Two Girls Staring at the Ceiling (5 page)

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Authors: Lucy Frank

BOOK: Two Girls Staring at the Ceiling
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THIRD DAY
W
hap!
Just as the morning cart clatter
starts, a box of tissues clips my ear.
“Case you feel like crying again.”
“I won’t!”
I sit up, chuck them back
the way they came.
“Missed!”
“Oh, yeah?”
I toss my tissue box over
as the vitals lady wheels in
her vitals-checking machine.
“Ha! Ya missed!”
“You girls must be feeling better,”
she says, making sure my blood’s
still pumping before
I drift off again.
“N
o reason to think …
every reason to believe …
tough disease … hard sometimes
to make a definitive …
but the tests all indicate …
chronic but these days …”
Bald-head doctor’s voice
too fast, too smooth,
too jolly, hearty, way too close,
drawing squiggly pictures of intestines
as Mom nods and peppers him
with questions I can’t listen to.
I don’t know
this hard and tough language.
Don’t speak Disease.
And I am so tired,
I close my ears until he’s gone,
and through the curtain Shannon mutters:
“Duh. I could’ve diagnosed her
two days ago.
You don’t need to be a friggin’ genius
to know she’s got Crohn’s. Same as me.
Crohn’s. Inflammatory bowel—”
“Excuse me?”
C-words ricochet
around my brain.
“You don’t know me!
You know nothing about me or my …”
My mouth runs screaming
from the B-word.
“Mom. Could you see if this
curtain closes any tighter?”
“Fine with me.
Who said I was even talking to you?
I’m just saying, it pisses me off,
these turkeys talking about tough.
They wouldn’t know tough
if it bit them on their flabby ass.”
“L
et’s talk about happy things,”
Mom says.
“So Lily won
her tennis tournament.
Julia’s loving France.
Ruby’s still rafting down the Snake,
but I know she’d love
to hear from you.
In fact, everyone’s
calling, texting,
worried, wondering
when they can …
In fact, Alexis said
if Brianna can get the car
they might be by.”
“NO!
I TOLD YOU
I DIDN’T
WANT YOU TO …
“MOM, DID YOU TELL
THEM THAT I HAVE …”
A gross disease
with even grosser names.
“TELL ME
YOU DIDN’T.
BECAUSE
I DON’T, OKAY?”
Shouting to drown
the thrum of beetles.
“AND … IF ANYONE
ASKS YOU ANYTHING
ABOUT … you know …”
My eyes touch my hand
for wings
I know are gone.
“C
hessie, you’re acting like you
did something bad.
Like this is some kind of
terrible secret.”
It’s true.
Every bubble
snaking its way
down the tube
to the tub of gunk
clipped to my bed,
Each aching swallow
reminds me
of my gross
green secret,
And I wish
I could tell her, wish
we were two different people
so I could tell her.
“You’re sick, sweetie.
They’re your friends.
They love you.
“Here. Text them. Talk to them.
You must have dozens of texts
waiting for you.
If you had your cell.”
With a plump of the pillows
and a kiss, Mom leaves me her phone.
“I’ll bring the charger for you tomorrow.”
“They could have mixed up
my tests with Shannon’s,”
I call after her.
“Or anybody’s.
It’s possible, right? Doctors
make mistakes all the time.
It’s possible I don’t have a disease at all.”
A snort hmmphs
through the curtain.
“Right. Little Miss Cupcake couldn’t
have the same disease as Trailer Girl.”
T
he Orange Croc Doc is barely
through the door before
I’m demanding a new room,
no roommate,
saying if I’m sick, it’s sick
of everybody thinking
they know more
about me
than I do,
Saying loud enough
to drown out the TV’s infuriating drone,
I’m the girl who always
makes the honor roll,
eats her veggies,
takes her vitamins,
runs every day.
I saved a rabbit from the neighbor’s cat,
rescued a turtle from the road.
If I hadn’t run to get the EpiPen when
Mom stepped on that yellow jacket nest,
she would be dead.
And not just that.
I’m a junior lifesaver,
I took CPR.…
So if there’s any fairness
in the world, I should be fine,
not stuck here
peeing in a bedpan,
with bubbles glubbing
out my nose,
on drugs
so I can’t tell
what’s me, what’s them,
telling me about some
alleged disease… .
Monitor Me hears my voice,
all whiny, huffy, pompous, prissy,
and as the Orange Croc Doc steps close,
worries the cabbage smell
I keep smelling
is in my head
or me.
Trying not to breathe
my nasty breath on her,
I tell her I am so, so sorry,
tell her these steroids
