes everywhere and someone sees your privates! Then what?

“Why don’t you use the urinal, Peter?”

“The what?”

“The urinal.”

“What’s that?”

“The toilet on the wall. Use it.”

“No. I don’t want to use the urinal.”

“Idiot.”

“Shut up.”

“You said ‘Shut up!’ I’m telling!”

“No, please don’t!”

Now I gotta go home and say ten Hail Marys because Justin told on me.

* * *

Before school even started, Mom had to go in without me and explain to Mrs. Jones about my problem. She told Mrs. Jones about the brain tumors and the Shaky Left Hand. Mrs. Jones cupped her mouth and told Mom how sorry she was. Ever since then, I have to use a ruler to hold my place when we read in class. I’m told that it helps me read if I line the ruler up under what I’m reading. If I don’t use the ruler, Mrs. Jones tells me to. I’m fine though. I don’t need the ruler.

I especially don’t need her help getting up the stairs. I’m embarrassed when we’re going upstairs to art class or computer class and Mrs. Jones asks me to stand at the front of the line so she can hold my hand. No one knows that I’m fine except me. I don’t need anyone’s help to walk up stupid stairs.

* * *

The art teacher, Mrs. Kochanski, has big red glasses that make her eyes look like dinner plates. She has hair just like Grandma, and she babies me twice as much. “What we’re doing today, class,” she says, “is making fruit baskets. What you’ll need to do is grab construction paper the color of your fruit and trace the fruit with these stencils. Once you cut it out, you’ll paste it on these baskets.” The baskets are made of brown construction paper. This project looks fun! I think to myself. I love art!

“Now, Peter,” Mrs. Kochanski says once I have my construction paper, “your teacher wants me to help you out in art class if you ever need it.”

“OK,” I say. “Thanks, Mrs. Kochanski.”

When I put the banana stencil down on my yellow construction paper and pick up my pencil, Mrs. Kochanski takes it away. “Let me help you, Peter!” she says, and traces it for me. Then she takes the scissors and cuts it out. Then she takes the glue and glues it on the basket. She does this with the apple, the orange, and the grapes. When she’s done doing my project, she says, “Wow, Peter! You’re quite the little artist! Just like your brother, Alex!” and she gives me an S on my report card that I don’t even deserve.

Gym class is no better, which we have on Fridays with Mr. Durham. We can dress in jeans and a t-shirt on gym days, but this doesn’t mean anything to me since I’m not allowed to participate in class. When we all go down to the gym, I usually take my rightful place sitting in the corner, doing homework, watching the other kids play crab soccer, jump-the-shoe, and hockey. If I get up to get a drink of water, I’m asked where I’m going, what I’m doing, John needs to go with me to make sure I come back, and you can’t leave the room, young Mr. Jurich, because you might take a fall when no one is around. Do your homework.

After gym, we have the bathroom break so that we can freshen up for the story Mrs. Jones will read us when we get back to homeroom. The story is my favorite part of the week because all we have to do is sit Indian-style on our carpet pieces and listen. I love it.

“Yes, Peter?” Mrs. Jones stops reading to ask me. “You have a question?”

“No,” I say.

“Then don’t raise your hand, dear,” she says.

‘Don’t raise your hand?’ But I didn’t raise my -- Oh no! Just as sure as God is in Heaven, my left hand is floating in air! I left my weight in the lavatory during the bathroom break!!!! What do I do? Mrs. Jones is well into her story, and everyone is listening very closely. I don’t want to disturb anyone! I can’t hold back anymore. Tears start flowing and I try to wipe them before anyone notices, but I can’t. I don’t want to hang onto my hand anymore to keep it from flying away!

“Peter!” someone whispers behind me. “What’s wrong?” I turn around and see Brendan. Great. Stupid Brendan. He’s the only person I know in the world who gets laughed at more than me, and he doesn’t even have brain tumors or the Shaky Left Hand. But I still wanna tell him. He looks sad for me.

