Opposite of Always(63)

“Well, I’m pretty sure he wants . . . I think he’s happy you’re . . . you know . . . back.”

“Hmm.”

“I think were you to try again, like really put some effort into it, he’d see it differently.”

“Throw in some extra hot sauce packets, too. And a spork.”

“Hello?”

“I heard you, Jack. I’ll think on it.”





Selection Sunday


When Sunday comes, I’m too nervous to be alone, so I invite Franny and Jillian over to watch the March Madness selection committee reveal the chosen teams.

Franny laughs at my invitation. “Since when are you Mr. Basketball?”

I pretend to not understand what he means. “I’ve always liked basketball.”

“Name the one NBA team not located in the United States,” he challenges me.

I shrug. “Sorry, I’m more into the college game.”

“Fine.” He crosses his arms. “Name three college conferences then.”

“Easy! The Big Ten, the Southwestern. No, wait, no, the Southeastern, plus, uh, the Big Southern.”

Franny cracks up. If I don’t end this charade, he may rupture something.

“Whatever,” I say. “I don’t have to prove my love for the game to you.”

“Right, man,” he says. “You have nothing to prove.”

I know Mom is a lock for All Things Sports, but I’m surprised when Dad joins us in the basement, too. My surprise mostly disappears when he brings refreshments with him, popcorn and soda and a bag of cookies. Mom has Dad watching his middle-aged figure closely these days, so any opportunity for Dad to cheat on his spouse-sponsored diet is seized with gusto.

“Hmmmm,” Dad says, smacking his lips. “Feels like something’s missing, doesn’t it? I know! Anyone want pizza? I just happen to know Pizza Czar has a specialty supreme on sale right now.”

“I’ve already eaten, but thanks, Mr. King,” Jillian says.

“You know I’m always game for vittles,” Franny says, springing to life on the edge of the sofa.

“Great, that makes two of us,” Dad says. “Jack, looks like you’re the tiebreaker, my favorite son on this earth. Heck, you’re tied for my favorite person period.” He looks over at Mom. “Right there with your mother, of course.”

Mom is already resigned to the fact that no one can change Dad, we can only hope to contain him. She tosses her hands up. “Whatever you guys want to do, but at least half of it has to be veggie.”

“How about half of a half,” Dad pitches. Mom’s eyebrows rise. He’s pushing his luck. “No, no, you’re right, babe. We can have fun and be healthy, too.”

Dad slips upstairs to order the food as the program starts.

My stomach is nauseous.

And my heart, although I’m sitting on the floor doing absolutely nothing physically demanding, is pumping hard enough to power a triathlon.

I have no idea how real gamblers cope.

We suffer through an agonizing thirty minutes of sports talk before the reveal starts.

. . . And Mandrake makes the cut, the committee rewarding their conference tournament runner-up finish with a fifteenth seed slotting . . .

I explode into the air in a manic flurry of fist-pumping and chest-bumping, although the chest-bumping is just me bumping my chest against random inanimate things, such as the wall or the basement support beam or the arm of the sofa, because no one else is willing to chest-bump me, probably because they aren’t willing to risk a concussion.

But I can’t help it.

Because maybe this thing will work after all.





The Good Doctor


“I only took this meeting because I received your letters, and your emails, and your repeated phone calls to the office and to the lab, and I must admit, curiosity won out.”

“My parents preach perseverance.”

“You’re certainly younger than I imagined.”

“I intend to make a sizable contribution,” I interject for no reason other than I’m uncertain what to say.

Dr. Sowunmi peers at me over the tops of his glasses. “How old are you? Nineteen? Twenty maybe?”

“I’m eighteen. Not that it should matter, Doctor. I mean, you’re only, what, thirty-two, thirty-three? When you decided you were going to cure sickle cell, how did you feel when people made assumptions purely based on your age?”

Dr. Sowunmi pushes his glasses up his nose, but says nothing.

“Look,” I continue. “I’m here because I believe in you. In your research. In your medicine. And because I’m in love.”

“Ah.” The doctor clears his throat, leans back in his beat-up leather chair. He puts his hands to his mouth in a way that reminds me of someone smoking a pipe, except he doesn’t have a pipe, and I doubt he smokes. “It’s best not to mix medicine with emotion.”

“From what I understand, you have family members who’ve battled with sickle cell, Doctor . . .”

“Yes.” He nods. “Which is why I know it’s not wise to mix the two. The only way for it to end, Jack, is badly.”

“But Doctor, aren’t both things tied to the heart?”