truly are evil juice,
tell her I have no time
to be sick.
Lily’s winning
tennis tournaments,
Julia’s biking through France,
Ruby’s rafting …
Let her know I’ve already
lost the best thing
I almost had …
Make her see
I’d rather run
though the pain
than lose my body my mind.
“Hang in,”
the Orange Croc Doc says,
fingers on my pulse,
worry in her eyes.
“Steroid side effects
are notoriously challenging.
Often suck, in fact.
But they’re a necessary evil
to get that immune system
of yours under control.”
“Like I said.
Welcome to the club.”
I
shiver, twitch, long
for something to barricade
my ears, my brain,
As machines beep and wheeze
and Mrs. Klein commands:
“Turn over, Sammy.
You’re snoring, Sam.”
And someone in another room
moans, “Nuurse! Nuuuuuurrrrse!”
and Shannon turns her TV loud, louder,
And I’m trying to hang in,
trying to be pleasant,
cooperative and pleasant,
as I tell a doc, a nurse, an aide
this isn’t working for me.
I need another room.
And I know it’s stupid
to think no one will call me,
see me, find me there, but
even though I haven’t heard
a stir from Shannon’s side
in hours,
I tell them, “Get me out of here!”
“P
oor you!”
“Look at you!
“I can’t believe …”
“Don’t sit up, Chess. It’s fine!”
All glowy tan in shorts and tanks,
ponytails still wet from pool or gym,
Lexie and Bri burst into my stale
green-curtained den, and before
I can warn them I’ve had nothing
but a sponge bath since,
well … you know … that night,
I’m wrapped up in their arms.
“We couldn’t decide
whether to bring like, reading matter,
or go with …”
Bri ties a blue
GET WELL
balloon
to my IV pole, dumps
from her shopping bag
a box of pink Peeps bunnies,
rhinestone flip-flops,
a puzzle book,
a whiskery stuffed mouse.
“It’s amazing what you can find
at the ninety-nine-cent store.
Care for a four-month-old Peep?
Your mom said you can’t have
any food, but everyone knows
Peeps don’t qualify.”
“How’re you feeling today?
Your mom said you gave her
a really bad—”
“Not that you look that sick. No.
Seriously. I mean your face
is a little poufy. And your eyes
look a little weird—”
Both carefully not staring
at med bags, bedpan, tubes.
“So. Now that your mom’s not here.
Does Chessie have a boyfriend?”
asks Bri, determinedly perky.
“You still haven’t said
if you heard from him.”
“Or told us where he lives.
Or where he goes to school.
Or if he’s, like, a farmer person.”
“Never mind that.
Has he texted? Called?”
Night beetles chitter
in my ears.
“No.
And even if he wanted to …”
My eyes won’t meet their eyes.
My mouth won’t shape his name.
“… my phone’s lying
on the bottom of the lake.”
“What? What happened?
What’s that mean?”
I can feel beetle feet
creeping
closer.
“Does he know
how sick you are?”
“Should we go out to Sugar Snap
Farm and, like, reconnoiter?”
“No!
Please.
No!”
Sticky feelers
flick my eyelids.
“Oh. By the way. I hate
to bring this up now, but
Jake is having a party next week,
and hope, for some reason,
springs eternal, so, not that I think
you’ll still be sick then,
but if you could tell your mom
I’m gonna need my dress back …”
And I wonder what
would happen
if I didn’t say,
“No worries,”
Didn’t assure
them yes, of course,
by then
I’ll definitely
be fine,
Tried saying,
Listen.
Something
really bad
happened with David.
I can give you the money
for the dress. But
if I tell you,
will you promise
not to tell?
But Monitor Me,
floating alongside
the blue balloon, sees
the scared in their smiles,
Like the smiles we smiled
at Patrick Morrissey’s sister
when she came to third grade
with her prosthetic arm,
like we smiled at the dead-eyed ladies
slumped in their wheelchairs,
the year we sang holiday songs
at the nursing home.
“Excuse me, ladies.”
The nurse smiles, too,
as she sweeps the bedpan
off the chest of drawers,
announces, “Good news, Francesca!
We’re giving you an upgrade!”
Returns with what looks like
an old lady’s walker with a toilet seat
between its legs.
“Ta-da!
Your new commode!
Enjoy!”
And they smile
till they leave
in a whoosh
of kisses, wishes,
and relief
that they’re
not me and
they are
outta here.
A
nd in the silence
left by all the words
unsaid,
it’s pretty clear
I’ve stepped
off the edge
of my life
Into Sickland.

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