“I lost my weight!” I hiss at his dumb face, wiping tears from my cheek. “I don’t know what to do!” I don’t even know why I’m telling Brendan. He’s such a suck-up and everyone knows that he probably cries more than anyone in the world. He isn’t gonna do anything about my problem. The only thing I can do is feel sorry for myself for being such an idiot and forgetting my weight in the bathroom, all the while holding my left hand on my lap for fear it might float up. If I tell Mrs. Jones, she might be cross and so there’s nothing I can do.

“Yes, Brendan?” Mrs. Jones says as she stops reading again. I look over and I see Brendan raising his freckled little arm high into the air.

“Peter forgot his weight in the bathroom!” Brendan exclaims, and now the whole school knows what’s going on. The entire class turns around to look at me -- my tears are dry, my face is a bright red, eyes puffy and my hand is floating again because I let go.

“Why did you forget your weight, Peter?” Mrs. Jones asks.

“I don’t know! I was washing my hands and I put it -- “

“It’s your responsibility to remember these things, you know.”

“I know, but -- “

“Brendan, will you go with Peter to the lavatory and get his weight back?”

“OK, Mrs. Jones.”

It’s awful. Mrs. Jones is finishing her story while I gotta walk with dumb Brendan down the hallway to the bathroom. Brendan is like six feet tall, and he asks why I have to wear the weight. I tell him about the brain tumors and he says, “That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.” Brendan cares a lot, but I still don’t like him.

We finally get to the lavatory and open the door to get inside. The pale green bricks on the walls make everyone look sick and throw-uppy. That doesn’t matter because, oh my God, there’s my weight being thrown around by sixth graders! They’re wondering what it is, not knowing that it’s a very important piece of my arm! I want to tell Brendan that it’s OK, that the weight isn’t worth our lives. If we say anything to them, they’ll beat us up but good, and it’s the end. Just act cool, Brendan, just chill. We’ll just turn around and walk --

“Excuse me,” Brendan whines.

The sixth graders look up at us. This is it. We’re dead meat.

“That’s his,” Brendan says pointing at me.

The sixth graders look at me. They look really mad. My eyes start to well again and I want to tell them that it’s OK. You guys can have the weight. I don’t mind my hand floating up all the time. The closer to God the better, I always say! In fact, I can’t even feel my whole left arm because of the brain tumors, ha ha ha!

“Oh, this?” the dark-haired sixth grader says. He steps forward, and I step back behind Brendan.

“Yeah,” Brendan says. “Can we have it back, please?”

Brendan doesn’t know that you don’t say ‘please’ to older kids, but the sixth-grader says, “Yeah, sure.” He throws it to Brendan, who hands it to me. I slide it on my hand and we leave.

You played it cool, Brendan. I’m proud of you. I knew we’d get that thing back from those sixth-graders, and you did your part. We’ll make something out of you yet, kid… even if you do cry over silly things like Jesus getting nailed to the cross.

Chapter 4

There’s reasons behind everything.

To get to Children’s Hospital from the parking structure, we had to walk the Yellow Brick Road that was a just a concrete hallway, cold as ever at five in the morning, with yellow bricks painted on the ground. On the walls, there were badly-drawn pictures of Dorothy, the Tin-Man, and the Scarecrow, all trying to make you feel good about being up so early to get IVs shoved in your arm. Kids know what the hidden meaning is though. We’re still gonna hurt.

But it doesn’t stop anyway. When you actually do get in the hospital, they always make you take off your clothes. Every time. And they always give you a thin thin blue gown to put on with shoes to match. Oh, the shoes. The shoes have smiley faces on them. The smiley faces try to tell you that it’s going to be OK, just smile and it’ll all be over, even though you’re cold and naked under the paper gown. We know we’re still gonna hurt.

There are reasons to Dad coming downstairs this morning.

It’s Saturday, best day of the week. Me and Alex get up at seven and play videogames in the basement for as long as we like. After videogames, it’s cartoons, then Legos. Saturday night TV later. The day is looking good.

