The Burn Journals (22 page)

“Are you going to do anything productive?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Okay.”

I think Tom understands there's nothing he can do to get me to do any work. He says, “So, Brent, what are you going to do when you're discharged?”

“Um, I don't know, go home, I guess.”

“And then?”

“I don't know, high school eventually, but probably not yet. We're going to have a tutor come to our house for a while. And be doing some outpatient therapy.”

“That sounds good.”

Yeah, that sounds good.

When I go home, this is how it's going to work. I'll go into Children's twice a week for physical therapy. The rest of the time Mom will do my cream massages at home, and I'll work with a physical therapist from the school district. So before I get discharged, they have to make a video so my mom and the person from the school district will know what they're doing.

I remember when we did this video thing at Children's, God, that was terrible. I started crying right in the middle. Whatever I do this time, I'm not going to cry. No crying.

Jodi's got the camera. The thing I hate about being on camera is how it makes me feel like I can see myself from the outside. Before, I used to like that feeling. I used to always ham it up for the cameras. Make funny faces and do little jokes. People always said I took a good picture.

Jodi tells me to go over to the weights and do my pulley exercises, that's where I grab on to a handle with a rope and a weight at the other end and pull down over and over again. Jodi says, “Are you ready?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, I'm going to press record.”

“Okay. Action.”

“This is Brent. He's a fourteen-year-old, um, teenager who was burned in February following a gasoline, uh, fire and was burned over eighty-five percent of his body. He spent several months in an acute care hospital and has been here at the duPont Institute for three months doing an intensive rehab program to restore his arm range of motion, for scar management, and to restore range of motion in his legs and his knees. Right now, what you're watching Brent do is his upper-extremity range-of-motion exercise program, where he's lifting ten pounds of weights, then pushing down. This has helped him restore his elbow range to full. Brent's going to show you a variety of exercises that he's able to do, and note how well he's able to get his arms over his head, because he does have a lot of scar tissue on his shoulders and on his back.”

She motions for me to come forward and stretch my arms out wide and do the circles with my arms. I can almost get my arms even with my shoulders.

I look down and notice I'm wearing my Magic Johnson T-shirt that he sent me when I was at Children's.

I say, “Note the signed Magic Johnson T-shirt.”

“Magic is a personal friend of Brent's.”

I switch to my next exercise, lifting my arms up as high as I can go. My hands can almost reach to the top of my head.

Jodi says, “Note how well Brent can get his arms above his head. When he first came here, this was a major task, as he was not able to get his arms as high as he can now.”

My arms are starting to itch because my Jobst garments aren't on.

She asks me to do some more exercises. Touching my hands in front and behind my body. Stretching my neck. Opening my mouth really big. She wants to show how the scars pull at my skin and make me look like a freak.

We stop for a while and go into a private room with one of those white sheet dividers for a background. Jodi asks me to take my shirt off and stand in front of the sheet. I don't like to look at myself with my shirt off, but now it's hard not to. I still can't believe how purple my scars are. Not even purple, more like magenta.

Jodi's talking about my skin and my graft sites and how they made my skin in Boston and sent it to me. I should make a joke. A joke would make me feel better.

I say, “I feel like that guy . . .” What guy? I can't remember. I know who I'm thinking of, but I can't remember who he is or what he's called. I feel like that guy who stands naked in front of a white sheet with his purple scars all stretched out for the video camera.

She's still talking. I don't like this.

She's saying something. “And the color is excellent.”

The color is excellent. Yeah, right. The color is excellent.

Finally she lets me get the Jobst garments and comes over to help me put them on. “The purpose of wearing an elastic garment over burned skin is to prevent the scars from growing out of control as the skin heals.”

“Are they going to know what you're talking about?”

“These are the Jobst garments.” She points. I think she's a little annoyed with me.

Finally I've got them all on. They make me feel better, like I've got a protective coating on.

“The last thing Brent puts on, before he's ready to roll, is his mask. It's a clear mask made especially for Brent's face.”

I show off the mask like I'm a flight attendant.

Now we're going down to the gym so I can show how good I am at bowling.

A couple of weeks ago, I bowled a one forty-three, but now I can barely hit any pins. All my balls keep going off to the left. Jodi's still yammering on about how much I've improved.

I say, “What am I doing wrong?”

“What are you doing wrong? I think you're rushing.”

“Okay.”

I look at the camera, hold out my hands, and say in my most sarcastic voice, “I'm usually really, really good. Just not today.” That was kind of funny. Maybe I should do more stuff like that.

