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Authors: Lucy Frank

Two Girls Staring at the Ceiling (11 page)

BOOK: Two Girls Staring at the Ceiling
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“W
hy is she so quiet?” I ask the nurse
who hangs another IV bag for Shannon.
“She had a tough day.”
“But it’s a good sign, right?
That she’s stopped moaning?”
He puts a finger to his lips.
“It’s past midnight, lovey.
Go to sleep.”
“I
thought the thing
about being young is that—
except for, like, can I run
a half marathon,
am I as cute as so-and-so,
is my butt too big for these jeans—
you don’t have to think
about your body.
“You’re not supposed
to have to worry if
it’s gonna make it
through the day.
“That’s one of the things
making me so mad.
Not just for me.
For you.
“Sometimes it feels like
mad’s the only thing we’ve got
to get us through.
“Shannon?
You’re still mad, right?”
I listen for her breath.
Hear nothing
but the puff of her machines,
Mrs. Murch’s gargley snores.
“Shannon?
Now you’re scaring me.”
“T
hat she’s not answering
doesn’t mean she’s not hearing, right?”
I ask the nurse when he tiptoes in again
to check our vitals.
“Why are you still up?” he asks.
“It’s four a.m.”
I count my breaths,
her breaths,
Mrs. Murch’s snores.
The night beetles
swarm.
When I pull back
the curtain, I see
covers tight as
her grandma tucked her.
Melting ice chips
in her cup.
Face turned
to the wall.
T
o the hum of her machines
I sing us choir songs,
list favorite movies of all time,
Baskin-Robbins flavors,
brands of cereal,
Boys I liked, loved,
wished I dated, hated;
books, games, dog names
if we had a dog;
Crayola colors.
And I know
if I keep talking
I can keep her going:
“Inch worm,
Bittersweet,
Tumbleweed,
Fern.
Cerulean,
Cerise,
Sepia,
Mango Tango.
“Atomic Tangerine,
Wild Watermelon,
Dandelion,
Neon Carrot,
Timberwolf,
Mauvelous …”
“S
hannon?
“You’re not like in a coma or something,
are you?
“Cuz my theory is
you’re not talking cuz
you’re like, ‘What’d I do
to deserve this shit?
I’m sick of it.
Wake me when it’s over.’
“That’s how I feel, too.
“Shannon, if I tell you what happened
to me on the island
will you promise not to tell?
“Shannon?
Did you hear
what I just told you?
“Blink once
for
Yes
“Twice
for
Fuck You.
“Shannon.
Talk to me.”
SIXTH DAY
E
arly as yesterday,
brisk and chipper,
the surgeons whip closed
her curtain.
“How we doing today, Ms. Williams?
Mind if we take a look at the incision?
“Good. I see your fever’s down.”
“Excuse me. I’m a little worried
about her,” I call out, same
as I’ve told the nurse each time
he checks our vitals.
“We’ve got your infection under
control. How’s the pain,
Ms. Williams?
Passed any gas?”
“I’m worried about Shannon.”
I catch the eye of Dr. Nguyen
as the duck brigade arrives,
Listen to the head duck tell
Mrs. Murch, “Great news!
You’re going home!”
Listen to her complain she’s still
a very sick woman,
Listen as they reel off
Shannon’s numbers,
Listen to the head duck
asking if by any chance
she’s passed gas from below.
“It’s not something to be shy about,
Ms. Williams.
Passing gas is a good thing.
Passing gas means your guts
are waking up, so we can start
you on some food, begin—”
“Doctor!
Forget the gas!
I’m worried she’s not talking!”
I wait to be shushed,
soothed, scolded.
Instead, I hear a croak
rusty as Mrs. Klein:
“You better hope you’re not here
when I pass gas, Doc.
“If you are, get ready to run.
“When I pass gas
this whole fuckin’ hospital’s
gonna go up in flames.”
Dr. Nguyen takes a quick detour
past my bed.
“I think your friend’s gonna be okay.”
He’s trying not to smile.
“S
he’s back!”
I tell Astro, the blood man,
Bobby, the vitals guy.
“Watch out, Shannon’s back!”
I warn Dr. R. Schmidt, the doc she advised
to be a coroner, Joyce, the nurse
who calls us cookie.
A croak, a cough, a rough clearing
of her throat:
“Yo. Cookie! That you?
What day of the week is it?
And if you tell me the first day
of the rest of my life, I might have to—”
“She’s back, all right.”
