For All of Eternity - Chapter 4

I edited and rewrote Chapter 4! Here it is.

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Chapter 4 - 100 Things

“So I’m going to die in two months.”

I look up from my notebook to see Mike grimly set his mouth in a straight line. I’m drawing infinity symbols again, something I do from time to time. I have an obsession with infinity. I love the idea of forever, and how infinity just stretches on and on and on.

Mike doesn’t get it. He doesn’t believe in forever or eternity or infinity. He thinks everything has an expiration date.

He’s so cynical sometimes. But that’s one thing I like about Mike. I don’t like the trait in others, but in Mike, it feels complementary to me.

Sometimes I compliment Mike to my friends and talk to them about all the things I like about him. My friends think I’m obsessed. I’m not obsessed, I’m just a big fan, which doesn’t have be mutually exclusive.  

There’s a lot of things I like about him. I made a list of all the things I like about him in my diary. There’s about 100 things, all highlighted with light pink marker.

Ok, so maybe I am a little obsessed.

All my friends keep diaries. But I tell everyone my diary is a journal. I think it’s too heteronormative to call my journal a diary when it really should be referred to as a journal. Because that’s what it is. It’s a simple black leather notebook with little grid squares on bamboo paper. It’s not a Barbie colored notebook with a lock and key, which a lot of my friends have.

I gave Mike my rant about people can be so heteronormative, and diaries are really just the unisexual term journals, but Mike of course had to give a heteronormative reply:

“Girls have diaries. Boy have journals.”

Typical. That’s so typical of Mike. Mike is not only a 100% heterosexual boy who’s six years old and counting, but also he’s a conservative Christian male. Those two, can be mutually exclusive.

Also, I’m using the word heteronormative a lot. Which is weird, because I’m Republican, and so is Mike.

I’m also a conservative Christian female who’s six years old and counting. But heteronormativity can go to Hell, I believe in unisex clothing and unisex books and unisex bathrooms.

Gross, maybe not the bathrooms. I wouldn’t want Mike and I to be mutually exclusive.

Anyway, Mike keeps a journal too.

He started keeping a journal after he saw that I keep one too. Probably to list out all his memories before he dies. He’s not going to die when he’s 6 years old, that’s just unlucky. It’s like the equivalent of seeing a black cat in the morning and going to Hell that night. It’s like the equivalent of waking up and it’s Friday the 13th, and Hell’s waiting for you in your Halloween costume.

Mike is going to die a conservative Christian male in his 90’s, or be centunarian and die when he’s past 100 years old, because Christians live forever, well into old age.

“Mike, you’re not going to die. I prayed for you.”

Mike rolls his eyes. Something he does routinely, almost as often as I blow my nose.  

Clutching his hands in mock prayer, he says,

“Not this again, Sam. There’s no point in praying, God isn’t going to listen to us, we’re just kids.”

I frown at him. For someone who’s so conservative, he sure is skeptical of God. I know he’s Christian, but he’s not as Christian as me. He still doubts God and doesn’t read the Bible that much, not as much as me. And he doesn’t pray as often I do. I pray all the time, even for nonbelievers, even when they make fun of me for my prayers. I don’t care, I’m still going to pray. You can take Holy Spirit away from me but you can’t take Holy Spirit out of me.

Taking my Holy Bible out from my backpack, I set it on the table in front of us. I put my hand over it, something I do, which people think is superstitious. But the Holy Spirit gives me healing powers, and I’m going to try to heal Mike after I pray.

I can feel Holy Spirit going into my hands. Taking a deep breath, I grin and turn to Mike.

“I’m going to pray for you now, Mikey!”

I call Mike Mikey sometimes, because it’s cuter and we’re kids. He doesn’t like it, he prefers Mike and glares at me whenever I call him by his nickname, which he is doing right now.

I wonder if he would prefer it if I called him Michael.

I should use Mike’s real name in prayer though, on the infinitesimal chance that God gets confused who Mikey is.

No chance though. God knows everything, he is all knowing and all powerful. He wouldn’t get confused.

