Read Two Girls Staring at the Ceiling Online

Authors: Lucy Frank

Two Girls Staring at the Ceiling (9 page)

BOOK: Two Girls Staring at the Ceiling
11.63Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
A
nd finally,
Green Jacket Man ferrying the bed,
A nurse unhooking,
hooking, docking,
Her mom and grandma,
hovering,
And Shannon,
tiny, tubed,
Lifting a limp hand to wave,
and in a voice scratchy
From the tube down her nose,
mumbling to Mrs. Murch,
“Has anyone ever told you
you look like a bullfrog?”
Before her eyes
drift away,
Her curtain
closed.
“Grrrmph!”
goes Mrs. Murch,
so froggily
I have to turn my hoot
into a cough
As moms and grandmas,
trying for smoothing smiles,
hurry to explain
it must be the anesthesia,
the morphine, the steroids
making people say things
they’d never say
and certainly don’t mean,
That Mrs. Murch
bears no resemblance
whatsoever to a frog
of any sort!
“I happen
to be a very sick woman,”
garrumphs Mrs. Murch,
and I laugh, laugh,
can’t stop
laughing.
“She’s never like this,”
Mom assures them, and
I laugh
until I’m crying,
crying,
crumpled,
crying.
“This isn’t her.
She’ll be herself again
soon as she’s had some sleep.
Don’t worry. She’ll be fine.”
“Right! Like Shannon’s fine!
Like Mrs. Klein is fine!”
Rage hotter than lava,
eviler than evil juice
roars in my ears,
floods my belly,
blurs my eyes.
“Because I’m
the Queen of Fine.
Or is that you, Mom?
You tell me I’m fine.
I tell you I’m fine.
That’s the deal, right?
Ever since Dad.
Keep it quiet.
Keep it nice.
Everyone is fine.”
Monitor Me
feels me
sliding, skidding,
fishtailing
on black ice
As they pat me, hug me,
“it’s okay” me, assure me
I’m so much better,
things always feel worse
before they get better.
Monitor Me tries
to pull me back,
talk me down,
remind me
they’re just scared.
I tell Monitor Me
to fuck off, tell Bri’s
obnoxious blue balloon
with its cheery
GET WELL
to fuck off, too.
And fuck this tremble in my voice:
“There
is
no
better
here.
This is me.
With a horrible disease
that never goes away.
“Can you protect me
from that?
Can anyone
protect anyone
from anything?
“Because
I am sick
to death
of protecting
you!”
I rip the balloon string
from my IV pole.
Stomp it,
stomp it
till it pops.
“What was that?”
cries Mrs. Murch.
“Me, telling everyone
to GO AWAY!”
P
art of me wants
to rewind time,
hug ugly words away,
Grab their hands
as Shannon’s mom throws mine
a look like: Welcome to the club!
Beg them, as they fumble
for bags and pocketbooks, please
don’t leave me here alone.
But the rage flows,
shocking and unstoppable
as shit.
I turn my back on them.
Climb into bed.
“C
ome on, now.
I don’t want to hear
that kind of talk.”
The nurse taps a pill
from a tiny pleated cup
into my hand.
“You don’t hate yourself.
After the day you had,
who wouldn’t be a little stressed?
And you and I both know
you don’t hate them.
“Have a little more water, cookie.
Take some good deep breaths.
I’m gonna lower your bed for you
and you’re gonna take your mind
someplace calm and peaceful.
Someplace beautiful.
That’s a good girl.”
Her voice warmed
from a scold to a caress.
A
nd there I am,
back on the island
in Lexie’s gauzy, flowery,
brand-new dress,
which we’re already calling
her good-luck dress because
it’s so much cooler
than the stuff we wear,
and it’s not nearly warm enough,
not even with my jean jacket,
but it’s so beautiful,
Giant moon, bazillion stars,
canoe floated off somewhere
among the water lilies,
marooned,
like something in a movie
or a song,
And he’s kissing,
touching
like no boy
has touched me,
and even through the pain,
“no” melts into “maybe,”
“maybe” begins to …
But then
this churning
roiling burning
fainting feeling
starts and
I can’t
do anything
to stop it.
And first
I’m just afraid
I’ll puke,
but then
There’s the
smell.
And I try to jump
into the lake
before it’s too late,
But
it’s    too    late.
And I try to swim away
from the stink,
from the mess,
from poor David,
who, baffled,
or maybe horrified,
has jumped in after me,
And the water’s so cold
I’m sure I’ll die,
but it’s numbing
the pain enough
so I can keep
swimming,
trying to kick
my underpants off
and swim at the same time,
praying the water
will wash off the mess
before he catches me,
terrified I’ve ruined
Lexie’s dress,
And it’s starting to rain,
and the whole swim
back to shore,
the whole wet, wordless
walk with him
along the road
to the pine tree
where he left his guitar,
The whole way
to his truck,
the whole shivering
ride home, me squashed
up against the open window
in case there’s still the stench,
he’s like: “Are you okay?
I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
And I can’t tell
if he’s too sweet,
too grossed out,
or too petrified
to say anything
but “Sorry.”
Or if there’s any,
any, any way
he doesn’t know.
Not that it matters.
I can never
see him again.
T
ubes draining stuff out,
dripping stuff in:
Clothespin thingy
on her finger,
Electrodes, wires,
glubs and beeps.
I watch her mom and grandma
play gin rummy
While nurses bustle
and Shannon sleeps.
A
ll night
through the curtain
I hear whispered words
of comfort,
complications,
prayer.
Meanwhile,
I eat
cupcake
after
cupcake
until
somehow
I sleep.
O
nly to wake
tangled in covers
gunked with frosting,
clammy with sweat,
in a room still dark
and, except for the gurgle
of machines, silent as a tomb.
No. Shannon’s breathing.
Don’t think. Don’t look
at crumpled cupcake papers.
Or my face in the mirror.
Brush my teeth. Wash.
Push the pole up the hall,
down the hall, up again.
Walk yesterday away.
“Something you need?”
The clock on the wall
behind the nurse
says four-thirty-three.
“Food?”
Hunger surges as I say it.
And a calm giddiness
almost like a runner’s high.
“Um. Do you think it’s possible
to get so mad it blasts
the sickness out of you?”
Knowing full well if that was true
Shannon would be out dancing.
But then why this sudden …
“Because I had a giant meltdown
yesterday, and even though I ate
like seven cupcakes last night,
if you gave me a lobster right now,
I’d eat it shell and all.
Plus just yesterday
I could barely walk this far,
and now …”
The nurse checks my chart
on her computer.
“You’ve had four days
of pretty powerful meds.
Some of it might be the steroids
revving you up, but it looks to me
like you’re on the mend.”
FIFTH DAY
B
efore the sun,
before the carts,
Before the blood man
comes for blood,
Brisk and chipper,
the shower-cap docs
Crowd round her bed,
nodding as the briskest
Reads out the latest
from her chart,
Frowning when he asks
if she’s passed gas,
Striding off again
when she doesn’t answer.
M
ed students’ eyes are softer
than the docs’.
They file in
behind their Duck in Chief,
trying to look earnest
when he asks about the gas,
Their eyes so soft
yet so determined
to miss nothing
and fix everything,
These shiny-haired, blue-scrubbed girls
and one cute rumpled guy
who even walks like a duck
and looks like he would kill for coffee.
I can’t help wondering how I’d
look in scrubs like theirs,
stethoscope around my neck,
asking how people feel today,
So relieved and proud
when they say “Better.”
Which, amazingly, I do.
Because, it seems, I am.
My numbers are looking great,
they say. They’re cutting
back the evil juice. Switching me
to pills instead of the IV.
Which makes my heart so glad
so guilty, so scared
when I peek through
at silent Shannon,
Tubes gurgling stuff out,
dripping stuff in,
legs in puffing
life-preserver thingies,
Pain button
in her hand,
I think of calling Mom.
Eat another cupcake.
“S
o is it true
I’m getting better?”
I ask the Orange Croc Doc.
“What does better mean
for somebody like me?”
Inside my drawer
Mom’s cell buzzes,
buzzes.
“It means,”
the Orange Croc Doc says,
when I don’t pick it up,
“you’re on your way
to being out of here.”
“Then what?
Cuz what if I start, like, hoping,
and then—”
The voice mail dings.
“I think you know, Chess,
Crohn’s is a tough and
unpredictable disease.”
“Yes. Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Crohn’s can flare up
and it can calm down again.
But let’s not get ahead
of ourselves. For now,
the plan is to taper
you off the steroids,
to get you in remission,
and back to your life.”
“What if unpredictable doesn’t work
for me? What if I need to know
what my life is gonna be?
How do I know I won’t … what if I …”
The text chime rings.
“That’s gonna be my mom.
Telling me I upset Nana.
Or Nana telling me I really upset Mom.
It was my birthday yesterday.
I kind of ruined it for everyone.”
“Then let’s start by making today better,”
she says. “I know you’ll be glad
to lose the IV.
How about a shower?
Wash yesterday away.
Put some curl
back in your hair.”
BOOK: Two Girls Staring at the Ceiling
11.63Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Remember Me by Trezza Azzopardi
The Specimen by Martha Lea
Little Big Man by Thomas Berger
Searching for Sky by Jillian Cantor
El Día Del Juicio Mortal by Charlaine Harris
The Year of Our War by Steph Swainston