We hear Dad get up to go to work almost every morning. He usually just heads out the door coughing, but this time he stops on the landing, waits, then we hear his footsteps coming downstairs to the basement. He smells like his job, which is a smell I love. It smells like steel and campfires.

“Hey Dad,” we say.

“Alex,” Dad says a little wimpy, “Ya wanna push the pause button on that thing?” Alex pushes pause and Dad sits on the little stool next to our big chairs. “Do you boys know what a ‘divorce’ is?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“What is it, Peter?” he asks me.

“It’s when two parents separate.”

“Good boy.” Dad is about to cry. We know where this is going. “Kids, me and your mother are getting divorced. I have no where to go, and she’s kicking me out of the house.” Me and Alex don’t really know what to say. Dad kinda just cut us off right in the middle of our game. “Your mother doesn’t want me around you kids anymore. She’s going to try to keep you away from me, but I don’t want that to happen.” He puts his hand on my head and runs it through my hair. “I just don’t know what to do.”

“Maybe you two just weren’t meant for each other,” I suggest. I heard that once in school.

“What?” Dad says angrily. “Who told you that? Where did you hear -- did you mother tell you that?”

“Umm…”

“Ya know, it doesn’t even matter,” he cries. “I might never even get to see you boys ever again. You’re mother hates me so much.”

Dad gets up to leave.

“I love you boys.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

Dad leaves and we continue the game.

* * *

Mom is upset with Dad for telling us about the divorce so soon. She says that she read somewhere about breaking the news to your children gently, “not in a pitiful attempt at getting sympathy.” It’s really not too big of a deal, though. When Dad moves out, it’s like he never left because he was never home anyway. Actually, he just moves in with his mother a few blocks away.

And Grandma Jurich’s house is the ultimate in boring! Everyday after school, because Mom has to work all the time now, Dad picks us up in his truck and we drive to Grandma’s.

Our first time at Grandma Jurich’s house, she introduces us to her blue bird, Anthony. “Anthony,” she says, “this is Alex and Peter.”

Anthony chirps.

“They’re Donald’s boys.”

Anthony chirps again.

“Yes, dear. Their mother is the crazy one.”

After Dad drops us off at Grandma’s, he leaves. No one knows where he goes, but we usually don’t see him until he picks us up from school the next day. The only room we’re allowed in is the back room -- Dad’s room -- where we can watch TV on the fold-up couch Dad sleeps on. The living room is big and comfortable with a TV twice the size of our’s in the back room, but the living room is Grandma’s. All she does is sit in the blue chair all day, drinking martinis and watching her soaps.

Occasionally, she will cook, and it’s terrible. At the dinner table, she tells us, “Mable, Mable, nice and able, keep your elbows off the table.” We hate Grandma Jurich’s house.

Anthony chirps to us at the dinner table.

“Hello, Anthony,” Grandma says.

Anthony chirps again.

“No, sweetie, this is people food.”

Chirp.

“What’s that?”

Chirp, chirp.

“Yes, darling, I know. Donald does pay the crazy mother too much child support, but that’s what happens when your ex-wife lies to her lawyer.

“So how was your day, boys?”

“Fine.”

“Lovely.”

Sometimes, when Dad is around, he asks me and Alex if we wanna go for a ride to the bar. We jump at this since Grandma’s house smells. The bar is cramped and dingy, but it has darts and good cheeseburgers. While we’re at the bar, Dad meets up with his buddies and flicks Alex in the side of the head.

“Ow!” Alex yells.

“Oh, that didn’t hurt!” Dad roars with laughter, crossing his legs and taking a drink. His friends all laugh, but me and Alex just go back to darts. We wait for the waitress to bring our “cheeseboogers” Dad calls them.

On the way home later, Dad says, “Now boys, do me a favor and don’t tell your mother that I took you to a bar today. I mean, let’s just keep it between us men, all right?”

“Sure, Dad.”

“Otherwise, she’ll get all mad and wanna take me to court, and you know how it is with women.” Dad looks at us and laughs. “Nag, nag, nag, nag, nag!” Alex and I laugh too, oh how strict Mom can be on poor Dad kicked out of the house. It really doesn’t make a difference if we don’t tell Mom, though. When we get home, she says we reek of cigarette smoke.

