Soar (2 page)

“I HAVE A
new consulting gig,” Walt tells me. “They pay up front.”

This is excellent news, because lots of Walt's clients take forever to pay him. Walt has his own consulting company, the Magellan Group. It's not a group, exactly, and no one is named Magellan; it's named after Ferdinand Magellan, our favorite dead-for-centuries explorer, who, like Walt, worked 24/7.

“Where is it?” I ask.

“Ohio.”

We're living in St. Louis and I really, really like it here.

“They need me for a couple of months, Jer. It's kind of an emergency.”

Everything Walt does is somebody's emergency. No
one calls my father and says, “Hey, all systems are go here. Just wanted you to know.”

“Where in Ohio?” I ask.

“Near Cincinnati, but I don't think—”

“The Cincinnati Reds are looking strong this year, Walt.” They're my third favorite team.

“They are, but I don't think—”

“The name of the town, Walt . . .”

“A smaller place than Cincinnati. Hillcrest, Ohio.”

“They have a hill with a crest, right?”

Walt laughs. “Maybe. They have a company there and . . .”

The “and” part is always “and they need a little help.” Believe me, when Walt Lopper gets called in, it's because people need a lot of help.

“They've got a little problem, Jer.”

“What kind of problem?”

“Their robots keep falling down.”

“Why?”

“It's unclear.”

I look in the corner. “Jerwal, are you awake?”

Jerwal, the robot Walt and I built together, glows and beeps.

Walt hasn't thought about taking any out-of-town business for a long time, because of my heart. Four years ago, I had a perfectly healthy heart. Then something called cardiomyopathy happened and everything changed.

I look at Walt, who sat with me every day I was in the hospital, who never once made me feel like I wasn't his kid, or was any kind of disappointment or a drain on his life.

“When do you have to be there?”

“Yesterday, Jer.”

Today is March twenty-seventh, and lots is about to happen here.

The Cardinals' opening day is April thirteenth and we have tickets.

The science fair at my school is coming up and I've been working on a project that shows the trajectory of a well-hit baseball in 3-D. I've been thinking about contacting the manager of the St. Louis Cardinals to come see it—my findings could be big.

I take a deep breath and pull out my phone. Research is critical to decision making.

“Hillcrest, Ohio,” I read to him. “Population 12,761,
located in Ohio's rich farmland in the western part of the state. A small Midwestern town known for the excellence of its high school baseball program.” This is getting interesting. “The Hillcrest High School Hornets have won six state championships and twice clinched the nationals.” I look up. “We can gorge ourselves on baseball, Walt!”

Walt's face has that half-sunk look it gets when he hasn't told me everything.

“I think, Jer . . . Well . . . I called your aunt Charity—”

“No.”

“Let me finish. I called her and she said she would stay here with you so you could finish school and—”

“No!”

“I want you to stay near Dr. Feinberg.”

“There are doctors in Cincinnati.”

“Wonderful doctors, no doubt.”

“Do you care about my heart, Walt?”

“What kind of a question is that?”

An unfair question.

“She treats me like I'm a little kid!”

“I think if we talk to her—”

“We've done that. Aunt Charity smothers me.” I
feel my face get hot. “She makes me wash my hands hundreds of times.”

“You are supposed to avoid infection, my man.”

“Walt, please. I don't need to be a fanatic about it.” I squirt antiseptic goo on my hands and rub it in, counting to ten. “She asks me every morning”—I can hardly say it—“if I've had a bowel movement!”

“That's a tough one, Jer, but we do need to make sure all systems are go.” He laughs at his joke.

“And do I have to even mention that she forced me against my will to make angel ornaments with little puffy skirts?”

Walt shakes his head. “I know. But she's been here for us. She's really helped out.”

Aunt Charity stayed with us for eight months when I was in and out of the hospital. I'm totally grateful she did this.

“She's my only sister. What can I tell you?”

“You can tell me she's not coming and I can go with you. I love her, okay? I just can't live with her right now.” Or possibly ever.

Walt stands up. “It's only for a couple of months. What could happen?”

Phone again. I look up “shortest wars in history.”
There's lots of material here. “Whole wars have been fought in less than thirty days, Walt. Can you really take the chance?”

Walt sips his coffee and looks at the map of the ancient world that I gave him for his birthday. It shows how wrong they were back in the 1500s. This was what Magellan had to deal with. Despite all that, he circumnavigated the globe before people knew it was a globe.

Is that vision or what?

