Halloween night, and no one’s paying attention to me! That’s no way to treat a kid, ya know. Heck, Halloween and kids go together like pork and beans or ice cream and cake. Boy, what I wouldn’t do for some ice cream and cake right about now. But, yeah, you’d think my Ma and Pa would pay some attention to me after me being sick for the past three months. I mean, this is the first time I’ve felt good since the end of June, and they won’t take me out to get candy.
Earlier, right around the same time I started feeling better, when my Ma walked down the hall outside my room, I asked her, “What gives?” But she didn’t answer. Shoot, for all I know, I only imagined I asked her that. A few times, over the course of this sickness, I’d been delusional. At one point, about two months ago, I thought my bedroom was the moon and my Ma was a spaceman coming to take me away in a spaceship. Although it scared me when I was going through it, now that I feel better, it sounds kinda fun.
But all that seems to be over. As the saying goes, I'm finally out of the woods. And sure, I woke up this morning still feeling bad—really bad, actually. My bones ached, my head ached. But all the pain is gone now. Maybe it’s the new pills my Ma gave me. Or maybe it’s like a miracle or something—I don’t know. The funny thing is, there was a warning on the pill bottle that said: ‘Causes Drowsiness’. Yet, I don’t feel tired at all.
Around four in the afternoon, two of my best friends, Johnny and Steven, came by to check on me and to see if there was any chance I could go out trick-or-treating with them. Johnny had on a pirate costume, and Steven was dressed as the Wolfman. My mom told them I couldn’t go out and, yes, at four, I still felt awful—like someone was mixing my guts with a big spoon or something.
I’m glad they remembered me. The last time I saw them was in June; we played football. My other friends probably forgot about me since I hadn’t been back to school. This was going to be the first year of middle school. If not for this stupid illness, I would’ve had six different periods, plus lunch. That means six different teachers. That would’a been kinda cool. Man, I hate being sick.
Instead of different teachers, I see different doctors. I’ve seen at least ten different doctors and have been rushed to the hospital three times. Once, I had a fever of a hundred and five. Later, I heard my Ma crying to my Pa about that one. She was talking about how I convulsed. I don’t exactly know what that means, but it had her very upset. Anyway, out of all the doctors, Dr. Mann has to be my favorite. I mean, he’s okay, but his nurse, Nurse Shelly, is primo; that’s why he's my favorite. She always gives me a sucker. I don’t tell her it makes me sick because she’s so pretty.
My mom—she's great by the way—knew how much I love Halloween, so three days prior to the spooky night, she brought a pumpkin into my room, and let me draw a face on it, then my brother carved it out. That was really nice of them. But all it did was make me miss not being able to go out with my friends in a costume.
So here I am, back in bed on Halloween night. It would be one thing if they told me no, you can’t go out, but why ignore me? I don’t get it. Perhaps I should go back downstairs and see if they’ll talk to me yet.
Getting out of bed, I’m surprised to find it doesn’t hurt anymore. Those pills must be something else. I knew I was getting better, but my gosh, I didn’t think I was getting this much better. Normally, or at least during the past three weeks, when I got out of bed, my bones and my muscles would burn like mad. When I walked, it felt like my joints were made of sandpaper and I cried. I didn’t even have a headache anymore. With that in mind, I did a couple of jumping jacks. Not because I like jumping jacks, when I had to do them, last year in gym class, I hated it. But I did them because I could.
It was around ten o’clock. Maybe it wasn’t too late for me to go out, I considered. And then I concluded that it probably was too late. Plus, I didn’t have a costume to dress up in anyway.
Scared one wrong move would bring all the pain back, I walked down the hallway, slowly. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t complaining. Reaching the end of the hall, I looked down the steps, at the front door. Beside the door, on the table where my Pa put his keys when he got home, I saw a big bucket that, earlier, had been full of Smarties, Tootsie Pops, and Lic ‘n’ Stick’s. Now it was empty.
Darn it, I thought.
In the living room, I saw the usual scene; my Pa on the couch watching sports. On this particular night, he was watching game five of the World Series. My Ma sat in her rocking chair, next to the fireplace, listening to her tiny radio placed on the end table next to her. Mr. Blue by The Fleetwoods played. My brother lay on the floor in front of the television, not paying attention to it, mind you. Instead, he had his Halloween candy spread out on the carpet before him. Through sinful eyes, I could tell he was trying to decide what he should eat first.
My mother spoke up, talking to my brother, “You should share some of that with your brother.”
