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Authors: Lucy Frank

Two Girls Staring at the Ceiling (2 page)

BOOK: Two Girls Staring at the Ceiling
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D
eep blue, with silver stars, the longest nails I’ve ever seen run the elevator.
Whatever this pain stuff is, it’s working great. “I love your nails,” I think I say.
“Thought you was supposed to be off,” says green jacket pushing my bed.
Nail lady snorts, presses B. Cab-drivered through a bed traffic jam, IV bags
dangle squiddish in the chilly light. “Could I get another blanket, please?”
Wheeled into dim room with fun-house tunnel. Offloaded. Need to pee.
Through whirring murk: “How’s moo shu sound? I could go for a little
moo shu pork today.” “Excuse me, is there a restroom I could use first?
And another blanket would be good.” “Thought you’re on a diet, Kenny.
Plus, Tiny wants Chinese.” “Tiny always wants Chinese. We had Chinese
yesterday.” “How you doing, hon? Hangin’ in? We’ll have you out
quick as we can. Speaking of diet, d’you hear Kimberly’s expecting?
And you said she was just packing on the pounds. Hold your breath
now, sweetheart. Don’t breathe. Okay. Breathe.”
Not easy with this tube clogging my nose,
filling my throat. “Do you see anything?
Can you tell me what’s wrong with me?
Is it something you die of?”
Why don’t they hear me?
“Almost done now,
don’t worry. Kenny,
we haven’t had Italian
in a while. How ’bout
some pasta? Okay!
Last one, hon!
Doin’ good!
Big breath
now.
Hold
your
breath.
Okay.
Breathe.”
S
miley-face balloons
ask how I am
not too bad
except my teeth
weigh too much
to move my mouth
this bed’s a raft
floating so far
from
who
I am
my head can’t grab
onto the
how.
O
ne good thing:
if I die,
and David tells,
I’ll never know.
FIRST DAY
W
heeled into a fluorescent world of two
TVs on brackets, two nightstands, tray tables,
wall panels bristling with gizmos, wires,
monitors above two vacancies
where beds should be.
No, wait.
Green curtains hide a third
bed farthest from the door.
Who’s moaning
on the other side?
I’ll take the spot closest to the door,
by the bathroom, I try to say.
But before my tongue’s organized
organized, my bed’s pushed
into the middle,
Up against those
cream-of-pea-green
lima-bean-green
Nile-bile-algae-vile
slimy-toxic-waste-green curtains.
And curtains close
around me, too.
G
ood morning afternoon good evening
how we doing time
to check your temp your pressure your
IV take you for that test
get some blood
hang a new IV
sweetheart
cookie
lovey
honey
mi amor.
Meanwhile,
one by one,
gross green bubbles
glub up from my insides,
slip down the tube.
Bedpan:
Let’s
not
go
there.
“L
et’s talk about happy things,”
Mom says.
“Like that pistachio ice cream
with the cherries we always get
at Moon Palace for your birthday,
not that I’m saying that’s where
we should go. Plus from what the doctor’s
telling me, you probably shouldn’t eat
the nuts anymore, or the cherries,
or ice cream, for that matter.
We should pick someplace special
this year.
I mean, I can’t believe you’ll still
be in the hospital next week,
though if you are … I mean …
we’ll just … bring the party here.
“You hear me? Chess?
Chessie?”
P
our of moon on water, sting of breeze,
soft sway of waves rock rocking us.
Who wouldn’t fall
for a boy
Who adds, “And that was antelope,
not cantaloupe.”
Who says, “Even in the dark
you have the brightest eyes.”
Says it like he’s never even thought
those words about a girl.
W
as it just last night,
that throbbing party
lit with lanterns?
That pine tree
where he strummed
Spanishy melodies
so haunting
I forgot the pain
chewing through my belly as
we walked into the shadows
till we heard the water,
and David said, “Whoa! Did you see
those wings? Bet you anything
it’s an owl!” And in a thrum
of tree frogs we followed
the flash of white
through a Queen Anne’s lace–y
meadow to a fence,
his hands fizzed my skin
as he lifted me over, we tiptoed
past one sleeping house,
another, to the rocks sloping
to the water’s edge,
untied the canoe,
kicked off flip-flops.…
“Yeah, no
drove her up to Albany
like four a.m.
Room five sixteen.”
Mom’s voice
floats in,
drifts out again.
“Yeah, no
out of the blue
so healthy
no, no I know    all that weight
but I assumed
I mean
we ran together
almost
every day    not that
I
lost a single …”
I fight to keep her words
from gibbering,
My mind
from jumbling.
“I know
like best friends
nothing
she doesn’t tell me …”
“Mom?
What are you doing?”
“Just making a few phone calls.
I already sent out an email
letting everyone know.”
“Know what?
Mom. You’re not …”
Each word
the tube rasps
my throat.
“Brianna’s mom said Bri and Lexie
have been so worried
they can’t reach you,
wondering what happened.”
