M.I.N.D. (9 page)

Tattoo Girl glances over at a monitor. “Hey, Sean,” she says to the cute guy in white scrubs who's clicking away at a keyboard. “Wanna bite?”

“Taste you later, baby,” he says, his eyes never leaving the screen.

Interesting. Is Tattoo Girl dating the voice in the walls? Is Sean the S in her S.L. tattoo? I have half a mind to tell him how she was flirting with Ethan. Serve her right for ignoring me in the waiting room.

Not that I care who she flirts with, including Ethan. The jerk and the jezebel. They deserve each other.

She looks at the image on the monitor. Whoa. Is that cauliflower-thing my brain? It's bigger than I thought. Is this cool or what?

Even cooler, I've just discovered the perfect way to eat anything I like without the guilt or gaining an ounce.

Tattoo Girl's stomach rolls over. “I think I'm going to puke.”

Okay, maybe not so perfect.

She holds her stomach and groans.

“I'm done,” Sean says. “Get the chick out of the tube so we can split.”

Time for me to split too. I feel like I'm trapped on a tilt-a-whirl that's spinning out of control, and the operator is a sadistic maniac who won't make it stop. My only hope is that Tattoo Girl is too busy worrying about hurling to be thinking of me, since her not thinking about me is the only way out.

I roll the mantra
I want to be me
over and over in my mind, and vavoom! A force as powerful as the MRI's magnet yanks me out of her body and thus mercifully her stomach, and in the next instant I'm back in the tunnel.

My stomach is intact, but my heart starts racing.

Breathe. Just breathe.

The metal table slides back out. Tattoo Girl is standing on the other end. She's smiling, but she looks a little green. The table comes to a halt and she says, “That wasn't so bad, was it?”

“Yeah, right. I had a blast. If I put in a quarter, can I have another ride?”

“Huh?”

That girl has no sense of humor. Then again, I don't feel much like laughing either.

Eight

Deal or No Deal

I'm running up Leanne's walkway when she flings open the front door. “I've been waiting forever,” she says, nervously tugging at a strand of hair. “Where were you?”

“What is it?” I ask when I catch my breath. “What's so important that you couldn't tell me on the phone?”

“I need you to do something,” she says frantically. “What took you so long?”

“I had to talk my mother into letting me out. Nothing new showed up on the MRI, but she still thinks I'm dying.” At the word
dying
, Leanne turns sheet-white. “Don't worry,” I tell her. “I'm fine. Though after jogging the entire three blocks to get here, don't be surprised if thousands of little electrical jolts suddenly start streaming through my nerves and I go off like a pinwheel.”

“Get in here,” she says, pulling me on my arm.

I look closely at her face. Her eyes are red-rimmed and puffy. Has she been crying? “Is it Josh?” I ask. “What did he do now?”

“Shh!” She glances down the hallway. “I don't want her to hear.”

I follow her upstairs to her room. “Leanne, what is it?” I ask after she's carefully closed the door behind us.

“Do you really believe all that stuff?”

“What stuff?” I ask.

“You know, the afterlife. The hereafter. Astral bodies. Spiritual stuff. Do you really believe that the spirit lives on?”

“Why? Are you thinking about having me committed?”

She bursts into tears. “It's my mother. She's sick.” She gestures dramatically. “It could even be fatal.”

Did I hear her right? Her tear-streaked face tells me I did. “Oh, my God,” I say, wrapping my arms around her. “Oh, my God. What do the doctors say?”

“I don't know. She won't talk about it. That's why I called you to come right over. I need you to do something.”

I feel like my heart has been ripped into pieces. I know what it's like to lose a parent. What it's like to lie in bed night after night praying that when you wake up, you'll realize that it's all been a nightmare, that it didn't really happen, that your heart is still intact. “I'll do anything you want,” I tell her. “Just name it. Oh my God, Leeny.”

She sniffles into my shoulder.

Something occurs to me and I gently pull away. “Um, Leeny? You do know I'm not a faith healer, don't you? Leeny?”

“Of course I know. I'm not an idiot. I need you to do that jumping thing. I need you to find out if something's wrong with her.”

“Wait a minute. I thought you said she was dying.”

“Well, she could be. She's been really tense, and whenever I ask her what's wrong, she ignores me. And she's sweaty. She's always opening the windows and fanning herself. Plus, she snaps at my dad. At first I thought it was the same old argument—she hates that he spends more time in the air than on the ground—but then tonight I overheard them talking about changing their wills, and that's why I called you.” She plops down on her beanbag. “Either she's dying or they're getting a divorce.”

I breathe out with relief. And then I get mad. “Leeny, you scared the pee out of me. She's not dying. My mother already told you what's wrong with her. It's menopause.”