“Where have you been?” she asks.

“The bar.”

“Dad took you to a bar?”

“Yeah, except he told us not to tell you.”

“Hmm.”

Chapter 5

Dad was always really mean to Mom when I was in the hospital. He would tell her that he doesn’t deserve this, that it should be Mom with tumors, not me. He would explode whenever things didn’t go his way, and then come in with a big smile and chocolate milk when they did. He made plans during the surgeries so he wouldn’t have to stay in the waiting room when they were going on. When it was all over and I got better, he told Mom that they made a great team fighting the odds together, but Mom didn’t feel the same way at all.

And that’s why they had to get a divorce.

* * *

Because of the whole divorce thing, Mom has to take a job at a dental office. Mom is also going back to school on the money we inherited from dead people, so she’s busy all the time. Since she’s gotta be at work early in the morning, we have to carpool with the Harrisons from down the street. Mrs. Harrison picks us up in her big blue van and we go to school, but take a different route. We go around the school into a driveway no one else goes into. There’s a gate, and a woman who looks like Dad approaches Mrs. Harrison in the van.

“Umm, we have a handicapped child in the vehicle,” Mrs. Harrison says.

The man-lady opens the gate for us, and Mrs. Harrison gets a parking spot really close to the school, so none of us have to walk that far.

“Have a good day!” she says with a smile, and I wonder which one of Mrs. Harrison’s kids is handicapped.

* * *

Mrs. Sowers is my fat and mean third grade teacher who yells at everything. She has to turn to her side to fit into the classroom door, and when she’s in the class, she checks our desks to make sure they’re all clean. We all know Christopher is in trouble though. He’s the messiest kid in the grade, and when Mrs. Sowers checks his desk, he’s toast.

“What’s this?” she asks, pushing Christopher out of the way with her gigantic belly. “This desk is filthy!”

“Sorry, Mrs. Sowers,” Christopher mumbles.

“Clean this up!” she roars. Christopher sits down in his desk and starts taking things out one at a time. He’s too slow for Mrs. Sowers, so she tells him to get up. He does, and she bounces the desk off of her stomach. The desk crashes to the ground and the books topple out of it. “Now clean that up!” Mrs. Sowers says.

It’s too quiet in the class while we all wait for Christopher to clean up his things, and I can feel the tears coming. The doctors said that my hormones are uneven because of the tumors and the steroids they gave me to balance my system and who knows what that means. I’m about to cry because the class is so quiet, watching Christopher pick up his overturned desk.

“Pete?” Mrs. Sowers says, going from mean to sad. “Pete, what’s wrong?” And oh jeez, she’s coming toward me! First of all, Mrs. Sowers, my name’s not Pete. Second of all, you yell way too much. Third of all, please get your arm off my shoulder, because your boob is smothering me!

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“I’m not feeling good,” I say.

“What’s hurts, sweetie?” She’s so mean and I can’t stand it. Good thing I can lie my way out of anything.

“My stomach,” I cry, rubbing my stomach.

“Oh, the poor thing.”

Mrs. Sowers sends me to the school nurse, but sends John with me to make sure I get there OK. The nurse’s office is way around the other side of the school, so John is really happy to get out of the classroom with me. I feel really bad on the way to the nurse’s office because I’m still crying like a fountain and John looks really worried about me. He asks me if I’m OK, and I have to pretend I’m sick so it’ll look convincing to the nurse. I feel bad because I have to lie to John. I’m a sinner.

“What’s wrong?” the nurse asks at her office. She’s not a real nurse, just someone’s mother. She knows how to use a thermometer and read your temperature. If it’s above average, she’ll send you home. If it’s average, she’ll still send you home. Teachers don’t want to deal with crying kids all day anyway.

“I’m not feeling good,” I tell her.

“What hurts?”

“My stomach.”

