Two Girls Staring at the Ceiling (8 page)

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Authors: Lucy Frank

BOOK: Two Girls Staring at the Ceiling
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I
n the hall carts clank.
Nurse voices discuss the weather.
Night beetles shriek and chitter.
I want to cry out for my mom, my dad,
another pill to kill the dreaming,
let me burrow deep and deeper.
But I can’t
stop thinking
You can simply
stop being
In the dark
with nobody to see.
FOURTH DAY
“H
ey there, Champ!”
“Shh! Steve! Let her sleep.
We haven’t seen that sweet smile
since she stayed with us
the summer things went bad,
and she’d wake up
crying for her daddy,
and you’d sing
‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’
and she’d climb into your lap
and you’d promise her
we’d never let anything else …”
“No, it was that other song
by what’s-his-name …”
“Right, right.
The one who’s bald now.”
“We’re all bald now.
It’s Poppy, Cupcake.
Poppy and Nana.”
“To get you all cleaned up
and pretty.”
It is so pleasant being dead,
so easy, lulled by the rain
streaming the windows,
pummeling the roof,
In neutral, slowly rolling
in rhythm with the flapping,
flopping, foaming, slapping.
Smoothing, stroking,
stroking, soothing,
“New nail polish … sushi pajamas …
so adorable … tuna, eel and cucumber,
California roll, wasabi green …
“Don’t you feel better all clean
and spiffy with your pretty pink toes?
“That nice doctor says
You’re doing better
and better.
“See all the cards you got
And those gorgeous pink roses?”
“Shannon sent me roses?”
“Barb, did she just say something?”
“I don’t think so.
So nice to finally have a little peace
and quiet in here. So nice to have
the room to ourselves!”
“Excuse me, Nurse,
we’d like to get her out of this gown
and into these new pajamas.
Would you give us a hand?”
It is so easy being me, three,
clean and coddled, cuddled
hearing, not hearing,
hearing, not caring,
Here outside of time
inside the car-wash storm.
“S
hould we say something to her, Steve?
About … you know …”
“The birthday party?
It’s your birthday, Cupcake.
Did you remember today’s—”
“No, Steve. The … other thing.
Both other things.”
“Barb, no need to upset her
till she’s feeling better.”
Icicles of light
prickle,
swirl,
shatter.
Monitor Me tastes
my stagnant mouth,
hears my voice,
creaky as Mrs. Klein’s:
“What other things?”
“Well, good morning,
Sleeping Beauty!”
Sees me fumble
through rumpled bedding
for the button
to raise my aching head.
“WHAT TIME IS IT?
WHAT HAPPENED?”
There has to be some clicker,
button, windshield wiper
to unfog this …
“Sweetie, I’m afraid there were some …
developments in the—”
“Barb!
It’s okay, Chessie.
This is no time to think
about anything but getting better.
Everything. Is. Fine.”
“Look. They left your breakfast tray.
Would you like a little …”
“Developments?
With SHANNON?”
Yo! No dying here!
Nobody dies in my room.
Including me!
“WHERE IS SHE?
WHERE’S SHANNON?”
“You didn’t even like her, sweetie.”
“Barbara!”
“It’s true. The nurse told us
you practically demanded
a different room.”
“Chessie!
What are you doing?
Please!
You’re in no shape to …
CAREFUL OF THOSE TUBES!”
I fight to keep the walls
from wobbling,
floor from cracking
into a kaleidoscope,
Ignore the roaring
in my ears, my head
giraffe-far
from my feet,
legs limp
as rubber bands.
“Chessie, watch out
for the pole!”
“Steve, help her
with that curtain!”
In the bed by the window,
a stranger snores.
And where Shannon’s bed was,
air.
No fallen card
or crumpled straw
To show that either one
was there.
“N
OOOOOOO!
“SHE SAID NO DYING HERE!”
Foot catches.
Water splashes.
Vase shatters.
Roses scatter.
I stumble
to the floor.
“Nurse!
Steve! Get the nurse!”
“She tripped, that’s all.
She’s fine.
Chess. You’re okay, right?”
“NO! SHE PROMISED ME
NO DYING!”
“S
hhh.”
Soft nurse hands
lift me into bed,
pull the curtains.
“Shhh.
She was very, very sick
for a very long time.
And last night, I’m sorry to say,
she expired.”
“Expired?
You mean
SHE’S DEAD?”
“Yes. Poor Mrs. Klein.
She’s in a better place.”
“NO! MY FRIEND SHANNON,
WHO I PROMISED
ROSES.”
“I
know, cookie. I know.
That was a tough night,
last night. First Mrs. K.,
then that little girl
rushed off to surgery.
But don’t worry.
You’re doing fine.
You’re gonna be—”
“She’s not dead?”
“That scrappy little girl?
Uh-uh. Her surgery took longer
than—”
“She didn’t say anything
about … HOW COULD SHE NOT
TELL ME?”
“Shhh.
It was an emergency,
She didn’t know.
But don’t worry. She’ll be back.
That little girl’s a fighter.
Just like you.”
I
cry for Mrs. Klein.
I sleep.
Eat half
a scrambled egg,
Let doctors measure,
push, and poke,
Listen to them praise
my progress,
urge me to sit up,
try a walk.
I open my curtain,
walk to the visitor chair
beside the space
where Shannon’s
bed should be, sit,
And wait.
Listen to the new lady
in Mrs. Klein’s bed
grumble on the phone
behind her curtain
and scold the nurse.
Wait.
Try not to watch the clock.
Or let my mind jump to David
before I read the florist card
that came with the pink roses:
Eleanor and Jared Kaye.
Read the sushi names
on my ridiculous pajamas.
Push zucchini, rice, and
some nameless fish fillet
around my plate.
Try not to think
of Lake George summers
whacking heads off trout,
slicing their bellies open,
pulling out shiny blue-pink guts,
scraping clean their flesh.
Try not to picture
Shannon’s scalpeled belly,
Shannon’s guts tossed
in a bucket.
Think about a haircut,
pepperoni pizza,
if Mom’s picked up my paycheck,
new size 2 skinny jeans,
possibly tangerine,
Till muscles twitch, nerves itch,
and if there’s no proof soon
Shannon is okay,
I’m going to explode.
T
eetery baby    step
Doddering old lady    step
Past the bathroom
through the door
Hopscotch square
by square
Into the fluorescent
hall hubbub
In my rhinestone flip-flops
and embarrassing pajamas.
Step    step
past gurneys, carts, computers,
Past an old man parked
in a wheelchair who calls, “You go, girl!”
Step.    One hand on the pole
the other on the wall
Legs noodling
but still moving
Step.    Okay.
I can see
The nurses’ station.
The Orange Croc Doc on her phone.
“You okay, my love?”
asks a nurse.
I catch my breath
and say I’m fine.
I
really do mean
to ask the Orange Croc Doc
about Shannon. But:
“Doctor? Is my … you know …
what you said I might …”
“Your Crohn’s disease?”
My eyes won’t look at her.
Head can’t get itself to nod.
“That’s what I have?
For sure? Crohn’s?”
And I don’t know if my knees tremble
from the evil-sounding word,
the walk, or evil juice,
If the hot hollow
in my belly is hunger
or inflammation eating my insides,
If this spinny weakness means
I’m sicker, or just starting to feel
the sickness that’s been
inside me all along.
“Guess I’m just lucky
I don’t need an operation, right?
Like Shannon?”
Down the hall, a man
with a limp stops pacing,
hurries toward us.
“I don’t. Right, