Beast(3)

We laugh together but it feels rehearsed. I mean, what can we do? Nothing. The man I look more and more like every day, from the height to the fur to the never-ending bodily expansion, has been gone for twelve years. He died a long, hard death from cancer, so I hope if anything, he’s up there laughing his ass off.

My head feels cold. I touch it slowly and feel all stubble, no weathered cotton and a stiff, frayed bill. It’s gone. “Where’s my baseball hat?” I immediately say.

Mom glances about. “Not sure.”

I sit up and jerk left and right, looking for it. “No really, my hat—where is it?”

“Lie down,” she stresses. “Dylan, your leg, the traction.”

“I’m fine.” Things begin beeping and nurses run in, yelping for me to quit moving. “All I want is my hat,” I try to say as slowly and calmly as I can. Doesn’t work. A billion panicked hands and arms press my body down. Guess I am as big as they say. “It’s not my leg,” I try to assure them. You’d think they were holding down a thrashing water buffalo. It’s just me, people! “I just like my hat, that’s all.”

“A hat?” one of the nurses says.

“I can get you a hat,” the first nurse volunteers. “Be right back.”

Mom comes over and rubs my shoulder. “It’s okay, sweetie,” she says. “You’re a handsome guy, you know. You don’t need to hide behind a hat. You are a beautiful person, inside and out, and someday—”

“Mom, don’t.”

Mom. Jeezus, where do I begin? The bleeding sincerity? If a total and complete stranger stubs their toe next to her, she will be the first one offering a ride home and half her life’s savings just to make sure they’re okay. In my case, it means a constant maternal bludgeoning so I am painfully aware of my epic wonderfulness.

The fact that she has to try so hard annoys me more than any of the words.

“Here we go.” The first nurse returns, holding up a white cotton skullcap.

I take one look at it and drop it on the side of the bed. “Thanks,” I tell him all the same. Don’t feel like wearing any hat that’s not my baseball hat. My hat’s been through a ton of crap with me; it’s my helmet for battle. This hospital hat couldn’t protect me from shit. I look at the metal frame. The system of pulleys and wires keeps my leg still and high. My leg. Emptiness vibrates through me as I stare at it. Like it’s lifeless. A marlin that fought the good fight, only to be strung up and measured at the dock.

“Dylan, honey, are you okay?” Mom asks.

“Hurts.” I fake some physical agony. She doesn’t budge, so I squirm some more. She was so excited to see my face again, I crush it up into little pieces with sheer anguish, just for her, and she lets me push the pump. (Yay.) “I need to talk to the doctor.”

The first nurse tests the nerve response from my toes as the second nurse leaves the room. “I’ll find him,” she tells me.

I chew my upper lip. Should I really do it? Ask him a question I’ve only asked Google? I’m kind of thinking yes. Some twenty minutes later, my orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Jensen, enters and surveys the scene. “What’s the problem, Mr. Ingvarsson?”

His bedside manner is nothing if not direct. “Never mind,” I mutter, embarrassment circling back in full force. “I’m fine now.”

Everyone stares at me. The doctor looks to my mother. “Might I have some time with my patient?”

“Sure thing,” she says. Mom stands firm, blinking innocently.

The doctor raises his eyebrows at her until she can no longer ignore the hint.

“I will, uh…go get a snack. I’ll be back in a bit.” Mom pauses. The nurses stop mid-step, just as they’re about to leave with her. “Can I get you anything?”

“No,” I say.

“Are you sure? Can I run out and get you a burger or something? An apple pie? You love apple pies.”

“Mom!”

“Okay, all right, fine.” She disappears.

Dr. Jensen regards me once we’re alone. “Okay, now what’s the real problem?”

His eyes are lasers. “It’s, uh…Well, ah, can you…” I shake my head, my pathetic head.

“Can I what?” Dr. Jensen checks his watch.

I sigh and try again. This might be my only shot. “Can you refer me to anyone who can change…me?”





TWO


I’m not complaining; it’s just unfair.

And the worst is that if I ever bring it up with anyone, all I get is: suck it up. Unless it’s my mom, and then I get a “you’re so wonderful and amazing and I love you, hooray forever and ever” pile of Mom pom-poms (Mom-Poms?). Which is why I never talk to her about the stuff that really bothers me anymore. Besides, it’s not like she can stop me from getting hairier.

The first time I wore a T-shirt to school in the seventh grade, Madison said it looked like I dipped myself in glue and rolled around on a dog groomer’s floor. After that, I didn’t wear short sleeves until the ninth grade, when we had a heat wave in late September and it got so hot I couldn’t stand it anymore.

It’s no fluke that my nickname is the Beast. Or Furball or Sasquatch or Wolfman. It changes by the day. I laugh, but I hate them all. I’d rather not be a hairy slab of meat, or have a five o’clock shadow by noon. I’d rather not have knuckles so furry you can’t even tell if I’m wearing my dad’s ring or not. Rather not have chest hair squirt up the neck of my T-shirt. Front and back.