“It's not menopause. For one thing, she's always tired. When my aunt went through the change, she took up snowboarding. Also, Aunt Trudy gained thirty pounds, but my mom has no appetite at all. Please, Cass, I need to know what's going on. Okay, so she's not dying, but she's driving me crazy. Plus, she never cooks anymore and I'm sick of takeout.”

“And I told you, I don't read minds.”

“Whatever. Just do it, okay? She's in the family room with my dad. Whenever I'm around, they change the subject, so I need you to listen to what they're saying. Maybe they'll talk about her treatment. I need to know why she's such a nutcase.”

“Forget it. It was traumatic enough being my own mother, and now you want me to be yours? Besides, I told you, she's fine. It's not fatal, it's hormonal. And I'm no spy.”

“Since when? Did you decide that before or after you found my pills?”

I purse my lips. “I thought we resolved all that. I can't believe you're still upset.”

“And I can't believe you'd body-jump for a cheesesteak, but you won't do it to help a friend. You're so selfish. You're a discredit to superheroes everywhere.”

I snort. “I'm not Wonder Woman, Leeny. And like I told you on the phone, I didn't know beforehand that dinner was included with the MRI.”

She gives me a long, pouting look. I hate it when she gives me that look. She reminds me of a two-year-old.

“Oh, all right,” I say. “Go downstairs and get me on her mind.” I kick off my shoes, fluff up her pillow, climb onto her bed. “And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to take a nap.”

This will be my third so-called nap today. Which means another post-jump headache. How many headaches should a person have in a day? Even worse, here I am, only sixteen, about to have a hot flash.

***

“…feel awkward,” Mrs. Lerner is saying. “Why can't she talk to her own mother?”

“Her mom is going through something,” Leanne replies. “We think it's the change, even though she's only forty-five. Is it normal to be so sweaty? How long does it take to actually change?” She stares at her mother as if expecting her to transform right there on the spot.

“True, it's a little young, but it's different for everyone. And it's perfectly normal to sweat. As for Cassie's problem, she's just a late bloomer. I'm sure they're still growing. They'll come in eventually.”

You've got to be kidding. This is what Leanne talked about to get me on her mother's mind? My boobs? She talked about my boobs in front of her father? Just because he's watching a bunch of monster trucks destroy each other on TV, it doesn't mean he hasn't heard every word she said. I'm pretty sure that nothing is wrong with Mrs. Lerner, but I'm seriously worried about her daughter.

“I'll be sure to tell her,” Leanne says, and then pauses. “Mom?”

“What now, Leanne?”

A little testy, are we?

“Are you feeling any better?” Leanne asks.

“I'm fine,” Mrs. Lerner says, but the knot in her chest says something else, not to mention the queasy feeling rolling around in her stomach. What is it with me? Why do I always pick rabbits who get nauseous? Funny, though. I could sure go for a plate of goat cheese and olives.

“You don't look fine,” Leanne says. “You look…green.”

“I said I'm fine. Is there something wrong with your hearing?”

Leanne's hands shoot into the air. “See? What did I tell you?”

“Don't use that tone with me, young lady.”

“I wasn't talking to you,” Leanne retorts, and storms out of the family room.

“We should tell her,” Mr. Lerner says to his wife. He touches her face, her ears, her lips. His eyes drop to her chest. Then he chuckles. “Speaking of ballooning breasts…”

If he's getting ideas, I'm so history.

“Stop acting like an adolescent,” Mrs. Lerner says, pushing away his hand. “You're minimizing my feelings again. Will you please be serious?”

He grins. “Can I help it if I still find my wife exciting? Honey, you need to lighten up. You know I love you.”

“It's not me you love. You love having a personal maid.”

“Especially when all you're wearing is that little apron,” he says with a wink.

Ew. Too much information. I'm going to kill Leanne.

“Don't even think it,” Mrs. Lerner says, moving down the couch. “You stay away from me, you hear?”

Poor Mr. Lerner. He looks like a dejected puppy. Come on, Mrs. L, you don't have to make out with him right here in the family room—in fact, please don't—but you can at least be nice to him. I mean, look at those eyes. And those yummy lips! And those wonderful shoulders! Who knew a crew neck shirt could be so sexy?

Wait. What am I doing? This is Leanne's dad, for cripes' sake. And he's ancient. What is the matter with me?

“I don't understand why you're so unhappy,” he says.

“How many times do we have to go over this? Everything tastes like crap, I'm always throwing up, and in a couple of months I'm going to look like a bloated elephant. What is there to be happy about?”