She shoves the sharp thermometer in my mouth and practically punches a whole in the bottom of my tongue. She waits a minute and pulls out my record. She writes “stomachache” under my name. Then she picks up the phone and says, “Hi, Cathy Jurich? This is Mrs. Erickson at the Blessed Spirit clinic. Peter’s here with a stomachache, and wants to be taken home… Uh huh… OK… Right… OK. Bye.” When she hangs up, she tells me Mom will be there any minute to pick me up. Then I go home and play video games.

* * *

Even though we’re all kind of unhappy -- Mom with school, me with Mrs. Sowers, Alex with acne -- we all still make time to have fun. On the weeks before Christmas, the three of us ride around in the rich part of town, on top of Ford Field. Only people with real money live up there on the hill above the rest of us. We drive around their neighborhood and point and laugh at the showiness. These houses, big houses on two acres of land, are decorated from head to toe in Christmas lights. Not colorful ones either. There’s nothing but white lights everywhere.

“This is ridiculous!” Mom says with a laugh. “They all had professional designers come! And just to get a picture in the stupid paper!”

The city always holds a yearly contest over who has the best lights at Christmas. Someone in this area always wins. They’re all competing against each other. The lights aren’t enough to win. There are blow-ups Santas that are thirty feet tall and plastic reindeer on the rooftops, just above the light-up nativity scene, where baby Jesus has an ornament of sparkly yellow halo around his head.

We may not have all the money in the world, but at least we don’t decorate our house like these gaudy jerks.

* * *

Christmas is different at Dad’s house this year, probably because it’s really at Grandma Jurich’s house. Instead of doing it on Christmas, we go there on Christmas Eve to open gifts and stuff. Dad got us Super Nintendo. He got a real deal too. He knows a guy, he says. Super Mario came with it, and he also bought us Mario Paint. But that’s all beside the point.

There’s a knock on the door, and Dad opens it. A really tall blond woman with wavy hair and dressed in black slacks and a gray sweater walks in.

“You boys know Anne, right?”

Dad does this all the time. Whenever we meet a friend of his we don’t know he says, “You know so-and-so, right boys?” We don’t know these people, but we gotta pretend we do, because otherwise, we’re being rude.

“Yeah,” we say. “Hi Anne!”

“Hi, boys!” She says happily. She’s really pretty and friendly.

“Of course you boys remember Anne!” Dad bloats. “How couldn’t you? She used to change your diapers for Christ’s sake!”

That’s another one. Anytime Dad introduces us to someone, they all “used to change your diapers.” It’s kind of humiliating, knowing that all of Dad’s friends may have seen me naked and poopy. Seriously, who parades around their children so people can change their diapers?

We show Anne our Super Nintendo and the games and she pretends to be interested. She’s a lot better at it than most adults. She’s actually kind of cool, so we’re not really that mad when we go over Dad’s and she’s there, or we have to visit her. If we go over to Anne’s apartment sometimes, she has a cat we can play with. The cat’s name is Mischa. Dad says “Mischa” is “Michael” in Spanish.

Mischa is just a kitten and he’s usually friendly, but today, he isn’t so friendly. He’s wearing a cone around his neck, and Dad said it’s so he doesn’t bite his stitches. Dad says Mischa just got his balls cut off and he’s in a lot of pain. I ask what it means to get your balls cut off and regret that I do.

After Dad takes us home, I tell Mom about Mischa getting his balls cut off, and Mom says, “Don’t talk that way! That’s disgusting!”

“But that’s what Dad said!”

“You don’t say he got his balls cut off. You say he was neutered.”

“Oh.”

* * *

School is pretty easy because getting out of class is simple. Mrs. Sowers found out about the brain tumors and now justs assumes that I cry because I used to have staples in my head. John and me are walking down to the clinic. When we get there, the nurse asks what’s wrong. I say it’s a sore throat, and she writes “sore throat” next to my “head ache” from two days ago, and the “ear ache” from last week. But when she calls Mom, she’s not home or at work. She leaves a message and sends me down to the main office to wait for her. John says, “I hope you feel better,” and goes back to class.

