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Authors: Lucy Frank

Two Girls Staring at the Ceiling (10 page)

BOOK: Two Girls Staring at the Ceiling
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U
nhooked,
I’m light enough
to float up
to the ceiling,
flutter
to the bathroom floor.
The nurse swaddles
the IV needle
still sticking in my vein
with plastic wrap
and rubber bands,
hands me two big towels.
“Enjoy,” she says.
A
nyone who thinks heaven
is not hot water
behind a locked door
has forgotten
what it means
to live.
O
kay.
Like getting up your nerve
To step
onto the scale, I edge
Zitful, puff-bellied, pin-eyed,
moon-faced, brown-toothed,
crawled-from-the-crypt
seaweed-hair steroid girl?
Or interestingly older,
poet-pale, heart-achingly brave,
winningly fragile, newly wise?
With dragon eyes?
Toward
the mirror.
H
mm.
Face fatter
than I’d like.
Except for the bruisey
circles under my eyes,
cadaver pale.
But clean.
Not fat.
In fact,
really thin.
In fact, somebody
who liked me/
loved me/
really knew me
might,
if they weren’t
grossed out or terrified
I might die,
might in the right light,
candles, or maybe
moonlight …
Hey, David.
Does ethereal antelope
work for you?
“Text me,”
he said.
Or did he say
anything
as I stumbled
from his car
thanking God
for the dark
so he couldn’t see
me cry?
N
o.
Let it go.
Start by making today better.
I press the call button
beside the toilet.
A nurse voice booms:
“Need some help in there?”
“No. I just wanted to ask.
Does this place
let people
wear clothes?”
I
n the last pajamas I hope/swear/hope
I will ever wear, here or possibly in life,
I scrunch, twist, twirl my wet hair
to help it curl, step
From the steamy bathroom
into my room’s early-morning sun.
S
o my heart should soar
when Mom, dressed for work, appears
with my gray sweats, a choice of tees,
my underwear, my bra.
Gingerly, as if she’s from the bomb
disposal squad, she steps toward me,
lifts a careful eyebrow
at my pajamas.
“I thought you might want something
a little less … not that it wasn’t really
sweet of Nana, but …”
I give her
a matching eye roll,
lift my eyebrow in return.
“You’ve saved me
from her sushi.”
When we need something safe
to bond around, a Nana joke
is tried and true.
“And look at you!
No tubes.
All clean and shiny.
Practically your old self again.
I thought about bringing jeans,
but then I thought, no, better …”
And I’m about to thank her
for her perfect timing, step
into her arms, tell her
I didn’t mean
to ruin the party,
When she tells me Bri
called last night to say
she and Lexie took a drive
to Sugar Snap Farm
to pick up some raspberries
for my birthday.
And the lava
starts boiling up again.
“What? Mom, I specifically
told you …”
Ears buzz
like electrocuted beetles.
“I’m finally
starting to feel a little better,
finally got myself to stop
thinking about things,
and now here you are
telling me my friends
did exactly
what I told you
and told them
not
to do?”
And I can’t let myself yell
or I’ll wake poor Shannon,
And I hate the hurt
in Mom’s eyes as she says,
“I did tell them.
I told them the other day
you’re not supposed
to eat anything with seeds.”
But still the words howl
out of me:
“AND NOW YOU’RE TELLING ME
I CAN’T EVEN EAT
RASPBERRIES?
”
“Chessie.
I talked to the doctor.
She said they’re going to lower
your steroid dose again tomorrow.
That should help with the mood swings
and there are plenty of things
you
can
eat. She said—”
“DO I LOOK LIKE
I WANT TO HEAR
ABOUT MOOD SWINGS?
I HAVE NO CONTROL
OVER ANYTHING
IN MY LIFE.
NOT MY BODY.
NOT MY FRIENDS.
NOT EVEN YOU.”
“W
e don’t take stress, we give
stress, isn’t that what you said?”
I tell Shannon through the curtain
when Mom’s gone.
“You said it was time to lose
that sorry shit. So I did.”
Tell her even
though she’s sleeping.
“It’s okay to be pissed, right?
Pissed is good.
“Like being pissed at you
if I thought you knew
“You were having that surgery
And didn’t tell me.”
