Two Girls Staring at the Ceiling (3 page)

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Authors: Lucy Frank

BOOK: Two Girls Staring at the Ceiling
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SECOND DAY
M
orning is the time to sleep,
dreaming my old dreams:
Hot backseat love
with someone who turns out
To be Mr. Mooney, the custodian.
Why are the SATs in Chinese?
My cell’s dropped in the toilet,
and it’s ringing and I’ve lost my keys.
Welcoming those
Not that again!
dreams
like an old familiar
Seinfeld,
While carts rattle, mops slap,
conversations filter in
Like sun striping
through the blinds.
D
o I dream four frowning docs
in shower caps,
Young blue-scrubbed docs filing
in like a line of ducklings to gather
round my bed?
Could the “patient” person
they’re talking about be me?
“Y
ou know, everyone’s saying
what a great patient you are,”
Mom says as she unpacks
my pillow, socks, the afghan
Nana crocheted for me,
Plugs in my electric toothbrush,
stacks the as-yet-unopened books
from the AP English summer reading list
on the tray table beside my bed.
“I told them I’d expect nothing less.
Even when you were little,
when you got your shots,
it was me who cried,
even if I never let you see.”
Sweet coffee kiss,
soft hiss of drawers
opening and closing,
rustle of papers.
My eyes haze.
I let her words blur
till
“… told Bri you weren’t
quite ready for her to go
get you raspberries but—”
“What? No! Mom! Don’t
let her go there. And I can’t
see anyone! Mom! No!
Tell her no!”
“Okay, sweetie.
Go back to sleep.
It’s gonna take me an hour
to get to work.
I’d better go.”
“Mommy, no!
Don’t leave me!”
“You’ll be fine.
And it will all be fine.
My strong, precious girl.”
“O
y, so young!”
“With all those tubes
and not a word of complaint”
“I wonder what”
“Peeked at her chart. It doesn’t”
“Such a pretty name, Francesca.”
“Such a sweet face”
“But so skinny.
Vey iz mir.
”
No faces for the voices
till a green jacket man pushes my bed
toward the door and I see four stout ladies
in beauty-parlor-perfect wigs
and dresses too hot for July
spraddle-legged on the window seat
behind Mrs. Klein,
next to nectarines, cottage cheese,
hard-boiled eggs, pocketbooks.
The
tsk
chorus follows
as he wheels me past a boy
in an Ichabod Crane black
coat and hat, sleeping openmouthed
by the door.
“Where are they taking her?”
“Tests. Always more tests.”
“Heshy! Move your chair so they can
get through!”
“N
o need to raise your voice.
I understand, my love.
You’re a little upset.
But now you’re in your nice new
room, so let’s just get you into bed,
okay, cookie?”
“You understand shit! I am not your love.
And I’m no damn Chips Ahoy!, either!
NO ONE puts their hands on me,
you GOT that, cookie?”
“I’m just trying to be nice.”
“Do I look like I need nice?
What I NEED is for you to stop shuffling
me around like some kinda luggage.
Then I need you to leave
me the HELL alone.
Which goes for you, too,
whoever the hell you are.
You think I don’t see you
peeping at me through the curtain?
WHAT? No one around here’s
ever seen a bitch on steroids?”
I shrink into my covers,
let the clanging buzzing roaring
in my head drown her roars,
until the curtains part, and
IV pole tangled with tubes,
eyes almost swallowed
in her man-in-the-moon face,
the lollipop-head, dragon-eyed,
puff-bellied emergency room girl
flops down in my chair
and tucks up paper-slippered
feet too big
for her tiny body.
Says, “Hope you’re not planning
on sleeping anytime soon. No way
I can sleep with all this shit
they got me on.
You’re not a moaner, are you?
First room they had me in, the lady
whined and carried on all night.”
Hair patchy, dry,
like doll hair cut
with kindergarten scissors.
“I used to be hot, if you can believe that.
Till they gave me the evil juice.
Saves your life and makes you wish
you were dead.
Know what I’m saying?”
Eyes too old for a girl
jump from the tube in my arm
to the bags on my IV pole.
She snorts a laugh.
“I guess you do.
Welcome to the club.
Not that I give a shit about being hot.
Hot’s a pain in the ass. Not that you’d
know. Just joking. You’re still looking
pretty good. How long you been in?
Hey! You’re not closing your eyes?
Want some of my Jell-O, or an icey?
I scared that nurse so bad
she gave me three.
Oh, right. No food for you
with that NG tube.
They didn’t dare stick one
down my nose this time.
How much evil juice
they pumping into you?”
“I don’t know.”
My voice floats in
from a distant galaxy.
“You didn’t ask?”
A line of earrings studs one ear.
A cross dangles from the other.
“Act like a wimp, they tell you
nada.
You know, you look like shit.
We should get the nurse.”
“It’s okay. I’m okay. Really.
I don’t want to bother them.”
I need her to understand this is not me,
this person lying here with patient hair
(back squashed flat,
top like rooster feathers)
two patient gowns
(one frontwards,
one backwards,
to keep the world
from my bare butt)
Even as the steroids rampaging