In the main office, nuns go in and out all the time. They give me big smiles, but I have to pretend I’m sick. When I smile back, I have to wince afterwards like it hurt to smile at them.

“What’s your name, young man?” one nun asks me.

“Peter Jurich.”

“Peter?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh,” she says happily, “I love that name!” with a grin, and then she goes to her office, probably to say rosary. I’m waiting in the main office for about a half hour. I’ve got a good thing going. I could probably do this for the rest of the school year.

“Going home again, I see?” Sister Cecilia says when she walks in from her office to this lobby area. Sister Cecilia is the principal of Blessed Spirit. She is tall with white curly hair. Whenever I see her, she’s always wearing a brown ankle-length skirt and an off-white sweater that makes me think that Sisters aren’t allowed to change clothes. Sister Cecilia doesn’t look old like the other nuns though. She had big plastic glasses with a dark tint, and a smile twice as big.

“Yeah,” I say, smiling back, forgetting I’m supposed to be sick. Then I frowned and said, “I’m not feeling good.”

“Well,” she says, putting her hands on her hips, “you’ve been missing a lot of school lately it seems, huh?”

“I get to school OK. I just can’t make it to the end of the day. I just get… sick.”

With Sister Cecilia, it’s clear to see that my excuse isn’t working anymore. Everyone else figures, ‘Oh, that’s Peter Jurich. He had the brain tumors and he’s a sensitive boy from a divorced family whose stomach upsets easily, along with his ears and his head and his throat. We gotta let him go home at the first sign of weakness.’

But Sister Cecilia just says, “OK. Get up. Let’s take a walk.”

“But I gotta wait for -- “

“You’re mom won’t be here for another hour. Let’s go.”

So me and Sister Cecilia take a walk outside. It’s a pretty nice looking morning. It’s like 9:00 or so, so the sun isn’t all that risen yet. She takes me almost around the entire school.

“So what’s been bothering you lately?” she asks very nicely.

“What do you mean, Sister?” I ask.

“You’ve gone home sick at least once a week for the past month,” she catches on. “You always look fine to me. So what’s really wrong?”

Sister Cecilia has me trapped. She’s just too quick for me, and so I have to tell the truth. I have to tell her about Mrs. Sowers’s yelling and pushing over desks. She’s the meanest teacher in the world and she smells. She makes all the kids cry everyday. I can’t take her anymore. It’s so stressful that all I wanna do is go home some days. I have to tell Sister Cecilia this.

…Maybe next time.

“Well,” I say quietly, “it’s just that I can’t take the yelling anymore.”

“What yelling, dear?” Sister Cecilia asks concerned.

“At home,” I lied. “I can’t stand how Mom and Alex argue everyday. It’s really uncomfortable.”

I don’t know why I made up such a lie to Sister Cecilia. Maybe it’s because Mrs. Sowers has been working for the school for a long time (I saw her waddling down the hall as far back as first grade!), and so it’s her word against mine. Sister Cecilia wouldn’t believe me anyway.

She says that if I ever need to talk to someone, then her office door is always open, but she says that my going home everyday is getting to be too much and how am I catching up on my homework anyway? She wants me to make a “conscious effort” to stay in school the entire day from now on. Fortunately, she doesn’t say anything about having to stay in school today, so I get to go home when Mom gets here.

* * *

The next day, Sister Cecilia calls Mom into her office.

“Mrs. Jurich,” Sister Cecelia says, trying not to judge me and my family. “Peter tells me that the reason he is crying so much at school is because of the way things are at home. He says that there is a lot of yelling.”

“Nooooo,” Mom says. “The reason he’s is leaving school is because it’s Mrs. Sowers who is yelling so much.”

Sister Cecilia was suddenly cross. “Mrs. Jurich! Mrs. Sowers never yells at her students!”

My mom and the principal disagree, and their meeting solves nothing. But now, neither of them really takes my word on anything anymore.