“I will Ma. I’m just separating it into the good candy pile and bad candy pile.”
Right then, I knew which pile I’d be getting. That was all right, though; at least it was something. My younger brother and I were pretty close. He wasn’t the tough type—and two years younger than me. In fact, he got picked on a lot at school. There were a few times I had to set a bully straight. I never told my Ma or Pa this, but I kinda liked chasing bullies off. Really, I hadn’t seen my brother much over the last three months. My parents didn’t prevent him from coming in and seeing me, I just think my condition frightened him. Usually, we’d spend a lot of time together. Now that I’m feeling better, I can’t wait to play with him again.
My father spoke up, speaking to my brother, also. “Well, you give your brother some of that candy in the good pile, you hear?”
“I was going to give him all the candy in the good pile. I’ll eat the bad stuff this year.”
When I heard that, it really felt good. I wanted to cry—but didn’t.
“That’s a good boy.” My father said. Like my mom, my dad was a good dad. The fishing trips we had gone on over the years were pure joy. He and his childhood friend, Ron, who owned a boat, would take me and my brother up to the lake in Bridgetown, Maryland, at least four times a year—once each season. And, mind you, this was every year since I was six and my brother was four. Even though they caught many more fish than we did, I still enjoyed every second on those boat trips. It made me feel like one of the guys. This sickness made me miss the last trip that he and Ron went on. My dad was going to stay home, but I told him to go and catch a big catfish for me. I couldn’t convince my brother to go, though. He stayed home.
I walked further into the living room, still feeling great! Those pain pills my mom gave me must be some kind of wonderful. My mother was too busy with her knitting to see that I was up and out of bed. It really did my heart good to know that I had a Ma as caring as she was. She had taken care of me from day one of my sickness… and before my sickness, of course. Anything I needed, she would be there for me. I’m very sure that it was tough on her—waiting on me hand and foot for three months without a break. But that’s Ma; always there when I needed her.
When I was five, I had fallen off my bike and skinned my knee pretty bad. And although it was only a skinned knee, that’s a pretty big thing to a five-year-old—you know? It was only a surface wound, but all I saw was blood. When I got home, with tears in my eyes, she was there. When I was seven, and got a black eye from a baseball that I didn’t see coming, she was there with the ice pack. And I’ll never forget the time I was nine; I was climbing the tree out back of our house, and missed-stepped one of the branches. Boy, oh boy, I went crashing down to the ground with a thud. It wasn’t a far drop (fifteen feet at the most). But she was there to pick me up. And then the sickness hit me; she was there to nurse me back to health. Judging by the way I feel, she did a pretty darn good job.
I walked further into the living room, surprised that no one had noticed me yet. You know, you would think parents would notice their child, who has not been out of bed for three months, walk into the living room, right? Yet, my dad went on watching the game, my mother went on crocheting, and my brother continued separating the candy. I wanted to say something, but for some reason, no words came.
So, I decided to walk further into the room… Still… nothing.
What’s going on here?
Then my brother looked over his shoulder in my direction. The expression on his face was one of puzzlement, kind of like: ‘What are YOU doing out of bed?’ I smiled at him, and just as I smiled, he looked away, turning his attention back to his candy without saying a word. Now the look of puzzlement plastered my face.
I walked—you guessed it—further into the room. In fact, I walked in front of the television. This will, without a doubt, get my father’s attention. Even though his Orioles hadn’t been in the World Series in years, he loved his baseball no matter who was playing. But, what do you know? He didn’t seem to notice me. And when Kirk Gibson hit a game-winning home run, he got to his feet and cheered.
Was this a dream?
Maybe that’s what it was—a dream. After all, the pain pills did say they caused drowsiness. But, gosh, I’ve never had a dream that felt so real.
Since I, obviously, was getting nowhere in the living room, I went back down the hall to my bedroom. Entering my bedroom, I saw myself lying in bed—my eyes closed. My stomach… my stomach unmoving. It then occurred to me that my sickness must’ve been much more serious than Ma led on. That, and those pills she gave me must not have been as good as I thought.
That was in 1988. Frankly, I don’t know what year it is now. All I know is that a new family lives in my house now. I see them, of course. But don’t bother them at all. I’m not even sure how to bother them if I wanted to.
My last night on earth still haunts me. Funny, huh? Me, the ghost, is haunted by something. So yeah, that’s my story. Died on Halloween. And I never even got to eat one last piece of candy… that stinks.