The weight
of the unspoken
presses me deeper
in the bed.
“Mom, you’re not saying
anything to anyone, not telling
them to come here, right?
Please! Just tell them
I’ll be fine!”
And I can’t tell if this buzzy jigging
as I stare at the cellulite-dimpled squares
on the ceiling is drip-dripping steroids
rip-roaring to the rescue
this kind of steroids makes people weird
that young nice nurse said
almost everyone gets fat
“Oh look how cute
with those round cheeks
Chubby Chessie Chess the Chunk
Don’t listen to them, sweetie. You—
Right, Mom. I have a beautiful face.
You do. You just happen
to have gotten my genes.
Yeah. Size 14!
What? Chessie, I was never a 14!
And you were never bigger
than a 10!”
Please, God,
don’t let me get fat again
just when I thought
I knew
this body
I’ve trained
toned
scrutinized
compared
So sure
I could caffeinate
sleep Advilize
sweet-talk muscle
mind over matter
this body I thought
I mostly
almost liked
or at least
didn’t totally
loathe.
And for those hours
minutes
last night
oh …
“Shhh. Try to relax, sweetie.
Let the medicine do its job.”
W
as it just
last night
David said,
“Would you be sad
if our owl turned out
to be a seagull?”
as we slid the boat
into the lake and rowed
to an island that turned out
to be a rock barely
big enough for two?
Said: “Uh … how’re
we gonna get back
from here?” as we watched
the boat drift off
into the water lilies?
Said: “Do we care?
Maybe, but not now, right?”
Said he wished
he had his guitar
so he had something
to do with his hands?
Then we both talked
too much, too fast,
to talk away
the awkwardness,
Pointed out
bogus constellations,
agreed we’re so not
party people,
only came, in fact,
because his dad lives
just down the road,
and my friends
decided we needed
to get out more,
And I told him
I wished I could
drive a tractor
and sell raspberries
all summer,
not plug numbers
into a spreadsheet
at Mom’s ex-boyfriend’s
accounting firm,
And my mind leaped
with summer things
we’d do together,
and though the breeze
smelled like rain,
the rock was rough and pointy,
and the bugs were biting,
I couldn’t imagine ever
being sad again.
And by the time the thumping bass beats
from the party faded and lights winked out
around the lake, pain nibbled
at my belly, but his hands
let me forget,
we warmed each other
against the night,
and if the owl flew by,
my eyes were too melted
with his kisses
to see.
And when he said:
“I can’t think of anything to say
that isn’t totally corny,”
I’d have answered
“Say it anyway,”
Except a boa constrictor
was squeezing my breath away
a shark was ripping
my insides,
And I tried so hard
to hold on
not let him see
not let him know
not stop
not spoil
hold on.
“S
hould have taken her to the doctor
weeks ago
kept her home last night,
said, you worked all day. And
your stomach’s killing you.
Said, whose party
is this, anyway? Who
do you even know
in Hillsdale?
Made her
tell me what happened.
I mean,
no phone    no wallet
no underpants?”
U
nder the covers
I hold my hand
as if it’s his.
How bad
could I have been
if I remembered
we needed to go back
and get his guitar?
S
kin white as the fat
on a leg of lamb,
white scarf over no hair,
eyelids waxy as a corpse …
Here in the night,
the only lights the flickering
fluorescence of her machines,
my call button’s LED.
Her sheeted chest
flutters …
flutters …
doesn’t.
“The lady in the bed by the window?”
I tell the intercom. “She was like twitching
and moaning before, but I think
she may have stopped breathing.
“No, no. I’m not out of bed.
But I can’t seem to sleep,
so I’ve been watching
through the curtain.
“No. Wait! She just twitched again.
And cleared her throat.
Yeah. Yeah.
It’s okay. She’s okay!”
I let the curtain drop,
sink into the safety of my bed.
“Sorry to bother you. She’s fine.
She’s on the phone.”
“Sam? Do you know where my shoes
and stockings are?”
Voice a scrape, a creak, a raven’s croak:
“Sam, my cab’s waiting!
No! They’re not under the bed!
I looked!”
“Hello, Halberstam, it’s me, Mrs. Klein.
I need you to come with the affidavit.
Tell Sam to bring the blue valise.
And the passport.
“Sam, it’s me again.
I’m not supposed to be here, Sam.
Sammy, there’s been some mistake.
Without the passport
they won’t let me leave.”
When I was little, keeping watch
in the night, counting cars
could sometimes keep away
the night beetles.
I watch the darkness,
listen to silence, until
a nurse’s light glimmers
through the curtain:
“You sure you weren’t dreaming, hon?
I never heard Mrs. Klein say a word.”
When I was little,
waiting for the night to end,
my dad’s flashlight was enough
to scare away the night beetles.
There are no lights here.
No sound but the bubbling hum
of her oxygen machine.
Nothing to count
but the glub
of the drain,
and the drugs
silently marching
down the tube
into my arm.
BOOK: Two Girls Staring at the Ceiling
8.59Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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