Ugh. Nasty. And what is that smell coming from the kitchen? What kind of takeout did they have for dinner, dirty socks? If this is what the change is like, I can tell you right now, I'm never getting old. Though to be honest, it sounds more like…holy crow. Is she saying what I think she's saying?

“I think you're beautiful,” he says.

Aw…so sweet!

“I can't believe you,” she says, glaring at him. “One daughter is married, two are in college, and Leanne has two years left of high school. What about my plans? I wanted to go back to school. Now, just when I finally have my life back, you want to start over?”

“It's going to be a boy this time, I'm sure of it. Admit it, Cheryl. You've always wanted a little boy.”

A new baby! A little boy! How fun! Except…isn't Mrs. Lerner too old?

“I'm too old,” she says.

“Children keep you young,” he says.

“Says he who never lifted a finger the first four times. I had to be everything—cook, laundress, chauffeur, confidante, disciplinarian—”

“What are you talking about?” he says, looking offended. “I yelled at the girls all the time.”

“When you were in the same city, which was only half the time. Skyping does not make you a father figure. Sure, you made rules. Rules they never kept.” She shakes her head. “And now, with your overseas route, it's worse than ever. Well, I'm tired of it. You get to come and go as you please while I'm stuck here with diapers? I don't think so, Mark. It's
my
turn now.”

Wow. She's really angry. I can feel her blood boiling, which can't be good for the baby. Calm down, Mrs. L!

“Aw, honey, come one. You'll feel different when the nausea stops. You always do.”

“You're not listening, Mark. My mind is made up. I'm not raising another child all on my own.”

His face whitens. “What are you saying?”

“You know what I'm saying. Oh, don't look at me like that. I'm only seven weeks along. And another thing,” she says, wagging a finger at him. “I want you to get snipped.”

Snipped? What is this “snipped”?

His face pales. “I'm not getting a vasectomy, so you can just forget it.”

Oh, gross. That's it. I'm outta here.

***

Leanne's jaw drops. “Pregnant? No way!”

“See? You were worried for nothing.” Propped up on my elbow on her bed, I try to focus, squinting in pain to unite her two faces. This latest headache is a doozy. It feels like someone drove an ice pick right through each eyelid.

She jumps up from the beanbag and starts pacing the room. “Are you nuts? She's too old. People will think
I'm
the mother. She'll probably make me babysit. And feed the little runt. And change its diapers,” she moans.

“If she has it. I don't think she wants it.”

Leanne stops moving. “What a stupid thing to say. Of course she wants it. Why wouldn't she want it?”

“Um, because her four daughters ran her ragged and she's tired of being a mother?”

“Did she say she's going to get rid of it? Did she actually say the words?”

“No, not exactly—”

“You're wrong,” she says, flopping back onto the beanbag. “She wants it.
I
was an accident—and look how
I
turned out.” She gives me a thoughtful look. “Though having a baby at her age would be ridiculous. By the time it graduates from high school, she'll be in a nursing home. In the meantime, I don't need some snotty rugrat following me around.” Then she falls quiet. “So what did it feel like? I mean, aside from all that stuff you read about, like being nauseous. Did you feel it kicking? Is it a boy?”

“It's way too early. It's just seven weeks. But she does feel nauseous.”

“So I guess it doesn't have toes yet. I wonder if it has a heart. It's pretty incredible, actually. New life, and all that.”

“Pretty incredible,” I agree, trying to read her mood. Is she or is she not unhappy about this?

“No, really. One minute there's nothing, and the next minute there's life.”

“It's not exactly the next minute. It takes nine months.”

“Still,” she says, “where does it come from?”

“If you don't know by now, you're in deep trouble.”

“Very funny. That's not what I mean, you dork.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say. “I wonder about all that stuff too.”

“It makes a person think. Makes you reevaluate. Like this body-jumping thing. Makes you think anything can happen.” Then she sighs.

“What's wrong?” I say.

“Do you think everything happens for a reason?”

“I dunno. Maybe. Why?”

She shrugs. “I was just wondering,” she says, looking out the window. “Sometimes things aren't what they seem.”

***

“I've been thinking,” Leanne says the next night, dabbing at a smudge on my eyelid.

“That's always dangerous,” I reply.

I don't have a date, no surprise, and Josh is working, no surprise there either, so here I am on a Friday night, sitting on my bed, getting a makeover. At the moment Leanne is messing with my eyelids, and she won't let me look in the mirror until she's done. Very scary. The last time she worked on my eyes she gave them wings.

Uh-oh. She's reaching for her purple pencil. “No, not the purple!” I groan.

“Hold still,” she says while no doubt drawing something horrific like a snake. In a past life, she was probably a tattoo artist. She sits back and examines her work. “Nice,” she says, and hands me a mirror.