Keeping Things Whole [ON HOLD]

Chapter 1

Oh yeah, right now. That’s what I was getting at, wasn’t I? So basically, I’m on a plane right now. Yep, about eight months to live and I am crammed in a three-foot wide plane seat that leans back maybe half an inch. My legs have always been too long, but this is just ridiculous; they just don’t fit! There is zero legroom and this tray table sucks. Not to mention I’m stuck next to a morbidly obese woman who won’t stop talking about her, like, seven Chihuahuas. Three hours to go. You may be wondering what a terminally ill teenager is doing in an airplane (and in coach class). I’m wondering the same thing, to be honest. The only reasons I should ever be on a plane in my condition would either be to fly to that advanced cancer center or on my way to Europe so I can live out my last days basking by the Mediterranean or stuffing my face with baguettes; that would be nice.

But no. Not for Shiloh.

I am here because Dad’s pulling me out of school (though there’s like, a week left till summer) and forcing me to live with my grandma in Illinois until the surgery.

“It’s for the clean air, Shiloh,” he said. “The country will do you good.”

No, you’re sending me there so I can shrivel up and die far away from you. Blunt, but true.

And when I say Illinois, I don’t mean like, a cool loft in Chicago or something. I mean God-forsaken, microscopic town surrounded by corn and pig farms Illinois. It’s hardly even Illinois: it’s basically on the Indiana border. I think dad said it was called Lawrenceville, which makes it sound even lamer. And what sucks even more is that I’m not allowed to go to school in my condition. I mean, I guess I understand that, but still… my senior year was supposed to be awesome, and now I’m not even going to be able to spend it with my friends. Just waste away in my gran’s little cramped house. And have I ever told you how humid and muggy it is during the summer there? I mean, I love the ocean; me and the guys went down to the beach almost every day after school! The closest body of water in Lawrence County is the dinky little manmade lake several miles down the road. And evidently there are a lot of meth-addicts here. You can tell because they’re really skinny and their teeth are black. I mean, seriously. Why send me here? There’s not even a movie theatre!

I feel the cold face of the tray table press against my cheek as I lay my head down. Turbulence, my ass, I’m so tired. I’ve almost barfed twice in the last hour, but I’ve managed to hold it in. God, this sucks so much, and the lady’s still talking.

“Wait, I didn’t tell you about Taco, did I? Well he’s the cutest, you know, I’ve sewed all his sweaters myself and I even made him a pair of socks, since he gets cold at night.”

I groan and sink my face farther down, willing her to shut up. “Uh huh, uh huh, that’s freaking fascinating,” I mutter into the table. Please, just please shut up. My head hurts enough as it is, and your voice isn’t helping in the slightest.

“Oh, and you know his favorite food is this dog food that’s made by this professional-”

I promptly grab the barf bag and puke my guts out.

That certainly shuts her up, and before I know it, I’ve fallen asleep.

* * *

The flight attendant’s voice is the thing that wakes me up. I blink awake to those blinding fluorescent lights and my head’s hurts like a mother. And thanks to the altitude, my ears are still popping, too.

We taxi into the Evansville airport, and once I leave for baggage claim, there’s Gran. Her name’s Eula May Grace, and she’s a tiny little woman in her seventies. I mean real tiny. Like, I’m not all that tall for a seventeen-year-old, but I’m at least a foot taller than her, if not more. I don’t remember much of her, since I hardly ever see her; all I know is that she’s my mom’s mom; she’s got this little flowered dress on and a sunhat too big for her head, and her blue eyes are magnified by her round glasses.

“Well if it isn’t Shiloh,” she says, peering up at me, her wrinkly little hands clasping mine. “Fine, don’t kiss your grandma hello.”

I bend over and obey; she smells like flour and tuberose perfume, as she always does.

 The car-ride to Lawrenceville is dark and quiet; Gran asks me how school was, how I’m feeling, and I answer her in the shortest possible ways, for I just want to lean my head against her ancient Buick’s window and fall asleep. I’ve found that this whole brain cancer thing makes me tired all the time—especially matched with that pain medication they have me on. Not just sleepy tired, though: I mean spending all night running a marathon tired, when in realty the only thing I’ve done today is eat some oatmeal, poured myself orange juice, and slept for several hours on the plane. That’s it. I’ve seriously never slept so much in my life, and that’s coming from a teenage boy. We sleep like its hibernation.

“And Shiloh,” Gran’s says sternly, startling me slightly, “as long as you can move you legs, you’re helping with the chores.”

God. This just gets better and better, doesn’t it? Well, she can say what she wants; I do not plan on wasting the last months of my life mopping up the floor.

After an hour, we pull off the dark country highway and begin to make our way through Lawrenceville. Gran explains that the town’s been going through a rough spot. It used to be nicer back in the fifties and sixties, when the oil refinery was still around, but when it shut down, the town really dried up and went to hell. I look at my window and watch as the sad little buildings pass by: even State Street is depressing; one out of five of the buildings are boarded up and abandoned, and the rest just looks droopy. So this is the place that’s supposed to be so great for my health, huh?

We pass through the thick of the town and then get more out into the country. The houses range from little brick ones to old southern-plantation styles to the crappy little wooden things that look like they’re on their last legs. There are a lot of trees, though; real tall oaks and sycamores with these huge, thick branches. Even a weeping willow or two. Well, that’s nice, I guess, and I catch sight of a handful of fireflies winking on and off in the passing lawns. When we’re way out in the country, we turn down a country road called Rural Route 1 out by Kelly Lake, and soon we are engulfed in rows and rows of corn. I mean, I had no idea there was this much nowhere in the United States. We go on for several more minutes until, finally, we reach a dirt road that winds through the corn. At the end of it is Gran’s house. When we step out of the car, the thick mid-western air hits me like a slap in the face, as does the harsh calls of the cicadas and the crickets. If I listen hard, I can hear chickens clucking in the coup behind the house.

Once I’ve lugged my bags into my new room and throw on my boxer shorts, I collapse on the bed. My head hurts so much. It never seems to stop. They told me this is a common symptom, as if that’s supposed to make everything okay. Well, it doesn’t. It’s like I’m hung over every day, and for those who are unfamiliar with the symptoms, let me sum it up:

MAJOR SUCKAGE.

There it is. Your head hurts like you got beat over the head with a crowbar, you feel like vomiting all the time and bright lights burn your eyes out of your skull. But unlike brain cancer, a hang over lasts maybe for a couple hours, perhaps a day if you’re unlucky. My little brain problem here is going to last about eight to ten months, and it’s only going to stop when I’m dead. And evidently, it’s only going to get worse.

I’m just so freaking excited.

And lucky you, you get to chill with me for the whole ride! Or at least until I start loosing my memory; apparently that’s another possible symptom, since the cancer’s in the temporal lobe of my brain and gradually spreading over to the parietal, which, they tell me, is going to severely hinder my writing ability and my motor skills. Basically, I’ll be like an old person; I won’t remember anything and I’ll be running into shit. Man, the party favors just keep piling up, don’t they?

Gran opens my door and sticks her white-haired little head in, her nightgown hanging to her feet. “Have a good night, Shiloh. I pray you sleep well,” her mouth turns up in a concerning wicked smile, “because your day starts at seven o’clock.”

And then the door closes and I’m left lying on my bed with my jaw hanging open. Suddenly, I feel my stomach clench and I make it into the bathroom just in time to puke my brains out. Seriously, I feel like a bulimic. I’m already scrawny enough, and now I’m barfing like there’s no tomorrow. Yay, sleepy-headache-puke-party! Let happy fun time begin, ‘cause I’m ready for an absolutely awesome summer!