“You're telling me, Jer, you want to leave sixth grade at the end of March and come with me to Hillcrest, Ohio, where I will be working day and night?”

I nod.

“What would you be doing there?” Walt persists.

“Gaining brilliance?”

“You're already too smart.”

“I'd go to school and I'd help you. I could make dinner and—”

Walt shakes his head. His beard is getting some gray in it. People say it makes him look distinguished. He's wearing the T-shirt I got him for Father's Day—it has a mug of coffee and, underneath that, the words
GAME CHANGER
.

It's kind of our story.

“Jerwal,” I say, “come forward.” Jerwal moves slowly toward us. “Would you like to help the robots who are falling down?”

Jerwal has no idea, but he likes hearing his name. It took us months to get the voice-activated part working. We had to shorten his name because he couldn't understand “Jerwalthian,” as in
The Jerwalthian has entered the atmosphere.

Walt sips more coffee. “I'm sorry about how I live. I want you to have a stable environment.”

“I don't feel unstable, Walt.”

“You know what I mean. Not so much change.”

“You don't change.”

He laughs. “You're referring to my wardrobe?”

Walt wears blue shirts with jeans or khakis most days.

I stretch out my arms like I'm flying. “So we just swoop into Hillcrest and make it happen.”

Walt sips coffee, thinking.

I sip decaf. “Jerwal, do you want to go play with the robots in Ohio?” Jerwal beeps and moves his head and arms from side to side.

Walt points a finger of ultimate authority at me. “For me to even consider it, Jer—and I'm not saying I
am—Dr. Feinberg needs to sign off on this one hundred percent. You understand that might not happen.”

I clear my throat. “I understand that in any contest, I will be tested, maybe to the boundaries of my ability. And when this happens, I will remember that I have overcome great difficulties already, and all that strength is in me.”

Walt sniffs. “Which coach said that?”

“I just created it.”

“Not bad.”

When I'm a coach I'm going to tell my players to say that.
I write it down.

Walt studies my face.

“I'm fine, Walt.”

I say that a lot because it's true.

It's got to be true.

NOT EVERYONE ON
my transplant team could be here. We got this appointment fast.

Dr. Curchink is out sick and Dr. Meredith has an emergency with another patient, but Dr. Feinberg is here, and Hassan the transplant nurse, and Millard the tech guy, who keeps track of everything. Millard just gave me an echocardiogram to test the strength of my heart with sound waves. Hassan gets a blood sample from my left arm. I make a fist.

“Your blood's still red,” Hassan says.

“I've been working hard to keep it red,” I tell him.

Hassan smiles.

There's a plastic heart on the counter. So many people just take their hearts for granted. I did until third grade, when I caught a virus that slowly began attacking my heart muscle. I got a lot of colds that
year. I wasn't eating much. I'd run and have trouble breathing. We thought it was asthma at first. It wasn't even close to that.

Being a computer genius, Walt knew about viruses. “We're going to find out what's going on with you,” he told me. “That's going to mean a lot of tests, and probably a few extra doctors.”

“I don't want extra doctors.”

You don't always get what you want.

Two years later, I had to have a heart transplant. I was ten. I don't recommend the experience, but I can promise you, it's so much better than dying.

I told Aunt Charity I wanted to keep my old heart in a jar at home to remember, but she started screaming about the intense grossness of that.

“I made it to ten years of age with that heart,” I told her. “It's part of me.”

She threw up her hands and said absolutely not.

“He's kidding about keeping it at home,” Walt assured her.

We gave it to science—the best solution—although first I wanted to use it for the science fair at school.

“How can you even think of these things?” she shrieked.

“Maybe we can visit it?” I asked her.

That didn't work, either.

Right now Dr. Feinberg, who did my transplant surgery, is looking at me like he always does—checking my eyes without saying he is, checking to see if I have energy without saying he is.

Walt says, “We want zero risk, doctor. We are open to whatever you think is best.”

“Which would be me going to Ohio.”

Dr. Feinberg is looking at my test results. “Jeremiah, as long as I have known you, you've always been clear as to what you want. How are you feeling?”

“Fine. Really fine.”

“How's the energy level?”

“You know, it's okay.”

A medical nod. “Arrhythmia? Swollen ankles? Brain fog? Nausea? An uncontrollable desire to play meaningless, soul-crushing video games all day?”

“Only the last one.”

“Shortness of breath?”

I breathe like it's hard.

Dr. Feinberg looks at me. “This is a joke?”

“Yes.”

“You'll be gone how long?”