* * *

Birthdays have always been a big deal at Blessed Spirit. On the day of someone’s birthday, he or she comes in with a plate full of treats for the entire class and can pick out one or two best friends to help pass out cupcakes or cookies. And there’s always enough for everyone. And so I’m really happy that I’m friends with Adrian because he picks me to help him pass out the cupcakes. He gives me a tray of fifteen cupcakes and it’s the most exciting thing in the world because without me, half the room doesn’t eat.

The nice thing about passing out cupcakes is that you get to give people the cupcake of your choice. Lauren, the cutest girl in the class, might fall in love with me for giving her the biggest cupcake, while Justin, who told on me two years ago, can take the ugly small cupcake. But there’s a problem.

The ugly cupcake is all the way in the corner of the tray, kind of far out of my reach. I can still get it, but when you’re supporting the tray with your Shaky Left Hand, times get tough.

There are moments in life where everything just sort of feels like a dream; where you think to yourself, I can’t believe this is about to happen. It’s really hard to believe that you just messed up so badly. But before you know it, everyone is quiet and you’re watching, in slow motion, as your left hand with the tray starts to shake a little just when your about to grab the ugly cupcake for Justin who told on you and the tray falls and ten cupcakes splatter all over the floor. It’s a big mess and everyone is staring at you, and half of the class is left without cupcakes while others are wiping frosting off of their face with the happy birthday napkins.

I’m kneeling down, looking at the cupcakes, the mess that Shaky and me have made. The entire class is quiet, and when Mrs. Sowers says, “Oh, Pete,” I lose it. I start crying and balling, hoping to be sent home. Mrs. Sowers helps me up, saying, “There, there, let’s go,” and on our way out of the room, she tells the class to get to work because there’s nothing to see.

There’s a chair out in the hall, and Mrs. Sowers lets me sit down. She’s mean and I hate her, but she kneels down next to me and pats my knee. “Oh, Pete,” she says. “It must be so hard for you. Don’t worry, I understand. Why don’t you sit out here for awhile?” And she gets up to go back to class.

Mrs. Sowers says she understands, but she never could. She has no idea how hard it is to have a disability that everyone you know makes fun of you for, to walk down the street and have strangers stare at you saying, “Haha, look how funny he is!” Laughs everywhere. Whispers. She never spilled the cupcakes. She never had nurses stick pills up her butt. She doesn’t know about having a disability and she probably never will.

When she goes into the classroom, she has to turn sideways so she can fit into the door and this kind of makes me laugh.

Sister Cecilia walks by and sees me in the hall. I might be in trouble. “What are you doing out here?” she asks.

“I’m not feeling good,” I tell her.

She folds her arms. “Peter, didn’t we talk about staying in school the entire day?”

“But I haven’t left! I’m still in school!”

“You know what I mean. Get back in class.”

* * *

So I dunno, I guess Mrs. Sowers isn’t that bad of a lady. As it turns out, she’s actually very sweet. Sure, she can be scary sometimes, but I think that’s because she needs to get over the fact that her students will make fun of her no matter what. I mean, who cares if you’re the largest teacher in the school? And who cares if you need the cane to walk and you have to turn sideways to get into the classroom, if it takes you a little longer to get places, right?

And who cares if you walk a little funny and don’t have small motor skills in your left hand?

…

Stupid brain.

Chapter 6

When Mom was still going to library school at Wayne State, there was a man who hung around campus who would shout at passers-by at the top of his lungs, addressing them according to the physical feature that stood out most to him.

“Hey, Red Shirt!” he might yell to you if you were wearing a shirt that color. He was a ninety-pound man with a big toothy smile, aviator sunglasses, and a camouflage windbreaker. Good-looking, but crazy. “Get over here, Red Shirt! I gotsta talk to you! Don’t you walk away from me, Red Shirt! I got somethin’ to say to you!”

Mom was walking down Trumbull one day when she heard, “Hey Sunglasses! Sunglasses!” She looked across the street to see the man, yelling at her. She was wearing sunglasses.

“Damnit,” Mom said to her embarrassed self, “why does he have to talk to me?” Other people walking around were looking at her, laughing. “Why me?” she asked herself. “Why do I have to be Sunglasses? Why?”