Jodi's telling me to bend down like I'm picking something up from the floor. I can do it pretty well with my left hand. I can bend over and stretch my trunk and just barely reach the floor. It kind of hurts because the scars are so tight and banded, but I can do it. With my right hand I can't even reach down to my knees.

Jodi says, “Okay, one more. Bowl a strike.”

“Okay.” Focus. Focus. Visualize the pins falling. Line up to the right. Bend over. Release the ball. Good. It's moving slowly, but it's headed toward the center pin. Keep going. Keep going. Shit. I got eight. I always get an eight when I'm trying for a strike.

Now I have to get naked and lie on the table and let them rub cream into my skin while they videotape. I get my clothes and Jobst garments off and get up on the table. Gina throws a towel to me so I can cover up my penis.

Viki sets up the camera in the corner, down near my left foot. Everybody seems so tense. I hope they can't see my penis with the camera. I try and adjust the towel so the camera can't see anything.

Viki says, “Okay, you guys, I'm going to start recording. Are you ready?”

Gina says, “Okay.”

I say, “Okay.” Viki presses record. My heart is beating so fast, just lying here. This sucks.

Viki's saying something about the scars and how they need moisture. God. God. God. Let me out of this fucking place.

Viki's voice sounds nervous. “The hypertrophic scarring in the lower extremities should be rubbed using a lateral motion, applying the Eucerin cream in an even fashion so that Brent's scars are blanched and the scar tissue is made more supple by the cream.”

I say, “I feel like Frankenstein.” Either no one heard me or no one thought that was funny. Maybe it wasn't funny.

Finally they finish and Viki turns off the camera. I feel like I've been under water for a long time. I leave tomorrow.

September 13, 1991
Falls Church, Virginia

I'm gone. No party. No ice cream. No pictures. They didn't do anything special, not like Children's, and I don't even care. I'm just happy to be finally leaving. I'm so happy to
be leaving. God. It's September 13th. Friday the 13th. Is that a bad omen?

February, March, April, May, June, July, August. That's more than seven stinking months. Seven months in hospitals, eating hospital food, sleeping in hospital beds, wearing hospital clothes, talking to hospital people. I used to be really nervous about going home, but now I can't wait to be back in my own bed, in my own house, with my dog and my mom and dad. Craig is off at college already.

Oh God, there it is. The carport, the bay window, the aluminum siding, the wooden fence with the chicken wire to keep Rusty in, the wreath on the front door, and Mom and Dad and Rusty and me. It's all here.

They made a Welcome Home sign. That's so nice. And there's Rusty. “Hey, Rusty. Hey, Rusty. Hey, Rusty. Yes, I'm happy to see you too. Yes, I am. Yes, I am.”

She's doing that thing she does when she gets excited. She runs around in circles around the kitchen into the dining room and back through the living room. That's so cute. She's so cute. God, it's nice to be back here.

I go downstairs into the family room. Yes. The comfy chair. I get to sit in the comfy chair. Mom asks if I want anything. “Maybe a Coke and a Snickers ice cream bar.”

This is the life. This really is the life. This is, like, what everybody dreams about when they come back home and they try to figure out what they're going to do next.

Chris calls, he says our old soccer coach Darrin wants to take us bowling. I think about saying no, I'm not in the mood, and then I think why the hell not.

I met Chris at the bus stop when we were eight years old, and we've been friends ever since then. We started playing on the same soccer team, and then we started hanging out, playing G.I. Joe and going to each other's birthday parties. He's a nice guy, although he's never been the coolest kid on the block.

They come to pick me up in Darrin's Jeep. For a long time, when he was our soccer coach, he had a red Mustang convertible. That was awesome.

“Hey, guys.”

“Hey, Brent. What's up?” Chris shakes my hand.

“Not much. What's up with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Cool.”

“Hey, Brent.” Darrin shakes my hand.

“Hey, so do you want to go?”

“Yeah.”

We head out to the Jeep. They leave the front seat for me. God, Chris has gotten tall. He must have grown six inches since I've seen him.

“Chris, you got so tall.”

“Yeah.”

“How tall are you?”

“Six-two.”

“Six-two?”

“Yeah.”

“Jesus, you're a giant.” The other thing is, now he's cool looking. He's wearing a blue bandanna on his head, I've never seen him do that before, and he kind of carries himself differently, like he's a man now or something.

“Chris, have you been working out?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“I'm going out for JV soccer so I've got to, you know, bulk up.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?” I'm just asking, kind of as a joke. Chris has never been much of a ladies' man. That was always my department.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yup.”

“Who? Anybody I know?”