through my veins make my blood roar
as she glares her dragon glare.
“Hello! Nurse! There’s a girl in here
could use some help!
Are we gonna get some help,
or do I need to come out there
and mess you up?”
“S
o an octopus
walks into a bar
and asks for a beer.”
Poppy, too loud,
is laughing in advance
as the girl’s voice booms
through the curtain.
“Yo. News flash, Doc!
You don’t have to talk so slow.
I’m not five. Or stupid.
Just sick. Remember?
“Bet you remember the career advice
I gave you last time, too. How you
should be one of those coroner guys,
like on
CSI
and shit.
“I mean, if you’re this bad
with people, do us all a favor.
Switch to corpses.”
Nana bustles, fusses, reaches
for the clicker.
“Would you like to watch
a little TV, Cupcake?”
“Barb, I’m in the middle
of the joke! Unless
you’ve heard it, Chessie.”
“Steve, it’s not the dirty one?”
“No, Nana. It’s fine.”
I summon up a smile.
“I always like this one.”
Nana, smelling of Chanel
smoothes back my hair.
“The earrings look just lovely!
I’m so glad we didn’t
wait for your
birthday to— Oh, my goodness!
Is that a—
I don’t know what you
call them these days.
In our day we called them hickeys.”
“She’s about to be seventeen
years old, Barb. You ask me,
it’s high time she had a boyfriend.
Right, Chessie?”
On our island, David asks:
“So do you have a boyfriend?”
When I say, “No. Not really,”
he answers, “Awesome!”
And by moonlight
and the flashlight app
on my cell phone,
scribbles on my hand.
“How’m I FEELING, Doc?
’Bout time someone
in this shithole asked me that.
“How the HELL YOU THINK
I’M FEELING?”
“She’s got some mouth on her,
that little girl. How old
do you think—”
“Nineteen, not that it’s your business,
and I got ears, too, lady! And a name.
Shannon Elizabeth Williams. So
if you got something to say to me …”
“Okaaay! Here’s
one you haven’t heard.”
Poppy’s back in hearty mode.
“So what did Buddha
say to the hot dog vender?”
“OWWWW!”
“I haven’t touched you yet!”
“Make me one with everything!”
“And you better not … OWWWW!”
“Why do you always have to give me
such a hard time?
Why can’t you be more like
this nice little girl next to you?”
“You mean all meek and shit?”
“No, just pleasant.
She’s not feeling any better
than you are, but she always
manages a thank-you and a smile.”
“Cuz her evil juice
hasn’t worked its magic yet.
Just wait. You’ll see.”
“What is she talking about,
evil juice?”
“What do you think’s wrong
with that little girl? I understand
she’s upset, but rude like that?
There’s no excuse—”
“Frankly, I’m more worried
about Chessie. How’re you doing, there,
Cupcake? You’ve been awfully quiet.”
Poppy leans in for a kiss.
“Anything we can get you before we go?”
Or bring next time?”
“I’m fine,” I tell them,
telling myself the lump
clogging my throat
is just the tube.
“I promise. I’ll be fine.”
“K
nock, knock!
We were here to see Jared’s
dermatologist, so
we thought we’d pop in
and say hi.”
“Ma, I think she’s sleeping,”
Jared whispers.
Jared from the sandbox,
from the school bus,
Jared destined to be valedictorian,
whose dad is our dentist,
who Mom, I know, wishes
was my boyfriend,
who before—No! Don’t
let yourself even
think of David—
my friends swore
I was doomed
to marry, saying,
the good news is,
you’ll get free dental care.
“Ma, come on,” says Jared.
“Let’s just go.”
And even through closed eyes
I can see how I must look to him.
“I just want to say one thing.
Chessie, honey,” says Mrs. Kaye.
“A girl at work has what your mom said
you might have, and as long as she avoids
stress and gets plenty of rest,
she’s fine.”
I squeeze my eyes tighter.
Wait for them to go away.
“S
o, the immune system
as I’m sure you know,
protects the body
from viruses, bacteria and other …”
She’s so cool, this doctor
in the orange Crocs,
with the glasses I’d get
if I needed glasses,
corkscrew hair
miraculously pinned up
with a pencil,
“… foreign organisms.
Sometimes, however,
the cells supposed to fight enemies
can turn on your own body.
We call this …”
Talking to me like
I’m just as cool,
as smart. I wonder
if my hair’s curly enough
to curl like that. I love
her engagement ring,
so not flashy, yet
so sparkly. I wonder
“… autoimmunity.
Researchers think certain bacteria,
viruses, toxins, and drugs
trigger an autoimmune response
in people genetically susceptible …”
If she’s noticed my
new diamond studs.
“Most autoimmune disorders,
unfortunately, are chronic.
But many, I’m glad to say,
can be very successfully
controlled with treatment.
In your case, most likely
inflammatory bowel disease,
also known as Crohn’s disease,
your immune system appears
to be attacking healthy cells
in your terminal ileum.
“Francesca. Chess.
Am I throwing too much at you?
Do you have any questions
you’d like to ask?”
“No. Not really.
I was just wondering …
would you mind telling me …
what product
you use on your hair
to get it to curl like that?”

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