Walt says, “Two months or so. But if this isn't a good idea—”

“That's a lot of compacted stress: packing, saying good-bye, moving, a new school, and then coming back.”

Walt says, “If you don't think this is a good idea—”

“I want to understand,” Dr. Feinberg adds. He always says this. It's why he's a great doctor.

Walt starts explaining about this new consulting gig he's got, but he's not selling the concept. He hasn't once mentioned the stress of living with Aunt Charity. He has hardly touched on the theme of baseball and how tomorrow's stars are playing on the Hillcrest Hornets today, how it's a chance to see them before they get really big, how their champion pitcher throws an unbelievable fastball.

I interrupt and make my case. I also emphasize the robots.

“How fast does the kid throw?” Dr. Feinberg asks.

“Ninety-four miles per hour.”

Millard, Hassan, and Dr. Feinberg nod, impressed.

I say, “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

That's a big sentence for me. Before I got my new heart, I was so sick, I wasn't going to make it. That surgery went pretty well, considering where I was starting
from. They hoped it would have gone a little better.

My scar from the transplant runs from the top of my chest to the middle. I showed it to my best friend, Yaff, who said, “Tell people you got attacked by zombies and survived.”

I can walk blocks at a time, but I still can't run.

“Jeremiah,” Dr. Feinberg says, “you need to be aware of two things. First, you will need to have another team in Ohio and check in with them.”

I know this.

“Second, you have to be uniquely careful of infection.”

The team stares at me. I say I know that, too.

“We are talking about bathing in antiseptic lotion.”

I take out the bottle from my pocket.

“We are talking about naps.”

I groan.

“And you must have realistic goals for your time there. Do you have those?”

“I want to see as many baseball games as I can, and I want to do well in school and hang out with Walt and maybe build another robot.”

They are still staring at me like that's not enough.

“Okay, and I will run away screaming if I see anyone sneezing.”

“No running,” the doctor says.

I nod. I hate the no running part. I tried running after my surgery and that didn't go too well.

“And I won't eat at salad bars because of the germs.”

“They're infested with germs,” Hassan reminds me.

“And when I'm at baseball games, if I feel tired or anything, I will let Walt know.”

Still staring.

“It's what I do here!”

“We'll discuss this and be back in a few minutes.” Dr. Feinberg walks toward the door with the team.

“Don't forget the part you can't put on a chart,” I shout. “Baseball and robots. How can this not be good for my heart?”

The doctor smiles. Millard doesn't. They walk out.

Walt says, “You know, whatever they decide, it's for the best.”

I look at him. His eyes are kind, but tired.

I can do this, Walt!

The team comes back. I try to read their faces like people do on legal shows when the jury walks in to give the verdict.

I put my hand over my heart.

“We are unanimous in this, Jeremiah,” Dr. Feinberg
begins. And the team stands tough behind him.

I think it's no.

“For baseball and robots and being with your dad, you can go to Ohio.”

“Yes!” I shout.

“I want you to write this across your eyeballs, Jeremiah: do not take on too much.”

“This is a great medical decision, you guys. You work together as a team and that's why you can get out there and make a difference.”

Dr. Feinberg writes something down. “I will miss you, Jeremiah. I'm still hoping you can be the subject of the book that I will write someday when I have time to go on the talk show circuit.”

The book is about the power of being hopeful and positive when you're a heart patient. He says I'm the poster boy for that.

“I'm referring you to a fine cardiologist I know in Cincinnati, Dr. Sarah Dugan. She was a resident here.”

“If she's writing a book, I'll save the good stuff for you, Dr. F. I swear.”

“Don't be stupid out there,” Dr. Feinberg warns.

“I will be highly intelligent and totally aware at every moment.”

“And don't forget to have fun.”

“Yes, sir, I will do that!”

◆ ◆ ◆

Walt and I walk down the corridor and stop at the photos on the wall. The sign above them reads:
OUR KIDS
. These are the pictures of kids who had heart transplants here. There are baby pictures and pictures of people getting married. The point is, we get better and go on to have good lives. The one famous guy on the wall is Rodney P. Sears, who had three surgeries and now writes horror films about evil hearts that take over a person's body. His new movie is called
Heart of Stone: The Ever-Darkening Crevice
. Walt won't let me see it. There are three pictures of me, when I was eight, nine, and eleven. I look a lot better at eleven. I'd like to get on the board for doing something big—although surviving and getting strong is a nontrivial thing.

I'd like someone to point to my picture one day and say, “And now this young man is managing a major league baseball team.”