“Did you know Denise? Laura's friend?”

“Yeah, I think I talked to her on the phone once.”

“Yeah, her.”

“What does she look like?”

“She's pretty. She's got brown hair.”

“Does she put out? Do you get it on?”

Darrin laughs. Chris sort of squints. I'm sure the answer is no.

“Well.”

“What?”

“We have some fun.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Like what? Kissing? Second base? Don't tell me you're doing it?”

“No. No. Like second or third.”

“What? You're joking.”

“No. No. I can't really talk about it, though. You know, you shouldn't kiss and tell.”

God, I always kissed and told him everything. I can't believe it. Chris is getting more action than me. I can't believe it. God, he's changed so much, and I'm just, Jesus, I'm just the same.

Chris and Darrin both have their own bowling balls. I can still only handle an eight-pound ball, and it's hard to find one of those with big enough holes in it. This one is nine pounds with big holes. I'll try it.

I have to take one of my Jobst gloves off to get my hand in the holes. I try to do it so nobody notices. It's always so weird when I take my gloves off because I have them on most of the time, and I start to think that that's what my skin looks like. And then I take them off and I'm always surprised that my fingers are so skinny and the skin is so fragile.

Darrin sets up the electronic scorekeeper. He puts me first, then Chris, and then him. I get my shoes on and walk out into the middle of the lane.

No pressure. No pressure. I don't like the way these shoes feel. They feel all sweaty and they hurt my heel. I pick up my ball with both hands and walk to the line. My arm feels stiff. This is much different than bowling in the hospital. There's so much more noise here. A guy next to me whips one down the lane and the pins clatter everywhere.

I roll my ball down toward the pins and it looks for a second like it's going to hit the headpin, and then it goes off to the right side and knocks down a couple. I look back at Chris and Darrin and they nod.

Chris says, “Go for the headpin.”

“I was.”

“Oh. Okay.”

My second ball goes down the left side and knocks down only one pin.

Chris goes next and gets a strike. How did he get so good?

Darrin gets a strike too. What the hell is going on?

It's my turn again. I get up. The ball feels heavier this time. Chris says, “Just relax.”

“Okay.”

I let the ball roll and it hits the ten pin and just barely knocks it down. I roll my second ball, but it just drifts right into the gutter. I sit down before it even gets to the pins.

Back home, Mom says, “How'd you do?”

“Okay, I bowled an eighty-two.”

“How'd everybody else do?”

“They're good. They bowled up in the hundreds.”

“Was it fun?”

“Yeah.”

“Was it nice to see Chris?”

“Yeah.”

“How'd he do?”

“I told you, a hundred and something.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. And was it fun to see him?”

“I told you, it was fun.”

“Okay. Did you guys make any more plans?”

“No.”

“Do you think you'll see him again soon?”

“I don't know.”

“Would you like to?”

“Sure.”

“Great, honey, I'm glad you had such a good time.”

“Okay. I'm gonna go watch TV.”

“Okay. Have fun. Do you need anything?”

“No. Thanks.”

When my skin is really itching, I have to get Mom or Dad to rub my back. I lie facedown on the brown corduroy couch and breathe through the cushions while they scratch my back with the palms of their hands. They still can't use their nails because the nails might tear the new skin, so they just use the palms of their hands.

Dad is much better at back scratching, probably because he likes his back scratched so much. He moves his hands really fast all over my back, and it feels great. When Mom does it, she's much more gentle and careful, but the itch is so down deep that she hardly even reaches it.

They're both pretty good at back massages. Dad rubs deep in the muscle and Mom rubs softly.

For back cracking, Dad is the one. I lie on the floor and put my head to the side. Dad and I have figured out that if he puts his hands on the sides of my spinal cord and pushes down hard, we can get a few of the vertebrae to crack. Sometimes he pushes down so hard that it feels like my rib cage is going to snap. Mom gets freaked out when we do that, but when they crack, God, it feels so good, it's like a little drug being released right into my brain.

We're going to meet Magic Johnson today. He's in D.C. doing a basketball camp. I've been waiting for this for so long.

Craig doesn't want to come. I don't know why. He says it's not his thing. I don't care.

I was going to wear my orange warm-up suit he sent me, but it's too small now. I never got to wear it. Not once. I'll just wear my signed T-shirt. That's good enough.

Dad's wearing a Michigan State T-shirt because both Dad and Magic Johnson went to college there. Maybe he thinks that Magic will like that. Dad brought two Magic Johnson official basketballs for Magic to sign. They're pretty cool. He got one for Craig too, even though Craig didn't even want to come. I wonder why he didn't want to come.

