The Nose from Jupiter Read Free

do want help going to the bathroom. And you know what? I’m not even embarrassed, at least not until the nurse stares down at the kidney bowl and says, “Good for you!” Then I blush a bright, neon red and try to disappear under the blanket.
    The doctor is pleased with me. “You know, Alan, I really think there’s nothing wrong with you. If it weren’t for the MRI, I’d let you go home right now.”
    “ MRI ?” says my dad.
    “Don’t you know what an MRI is?” asks my mom.
    I remember. I had one last night, as soon as I woke up. It’s kind of scary, getting an MRI. They strap you onto a stretcher and slide you into this big sewer pipe, which takes pictures of what they call “soft tissue.” Sounds like my friend Victor’s rear end. Or his head. Anyway, it’s stuff the X ray misses. They spent most of their time around my head and neck, checking for brain function. I asked if they’d found any, but they didn’t answer.
    The doctor explains all this to my dad who says, “What’s wrong with Alan’s MRI?”
    The doctor spreads the picture against the big lamp beside my bed. “See here,” she says. I turn my head. My dad frowns. “What is it?” he asks.
    Good question. The picture looks like a satellite weather map.
    “This,” says the doctor, “is Alan’s nasopharynx and sinus cavities – the area behind his nose.”
    “And there’s something wrong with it?” says my dad.
    “Let’s say, something different,” says the doctor.
    I feel a sneeze coming on.
    “Something bulky and oddly-shaped must have got in the way of the scanner,” the doctor goes on. “There are a couple of these projections – whatever they are. The technician says she’s never seen anything like it.”
    “What could they be?” asks my mom.
    “Well, I’m no expert. It’s probably a fault in the machine. But they look almost like …”
    “Yes?” My dad sounds worried.
    “Well – a spaceship. There, do you see?” The doctor laughs. My parents both laugh. I sneeze. The doctor wants to keep me under observation for a little while longer. If I keep improving, I can go home this afternoon.
    “What about his nose?” asks my mom.
    “I can’t find anything wrong with his nose. He’s not running a fever. There’s no infection. He looks like a normal, post-concussion patient. I certainly don’t want to perform an emergency exploratory operation on someone who’s recovering nicely.”
    “Operation?” I say. “On Nor – I mean, on my nose?” Norbert doesn’t even squeak. Maybe he’s fainted.
    The doctor comes over, takes my hand. “No,” she says. “No operation. I want you to relax for a few more hours – chat with your parents, watch TV, maybe take a little walk. And, if you feel like it, try to remember what happened yesterday.”
    “I’ve tried. I can’t even remember walking home from school. Not really.”
    My mom pats my hand. “Oh you poor thing,” she says.
    The doctor comes around to the other side of my bed. “Do you like jigsaw puzzles, Alan?” she asks.
    I shrug. Not really. Mom and I used to do them. She’s one of those people who can see that the piece has to fit
this
way. I’d be busy trying to fit bits of the sky into the flowerbed, or the windmill, or the castle moat. And what’s the point of a jigsaw puzzle, anyway? What do you do when you’re finished? Do you admire it like a painting, or play with it, or use it? No, you take it apart.
    “Well, right now yesterday is like a jigsaw puzzle with a few holes in it,” says the doctor. “A few missing pieces. Right?”
    I nod.
    “Approach yesterday like a puzzle. Start with what you do remember. Start at the edges of the puzzle, and work inward. Sort your memories like puzzle pieces. Put them together bit by bit. Soon you might have a picture you recognize.”
    “What if I can’t?” I ask. “What if I work and work, and I can’t put them together? What if some of the pieces of yesterday are lost?”
    I must sound scared