Hole in the Head
by Jeremy Morrison
I should’ve said I did it, Timmy thinks. I should’ve said I was angry. Then they would have left me ‘lone today.
It is the first moment he’s been alone the whole day. Early that morning, he woke to a concerned voice that prodded at him with the words, “Are you okay?” He thought it was his mother, but it was the nurse. “I’m fine,” he’d said. “Sorry ‘bout the damage the elephant did.”
“What elephant?” asked the nurse.
“The one I pulled out of my head.”
She kept asking about the elephant, and he kept telling her that he had pulled from his head. She left. Then in came John, the hospital’s shrink. Timmy had first met John when his mother was in the hospital for her brain surgery. From the look on John’s face Timmy knew it was better to lie. That’s when he started to say that he’d done it. That he was “angry ‘bout his mother’s death, ‘bout his brain tumor, ‘bout his operation.” He told John that he’d never seen an elephant. Then he told the same to his father, who was supposed to be at work, and to Dr. Jack. Then the nurse came and helped him move across the hall into room 111.
Impatient as most 12-year-olds, he puts the sheet over his head and starts feeling the edge of the bandage. He finds a tiny fold and he sneaks in the edge of his fingernail. Soon he has his whole finger in there. When he feels the spidery stitches, he quickly and guiltily slides his hand out and pulls the sheet down. He looks at the door to see if it is still shut. It is.
I’ll have to be more careful, he thinks. I don’t want to pull another elephant out of my head.
The night before, he had put his hand into his head for the first time. He had felt a tiny piece of the tumor Dr. Jack had overlooked. He was wondering if Dr. Jack had made the same mistake with his mother. Then he remembered his mother had promised to take him to the circus this past summer to see an elephant. Tamara had laughed and laughed when she realized that he was right, that he’d never seen an elephant. While listening to the memory of her laugh, he suddenly felt something heavy. He realized it was an elephant. Of course Tamara had never taken him to the circus. Once Dr. Jack had diagnosed her with a brain tumor all the family’s plans had changed. Timmy still wanted to see what an elephant looked like in real life, so he took it out of his head.
He’d left behind the piece of tumor and all day he had wanted to go back in there, but they hadn’t left him alone.
It’s dark enough and Timmy can’t wait any longer. He finds the same tiny crease in the bandage and slides in his fingernail, then a finger. The bandage keeps stretching. This time, the stitches don’t give him a scare. The incision feels slimy with pus but doesn’t hurt to touch. When he pries, the stitches become elastic. His skull spreads open like a hole in pizza dough. He puts his hand into his head. Feeling around for the left behind piece of tumor, he realizes that the inside feels less like a brain and more like a mind. He picks up something oddly fuzzy yet sharp. He touches it for awhile before he recognizes the smudged lowercase “a”. He finds an old match box car, an orange one that he thought he had left on the family’s trip to Uncle Julius’ house in Kentucky. Of course, he doesn’t recognize the car from its color; like everyone else he can’t feel orange. He recognizes the wobbly axel. Miraculously, he straightens out the axle. Feeling bliss, he wonders if he can find his mother. He realizes he’ll have to imagine her small and keep her more secret than he’d kept the elephant.
- - -
Jeremy Morrison concentrated on creative writing at Skidmore College where his novella Him and Her won the Periclean Award. Since, he has been on a writer’s retreat through The Buzzards Bay Writing Project and completed the Advanced Fiction Writing course through Morehead State University. He lives with his wife and two daughters in Massachusetts.
by Jeremy Morrison
I should’ve said I did it, Timmy thinks. I should’ve said I was angry. Then they would have left me ‘lone today.
It is the first moment he’s been alone the whole day. Early that morning, he woke to a concerned voice that prodded at him with the words, “Are you okay?” He thought it was his mother, but it was the nurse. “I’m fine,” he’d said. “Sorry ‘bout the damage the elephant did.”
“What elephant?” asked the nurse.
“The one I pulled out of my head.”
She kept asking about the elephant, and he kept telling her that he had pulled from his head. She left. Then in came John, the hospital’s shrink. Timmy had first met John when his mother was in the hospital for her brain surgery. From the look on John’s face Timmy knew it was better to lie. That’s when he started to say that he’d done it. That he was “angry ‘bout his mother’s death, ‘bout his brain tumor, ‘bout his operation.” He told John that he’d never seen an elephant. Then he told the same to his father, who was supposed to be at work, and to Dr. Jack. Then the nurse came and helped him move across the hall into room 111.
Impatient as most 12-year-olds, he puts the sheet over his head and starts feeling the edge of the bandage. He finds a tiny fold and he sneaks in the edge of his fingernail. Soon he has his whole finger in there. When he feels the spidery stitches, he quickly and guiltily slides his hand out and pulls the sheet down. He looks at the door to see if it is still shut. It is.
I’ll have to be more careful, he thinks. I don’t want to pull another elephant out of my head.
The night before, he had put his hand into his head for the first time. He had felt a tiny piece of the tumor Dr. Jack had overlooked. He was wondering if Dr. Jack had made the same mistake with his mother. Then he remembered his mother had promised to take him to the circus this past summer to see an elephant. Tamara had laughed and laughed when she realized that he was right, that he’d never seen an elephant. While listening to the memory of her laugh, he suddenly felt something heavy. He realized it was an elephant. Of course Tamara had never taken him to the circus. Once Dr. Jack had diagnosed her with a brain tumor all the family’s plans had changed. Timmy still wanted to see what an elephant looked like in real life, so he took it out of his head.
He’d left behind the piece of tumor and all day he had wanted to go back in there, but they hadn’t left him alone.
It’s dark enough and Timmy can’t wait any longer. He finds the same tiny crease in the bandage and slides in his fingernail, then a finger. The bandage keeps stretching. This time, the stitches don’t give him a scare. The incision feels slimy with pus but doesn’t hurt to touch. When he pries, the stitches become elastic. His skull spreads open like a hole in pizza dough. He puts his hand into his head. Feeling around for the left behind piece of tumor, he realizes that the inside feels less like a brain and more like a mind. He picks up something oddly fuzzy yet sharp. He touches it for awhile before he recognizes the smudged lowercase “a”. He finds an old match box car, an orange one that he thought he had left on the family’s trip to Uncle Julius’ house in Kentucky. Of course, he doesn’t recognize the car from its color; like everyone else he can’t feel orange. He recognizes the wobbly axel. Miraculously, he straightens out the axle. Feeling bliss, he wonders if he can find his mother. He realizes he’ll have to imagine her small and keep her more secret than he’d kept the elephant.
- - -
Jeremy Morrison concentrated on creative writing at Skidmore College where his novella Him and Her won the Periclean Award. Since, he has been on a writer’s retreat through The Buzzards Bay Writing Project and completed the Advanced Fiction Writing course through Morehead State University. He lives with his wife and two daughters in Massachusetts.
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