I close my eyes, clasp my hands together and start praying. Mike falls silent, and I can feel his eyes on me, watching.

“Lord in Heaven, you are our provider and our protector. You bring us hope and joy and peace. You are goodness and graciousness, compassionate and caring, and you loved us first. We love because you first loved us. I lift up Michael John Kent to you. I pray for his upcoming surgery, that it will be go smoothly and he will be safe. I pray for his healing, that you will heal him. God of all comfort, comfort him in his period of pain and sorrow, and heal his hurts. Heal his heart from its wounds, and grant him whole health. I pray for his recovery from his sickness and that he will remain in joy in your infinite embrace. In your infinite wisdom, we seek your guidance and blessings over our lives. Guide us to a place of understanding where we remember to put all our faith in you and your promises. For we know that the plans you have for us are to prosper us and give us hope for a better future. Would you give Mike the future he so deserves? Thank you God for all your blessings. In Jesus name, amen.”

I open my eyes, feeling a bit teary.

Praying does that to me. Sometimes I get really emotional about God, which other kids think is stupid, but I don’t care. Anyone who does not love does not know God, because God is love. Whenever I pray, I am reminded of God’s love. How he extended his love towards me and saved me from disease and pestilence. And how he’s going to save Mike too.

Mike’s eyes are glistening too, moved. He never cries, unlike me who cries all the time, but he’s in a time of his life where he needs all the support he can get. From me, from his family, and from God.

I know God is going to save Mike. Mike’s too good to die.

Mike’s dad is Catholic, but his mom isn’t Christian. Mike was baptized when he was a baby in a Catholic church due to his dad’s insistence, but he’s a skeptic.

I know he secretly believes in God even though he pretends not to. And he secretly loves God so much he cries himself to sleep talking to God.

And I’m not even being sarcastic. Because I do that too. Whenever I feel things are out of control and I’m in bed worrying about the past or the future, I start praying and talking to God about everything in my life. Praying is all I have sometimes, I feel like.

Well, not all I have. God’s given me a lot, but I’m such an ungrateful little kid.

“God isn’t going to listen to your stupid prayer, Sam.”
Mike sniffs a bit, wiping his nose with his finger.

“Allergies.”

“Want a tissue?”
I have a ton of tissues. I catch colds pretty easily, the doctor says my immune system is “compromised” (her words exactly), and I get sick a ton. Sometimes I go around handing the other kids packs of tissues, because I have so many.

Mike grimaces.

“No thanks. I don’t want to share tissues with you, it’s unhygienic.”

That’s hurtful, but I don’t say anything. Sometimes people treat me as the sick kid and stay away from me, because they don’t watch to catch anything. Mike doesn’t do that, not anymore, but it still hurts. I’m often wondering if he’s going to stop being my friend any time soon.

Mike continues, not realizing the impact his words had on me.

“I hate going to church. Mass is so boring, and I don’t want to take Communion from the same cup as everyone else. It’s unhygienic.”

I wince a bit. I’m as much into hygiene as the next person, if not more because my mom’s a doctor and she bred me into a hygiene-loving cleanly type. I always wash my hands with hand sanitizer and isopropyl alcohol after I blow my nose or sneeze. I’m not unhygienic, jerk.

“It’s the blood of Christ, Mike, it’s pure. Free from bacteria.”

“I don’t believe you. Nothing’s free from bacteria.”

He sniffs again.

“I have a cold. Because of bacteria.”

“Technically, colds are caused by viruses.”

“You’re a virus.”

I gasp.

“That’s an INSULT.”

“Yeah, duh.”

“You just INSULTED me.”

“I know, and?”

“You can’t just INSULT me.”

“Are you joking?”

“I’m not JOKING, I’m OFFENDED.”

“Surely, you’re not serious.”

“My name’s not Shirley, it’s SAM! SAM I AM!”

“Stop. Just stop.”

He smiles a little and tries not to chuckle. Mike hates laughing. Whenever he wants to laugh, his face puckers up so instead of laughing, he looks like a plum. An old, wrinkly plum.