Joyce shakes her head,
smiles, handing me my pills.
“It’s Tuesday, Shannon.
Good to hear your cheery voice again.”
“What’s good is having that damn
tube outta my nose.
You could get that pain pump thing
outta here, too.”
“You sure?
You’re a brave little girl, Shannon.
You don’t need to be a hero.”
I follow Joyce around
to Shannon’s side,
throat full
with words
that even in my ears
sound puny, lame.
Arms tight around her pillow,
pain button in her hand
Shannon is sleeping.
C
risp in her lab coat,
curls tamed with pins,
Dr. Hochstein—who in my mind
will always be the Orange Croc Doc—
pulls up a plastic chair
across from Mom and me.
“So, Chess? Ready
to go home tomorrow?”
I’m grateful we’re in the lounge
so Shannon can’t see my joy.
“Excellent. Because …”
But if I’m so happy,
why do I hear myself add
“I guess?”
Why am I watching
branches bang
against the windows,
people shaking out umbrellas,
When I should be listening
to her tell us how many books,
blogs, sites, support groups
are available
for teens like me;
How many drugs
to put me in remission,
and with luck keep me there,
with new ones all the time;
While Mom, with the same careful smile
on her face I feel on mine,
takes notes,
talks prescriptions,
doctor appointments,
food restrictions.
“Any questions, Chess?”
Besides: Will Shannon
ever be okay?
Besides: How do I know when I look at Shannon
I’m not seeing Future Me?
Besides: How do you not hate your friends
for being well?
Your mom for not making it all
just go away?
Besides: How do you know who you are
when you can’t trust your own body?
How do you act when you’re so mad,
so scared of what’s inside?
“Chess.” The Orange Croc Doc
takes her glasses off,
leans closer.
“You’ve been pretty sick
Probably for a long time.”
I watch a leaf
shaped like a mitten
stick to the window glass.
“And this is a lot for you
to swallow.”
Watch the parking-lot gate
swing open for a car,
drop down.
Remember the brain-frying tiredness,
the pain endured
to get through a day,
The terrifying pains
that night …
I look at Mom,
look away.
“Sometimes
I thought
I might be
dying.
“But I didn’t
say anything
because …”
An ache
worse than tears
cinches my throat.
“I thought it was something I did,
or didn’t do, or should have done better,
something I ate, or my period,
or stress.
“Thinking I could fix it
with, like, vitamins, or coffee, or cardio,
or cutting out carbs, or running so fast
I could outrun
it
 …
which sounds pretty stupid now,
“But it just feels like all these folks—
at school, at colleges
I haven’t even applied to yet,
not to mention you, Mom …”
I count squares on the floor.
“Are counting on me
to be perfect.”
Mom fumbles for a tissue.
A raindrop slides down
the windowpane.
“Plus, I’m like you, Mom.
I thought if I didn’t say anything,
it would go away.
“Even now.
After all this,
I just want to believe …
make believe
it’s not there.”
“You know what, Chess?”
The Orange Croc Doc leans closer still.
“When you’re in remission,
you may not have to make believe.
You may not notice
any symptoms at all.
“And, Chess, we may not know for certain
what triggers this disease,
but one thing’s for sure:
It’s nothing
you did
or didn’t do.”
Mom blows her nose.
“And another thing,”
my Orange Croc Doc says
as we all stand to go.
“The upside
of these autoimmune diseases?
Most of the time, you look just fine.
“Which can be a drag
if you’re looking for sympathy,
but it means you can decide
how much you want to say.
To whom. And when.”
“And can I run again?”
“Why not?
You may have to take it easy
for now. Start out slow.
But yes. Go for it!
Go back to your life.
Do everything
you can sensibly do.”
“But how will I know?”
“Chess.
You’re not in this alone.”
Mom’s nodding,
nodding.
Nodding.
S
lower than the doc
texting as he walks,
Slower than the squashed-hair lady
in her bunny slippers,
Slower than the guy trying to keeping his gown
from flapping open while he trudges with his pole,
Silently, holding hands,
Mom and I tromp the hall.
“O
h, my goodness!
Mom drops my hand,
stops walking.
“I totally forgot …”
Digs from her purse
a padded envelope.
“This was left for you
at the nurses’ station
this morning.”
Inside, with a note
rubber-banded around it,
is my phone.
BOOK: Two Girls Staring at the Ceiling
9.54Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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