Dad parks the car. This must be the place. How do I look? I look stupid. I look really stupid. I'm wearing a Magic Johnson signed T-shirt to go meet Magic Johnson. Why am I doing that?

Dad goes into the building first and sees someone he knows. Dad always knows somebody. There are all these kids running around shooting baskets. Oh my God, there's Magic. He's showing some kid how to shoot.

Dad whispers in my ear, “Brenner, do you still want to play one-on-one with Magic?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I'm sure.” God, he's so tall. I've never seen anyone that tall. I didn't realize there were going to be other people here.

This guy leads us up some stairs into a private room. There's some cold cuts and cheese on the table and two giant buckets shaped like Pepsi cans filled with ice and soda.

The guy says, “You can have anything you want. Magic will be up in a few minutes.”

My hands are shaking. Why do my hands always shake when I'm nervous? Why am I so nervous? This is no big deal, just meeting my idol. My hero. The guy I've wanted to meet my whole life.

The door opens. There he is. He's so tall and sweaty. I can't think. I can't talk.

He comes right over to us and shakes my dad's hand first. He's smiling just like he does on TV. He says something to Dad about his Michigan State T-shirt.

Magic's looking at me. His hand is out. “Nice to meet you finally.”

“Hi. Nice to meet you.” His hands are so big. I can't believe it.

Magic leans down to me and says, “Your dad and I both went to Michigan State. I want you to go there too.”

“Okay.” Why does he want me to go there? Why does he care where I go to college?

Someone takes a picture and we shake hands again. That's it. He's leaving. It's over.

I'm in the basement playing
Super Mario 2
. I'm having trouble getting past the egg guy on level two. It's so cool down here, and there's no sun to make your scars even more purple and disgusting.

My hair is all long and shaggy and stupid looking. I really need it cut, but I don't want to go to one of those beauty
salons because what if they start asking me questions? I asked Mom to call Craig and see if he'd cut my hair this weekend.

“Brent?” Mom calls from the top of the stairs.

“What?”

“Craig's on the phone.”

“Tell him I'm playing
Super Mario 2
.”

“All right.”

God, every time I get to the egg guy, he jumps on top of me and kills me. Maybe if I use the princess, I'll have a better chance of killing him because she can fly.

“Brent?”

“What?”

“Craig said he's not sure if he can cut your hair.”

“What? Why?”

“I don't know. I think he's worried he might cut you.”

“What?” Jesus, what a dork. All I wanted was to get a haircut from my brother. I thought it would be something we could do together. Dick.

I'm going to the Hair Cuttery. Mom says she'll drop me off and come back in a half hour. I really don't want to do this.

It smells weird in here, like bananas and hair spray. Someone's in the back, sweeping hair. The woman behind the counter is chewing gum and reading
Redbook
.

“Hi.”

“Can I help you?”

“Um, I need a haircut.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No.”

“All right, I think Jill might be able to take you.”

A woman calls out from the back, “I'm on my break.”

“You've been on your break for an hour and a half.”

“Oh Jesus, all right, I'll take him.”

“She'll take you. Go on back.”

“Thanks.”

Jill is dressed in a black-and-white jumpsuit and wearing a hat with rhinestones and a bolo tie. She says, “Have a seat. What are we going to do today?”

“Um, I don't know, maybe take an inch off and cut around the ears.” My mom told me to say that when I was in fourth grade, and I still say it.

“Okay, so you want kind of a layered thing?”

“I guess.”

“Great. Why don't you come to the back and we'll give you a shampoo.”

I always used to love this part, where they massage your scalp and use that shampoo that smells like dessert, but now it's kind of a hard stretch on my neck. It doesn't feel very good.

She's rubbing that stuff into my hair, and I can tell she's gearing up for some small talk. Shit.

“So, do you go to school?”

“Um, yeah.”

“Where?”

“Um, I'm homeschooling right now, but I'm going to go to Marshall High School.”

“Oh, really? I went to Marshall.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, graduated in '86. Do you know Mr. Mensch?”

“No, I don't go there yet.”

“Oh, right. If you get a chance to take his class, you definitely should. I think he teaches biology or chemistry or one of those science things. He's great.” She's about to start asking me about my face. I can feel it, any second.

“Okay.” Maybe if I think of something for her to talk about, I can stop her from talking about me. Maybe if I ask her about her kids. I think I saw a picture of a little girl in a cowboy hat at her chair.

“So what happened to you?” Fuck, I missed my oppor-tunity.

“What do you mean?”