Speaking of wrinkles, he has forehead wrinkles. He has a huge forehead, and I swear it gets better each day. I know I shouldn’t swear, but I seriously swear on his forehead that he’s going to die with the biggest forehead known to man.

Like, when he’s 100 years old.

Because at the rate his forehead is growing, exponentially, his forehead is going to be the size of Jupiter.

Or maybe Saturn.

“You should grow your bangs out.”

Maybe he’ll grow his hair in a ring around his head, so he looks like Saturn.

He glares at me and stops smiling.

Oops, did I say that aloud?

“YOU should grow your bangs out. You look like a mushroom.”

I laugh. That’s funny. I have blunt cut bangs, and people say I look like a little doll. With red cheeks and a red nose.

“At least my forehead is smaller than yours.”

I poke his forehead. He slaps my hand and glares at me even more fervently.

Poking fun of Mike’s forehead, and poking it, which he hates as well, is a favorite pastime of mine.

So is daydreaming. And doodling.

I start to doodle Saturn in my notebook. Saturn is fun to draw, the most fun planet to draw.

I think Mike’s a Saturn type.

I don’t believe in astrology, like astrology and horoscopes aren’t Christian, but he’s definitely a Saturn, regardless of astrology and birth charts.

Mike gets out a book, like always, and starts flipping its pages. He likes spoilers and likes knowing how things end. I’m like that too, but I’m more patient than he is when it comes to reading.

Actually, I just read really fast. So I get to the ending faster than the speed of light.

And I lied, I’m really impatient. I like to do things fast. I wish life was a tesseract, and we could use extra dimensionality to get to places faster.

I want to get to the ending of my life faster, I want to know if it’s going to be a happy ending, and I’ll be going to Heaven.

But I’m forgetting something, which is that I’m definitely going to Heaven.

But when I mean by a happy ending, I mean, at my deathbed, will I be able to reflect on my life and marvel at how successful I was? And at the Day of Judgement, when Jesus looks through his Book of Life and looks at everything I’ve accomplished, will he also marvel as how successful I am?

Which reminds me.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Mike shrugs.

“Still deciding. But definitely not a doctor, I hate doctors.”

He doesn’t say anything for a while. I’m waiting for him to ask me back, so I’m doodling in my notebook. I’m getting impatient.

He’s. so. Slow.

“What do you want to do when you grow up?” He finally asks.

I look up from my book,

“A doctor.”

He winces.

“Figures. Why do you want to be a doctor?”

“Because I want to save lives.”

“Be a firefighter then.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I was joking. What else do you want to do with your life?”

I don’t answer. I’m a little pissed off that he told me to go be a firefighter. I want to be a doctor and save people’s lives, like from sickness and disease and deterioration and death, not someone who puts out fires.

“I’m not sure. But I do know this.”

I stick my chin out and look into the horizon. Where the blackboard was.

“I want to do great things.”

Mike stares.

A cricket chirps.

He slowly claps dramatically.

“Bravo, Sam. Bravo.”

I say defensively, folding my arms in front of my chest.

“I want to be like King Solomon. He accomplished great things.”

“Who cares about Solomon. David is way better.”

“No, he’s not. King Solomon’s better, he actually accomplished things while King David just fought wars and killed people.”

“David wrote PSALMS.”

“King Solomon wrote Psalms too. He finished Psalms.”

“Who said that? Everyone knows David wrote Psalms.”

“Because. It’s my theory that Solomon finished Psalms because David was injured from battle and couldn’t talk or write.”

“STOP DAYDREAMING.”

He huffs. Waiting a moment, he watches me doodle.

He runs his hand through his hair.

“Can I read your diary?”
“It’s just a bunch of doodles. Nothing interesting,” I lie.

“Stop lying. I know you write in it too. I want to read it.”

Before I can say anything back, he takes my journal from my hands and walks over to the couch. He lies down on the couch on his stomach, his elbows propped up as he reads through my “diary.” I frown and sit next to him.

