Beast(69)

I read it. I read it again.

Mom tugs at my arm. “What’s it say?”

“There are no elevated levels of GH and IGF-1. We can therefore conclude there is no biomedical confirmation of acromegaly.” I can’t believe it.

“What does that mean?”

The letter slips from my hand and trickles to the floor. “I don’t have it,” I say. Dull weight pulls me down. “I’m not a giant. I’m just…big.”

She throws herself on me and squeezes. “Oh, thank god!”

“I need to sit down.”

We get to the stairs, and my head sinks as far as it can go in between my knees. Mom tells me to breathe, but all I can hear is a loud high-pitched ringing. She blankets me in a hug and it’s too much. I’d move, but I don’t want to take the chance of accidentally hurting her again. Mom says things. Disjointed, unfortunate things that make no sense.

There’s no surgery. There’s no benign tumor. There’s nothing to blame. I wanted acromegaly. Even if Jamie or my mom tells me I’m fine the way I am, I still wanted a culprit to point to. I wanted a Most Wanted poster with the word CAPTURED scrawled across my pituitary in bright red ink. I didn’t get my wish. It’s just been me all along and I will only get bigger until the day I magically stop. When I broke my leg, Dr. Jensen said I still had a bit more growing to do because my epiphyseal bone plates had yet to ossify. To which I said, well shit.

Rising to my foot, I’m careful not to jostle Mom. She’s asking me to sit, to talk, to hear, to share, to do all these things I am not capable of right now, so I apologize and leave. There’s only one place in the house to go and that’s where I head, down the stairs to the basement, where I hop across the floor of hidden chunks of broken glass. Stabbing and piercing and I don’t stop until I get to the train set, where I collapse to the concrete and wedge myself in a corner laced with cobwebs.

The village is stagnant. Nothing’s changed since I was last here.

My dad built this.

My dad was six foot, seven and three-quarter inches tall.

I measured myself last week as a last hurrah and I was six foot, six and a half inches tall.

I’ve almost caught up to him. Mom was so proud we’re almost the same height. I think it’s a punishment.

Last night Jamie said she doesn’t care how big I get. She said she’s excited that she can wear whatever heels she wants and she’ll still be the short one. Thinking about it now makes me smile. And then not smile.

I lean against the wall.

Before I kissed her last night, I asked my dad for a sign. I didn’t get one. He never talks to me the way he talks to Mom. But maybe he knew what was coming and he backed out of the picture a long time ago. Maybe he saw what happened and he’s disappointed.

“Dad,” I whisper in the shadows. “Please, please give me a sign if I did something I shouldn’t have. Please: now.”

I wait and listen. I count to ten.

I’m about to give up when a loud bang hits the kitchen floor above my head and my eyes fly up, heart racing, to stare at the spot.

“Sorry!” Mom calls out from above. “Dropped a pot. You want some raviolis, sweetie?”

“No,” I yell up. The spot above looks hollowed out and frozen from where the pot hit. It sends a shiver down my spine that doesn’t come from the cold basement wall. My dad is disappointed in me. That’s why he doesn’t talk to me. Maybe all along he was saying, Don’t do it.

But we did.

And now I’ve lost my dad.





TWENTY-NINE


My parents didn’t kill me!

I told them I was with a friend, not a lie, and then we fell asleep. Also not a lie!

I’m grounded for a week b/c I didn’t call and tell them I was staying over and I’m grounded for another week b/c it was a school night.

How about you?

Dylan? Was your phone taken away?

You must be grounded way long.

It’s been four days. I miss you so much.

I’m telling myself you’re in the biggest trouble ever and have no means of communication.

Not trying to be a needy gf, I swear!! It’s just been a week and I haven’t heard from you.

I’m afraid to go to your house.

Can I come over?

I’m coming over.



It’s been a little over a week since Jamie and I have spoken. She texts me at least ten times a day, but I don’t respond.

When the doorbell rings, I’m not surprised. It takes a while for me to hear it from all the way down in the basement. I get up from the train set, pick up my crutches, and go to the storm window that gives the slightest view of the sidewalk. I think I see some bike tires sitting patiently in the early winter rain. December’s a miserable month. Always damp and cold. The doorbell rings again. A few minutes later my phone beeps. I check the message.

Are you home? I’m outside. Can we please talk?

Wiring for Hobbyists. It’s a good little book, very thorough. Can’t quite say it’s a page-turner, but it’s been helpful. The electrical system still won’t make the jump from one signal box to the other, and I can’t figure out why.

As I read and Jamie waits on the front step, I tell myself a series of half-truths:

1. Mrs. Swanpole never leaves her house and will tell my mom if I answer the door.