“Don’t you walk away from me, Sunglasses! I gotsta talk to you! Get over here, Sunglasses! I got somethin’ to say!”

“Please stop yelling at me,” Mom said to herself. “I just want to get to class. Why ‘Sunglasses?’ Why, why, why?”

Suddenly, another woman caught the crazy man’s eye. He stopped yelling to Mom and wheeled on his new target. “Hey, Fat Ass!” he screamed. “Get over here, Fat Ass! I gotta talk to you! Don’t you walk away, Fat Ass, when I got something to say!”

“Whew,” Mom sighed. “Thank God I’m Sunglasses.”

* * *

One day, there was a moving truck across the street. We have people move in and out of the neighborhood about once a year, and it’s usually an old couple looking for a retirement or young couple with a two-year-old. It’s never anyone my age to hang out with.

I was on the front porch one day looking out into the big orangey-blue and cloudless sky, wondering what I’m going to do with my life. Life is so short, you know? I was going into fourth grade, and choices are so difficult, I don’t know what I will accomplish. Should I play Mega Man or Legends of Zelda when I go back inside?

But I stopped thinking about that when a kid comes out of the house from across the street. A kid! Not an old person or baby, but a kid! My age! He had a Super Soaker with him. The kid stood on the edge of the street and started shooting it at me. Those damn things never work anyway so it didn’t spray any farther than almost to my curb, but that’s not the point. He was trying to make contact with me! He was definitely trying to shoot me with his Super Soaker!

And so I got mine. Neither of us was old enough to cross the street, so we both just stood at the edge of the curb trying to shoot water at each other for a long time. I eventually went back inside to ask Mom if I could cross the street and meet the new kid, not an old person, who just moved in. Mom walked outside with me and watched me cross the street.

“Hi, I’m Peter,” I told him.

“Hi, I’m Richard,” he told me.

We were best friends. Richard had a whole bunch of cool stuff like electronic racecars, a Sega Genesis, a small pinball machine, and a lava lamp. I had never seen an actual lava lamp before. It was so fascinating. I thought they were supposed to be dangerous, but I guess not. Last year, I put “lava lamp” on my Christmas list, but Santa didn’t get me one, the jerk.

Having Richard live across the street was awesome! Richard and I went over each other’s houses like everyday in the summer. We fought monsters and played videogames, but he didn’t have a basketball hoop so we had to go to my house for that. Richard and me were playing basketball one day in my backyard when he said, “Hey, wanna see something cool? I can show you!”

“OK!” I said. Richard was good at showing off new things, so he told me to go behind the garage with him.

“Check this out. Pull your pants down,” he said.

“What? No!”

“I’m serious,” he said with an angry face. “Pull your pants down. I wanna show you how to do something cool.”

“No! That’s not right!”

Richard’s pants were already down, underwear and all. “Do it, or I’ll tell your mom you saw my penis!”

I didn’t wanna pull my pants down for Richard from across the street. What was going to happen to me? Why did I have to do this? There are neighbors living all around. They might see and tell my mom I was engaging in naked activity. This was not the kid I play basketball with. He was a child delinquent.

But I didn’t want him to tell on me, so down went my jeans.

“Your underwear, too,” he insisted.

Down they went.

“So check out what I can do,” he said. “You can too.” Richard started yanking his penis repeatedly and smiling. “Try it. It feels really good.”

If I didn’t do it, he was going to tell mom we were behind the garage pulling at our dingdongs, so I tried it. I didn’t feel anything, and I wanted to get out of there as soon as I could, so I faked a smile and said, “Yeah, wow, it feels really good. Yeah.” Then I pulled up my pants as soon as I could while Richard tugged at his weener for another good two minutes. I just pretended to be looking at the sky. What was he trying to get me to do, pee or something? I don’t get it. I don’t like Richard from across the street if he’s gonna make me do weird things like that. He’s a little creep.

This is why I was really happy when Richard and his family moved. I’ll bet you a hundred dollars you’ll be seeing him on America’s Most Wanted someday.