He turns each page after several moments reading it.

“You start every sentence with my name.”

He turns the page again.

“Well, almost every sentence.”

I huff.

“I don’t care if you read it, I’m an open book.”

“No, duh.”

He’s reading through all my journal entries. I fidget, feeling kind of uncomfortable. I should keep my journal at home, but I need to write down my thoughts sometimes when I’m at school, it keeps me grounded and makes me feel better when I’m feeling down. And I need a notebook to doodle in.

Maybe I’ll have two journals, a public one and a private one.

Kind of like how there are public and private bathrooms. One meant for everyone to use and one meant just for me.

“Mike, you’re nosier than me. Stop invading my privacy.”
“Stop being noisy then.”

“I’m not NOISY.”

“Nah, you’re noisy.”

Maybe Mike’s right. Sometimes my voice gets high pitched when I’m agitated or excited. Usually I have a quiet voice, but I can get kind of loud. Because I’m an extrovert.

Mike thinks I’m an introvert, because I like to do introverted things like read and write and doodle, but I love talking and most people and have a ton of friends. So there, Mike.

“It’s because I’m an extrovert!”

“I’m an extrovert too, but I’m not as noisy as you.”

“So you agree. That I’m an extrovert.”

“Nah, I still think you’re an introvert.”

“AM NOT.”

“At least I’m not loud like you.”

Mike has a really nice-sounding, low, musical voice. He’s definitely not that loud, but he projects when he’s talking in public. He doesn’t screech unlike me.  

I can’t project to save my life.

I cough at that moment, reminded.
I cough a lot, because I was really sick last year. I had pneumonia, and I almost died. My lungs still rattle from time to time.

Mike looks up from my diary.

“Stop coughing. You cough all the time. And you say I’m the sick one.”
“I’m not sick. My throat’s itchy.”

“Whatever.”

He gives me back my journal and pulls out his notebook. He starts writing in it.

“Anyway, we need to have some fun before I die. I can’t just die like this. I made a bucket list.”

I giggle. That sounded funny. We always have fun anyway, it’s fun talking to Mike.

“You’re not going to DIE!” I say again.

And it’s fun talking back at him. I have fun bickering with him.

I look over his shoulder.

“What do you have in mind?”

He hands me his notebook. He has neat, even handwriting, unlike mine. He’s really meticulous when he writes and he writes really slowly. I write pretty quickly, and I scrawl more than I write.

I flip through the pages. He numbered a bunch of sentences, and there’s 100 items.

“100 things to do in 1 month? Why?”

“Because, 100 is my favorite number.”

“I thought 5 was your favorite number.”

He paused, thinking.

“I have a lot of favorite numbers.”

“There’s no way we’re going to do 100 things in 2 months.”

He frowns at me.

“We might not be able to finish, but anywhere from 75 to 100 completed is good.”

I’m resisting. Resisting not just from habit, but because I’m stubborn. I don’t really want to do this.

“How are we going to squeeze all this in?”

“Easy.”

He pulls his arm out and clasps the back of my head. He pushes my face towards his and presses his lips to mine.

I’m too surprised to move.

It’s warm and soft and feels kind of tingly.

We stay there for a minute, our lips not moving, pressed against each other.

After, he pulls away from me, not looking at me.

“There. One down, 99 to go.”

He gets up and goes to the computers again.

I sit there. What just happened?

I look down at his list again, at the first item.

1.      Have my first kiss.

I need to process this. My mind’s not working, so I take my journal out again.

The first thing I write is,

One down, 99 to go.

And I start writing.

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100 things. We have more memories than 100. Our first kiss wasn’t fireworks, but it was something memorable, regardless.  And the next two month would be an adventure of our lifetimes. Two sick kids, making the world their oyster.

I wanted to spend eternity with him, no matter how soon he thought he was going to die.

And we’re not going to die anytime soon. There’s too much fun that we still have yet to have, and I’m not going to have it without him.

Here’s to more adventures, Mike.