Then I leave a really pissed message
on Bri’s phone.
A
ll day I prowl the halls,
passing every pole-pushing hospital-gowned patient
Trudging up and down like me, nodding
to every thumbs-up smile I pass,
Trying not to look for Bri or Lexie around every corner.
Or think or wonder.
Walk, doze, nose around
the nurses’ station.
Try to ignore Mrs. Murch’s incessant complaining,
Mom’s cell’s insistent buzzing from my drawer.
Peer at Shannon through the curtain
as doctors confer, hover.
Listen to her mom and grandma
ask about fevers after surgery,
Tell her we’re just waiting
for her new meds to kick in.
Watch them sponge her face,
murmur, pray.
Tweeze my eyebrows.
Turn my TV on to drown out her whimpers.
Turn it off again. Shut down Mom’s cell.
Turn off the ringer on the bedside phone.
Talk to an aide
named Ernie.
Take another walk, another nap, fetch nurses
when her IV’s beeping or the groans get louder.
“S
o, Shannon, did you know
everyone here has name tags?
The blood man’s Astro.
Orange Croc Doc
is Dr. E. Hochstein.
“And did we know
the shrink guy
is Dr. B. Blank?
Dr. Duck’s name
is C. Nguyen.
“The floor clerk, Ms. P. Johnson,
who’s worked here thirty-seven years,
showed me a nest with three baby
pigeons peeping so loud
you could hear them
through the kitchen window.
“Did you even know
there was a kitchen room?
Where you can help yourself
to powdered soup and tea?
“And a lounge down the hall
with magazines?
They were all like
Golf Digest
and
G a s t r o e n t e r o l o g y Today,
“But I can look
for something better
for you if you want,
when I go out again.”
Study myself in the mirror
eavesdrop, pester anyone
who’ll talk to me
about complications after surgery,
read
Golf Digest,
read
G a s t r o e n t e r o l o g y Today.
“S
o, Shannon, I thought
you might want to know.
The Orange Croc Doc’s ‘E’
is for Elina.
“And those pigeons?
I didn’t actually hear them peeping.
I was just, you know, trying
to entertain you.
“Okay. Now here’s
something entertaining.
My dinner tray.
Want to know what’s on it?
“Something that may
have been a veggie
in its former life.
Cream soup the same green
as the curtain.
Rice with flecks of some sort.
Rigor mortis chicken.
“Believe me, Shannon,
you are missing nothing.”
Guiltily gobble
every scrap.
“I
know, Shannie.
I know it hurts.
“But the thing about pain?
It fades.
“If women could remember
pain, there’d be no babies.
“You’ll say what we all say:
It hurt so much
“You could hardly stand
how much.
“It hurt so bad
you thought you’d die.
“But it’ll just be words.
Those words will be just ghosts,
And the stories you tell nothing
but stories.
“And you’ll jump out of that bed
like you always do,
“Hold your baby
like I’m holding you now,
“And get on with your life,
the same pain in my butt
“You always were
and always will be.
“I promise you.
These days will fade away.”
“A
nd I promise you, too, Chess.”
Shannon’s grandma’s shoes squeak
as she walks around to my side,
the light just bright enough
for me to read
East Greenbush Wrestling
in peeling letters on her hoodie.
“Now let me just tuck you in
and say sleep tight.
Good night to you too, Mrs. Murch,”
she calls through the curtain.
“Hmmph!” snorts Mrs. Murch.
“I can tell you’re a nurse
by the way you wake me up
to say good night.”
I
think
about calling Mom
to say good night,
another sorry.
Find Bri’s text waiting
on Mom’s cell in the drawer.
Why r u so mad???
We barely talked to D
just told him ur up in Albany
in the hospital really sick.
That’s all we said besides
how r the razberries today
He looked a little weird/not glad
to see us. Then he rushed off so we
couldn’t ask anything even if
we wanted. R u ever
gonna tell us wassup?
Someone in the hall guffaws.
Farts like a fourth-grade
farting contest echo
through the wall.
Not even a whimper
breaks Shannon’s silence.
How can I be so mad when
my little drama, my little life
feels a zillion miles away?
BOOK: Two Girls Staring at the Ceiling
7.73Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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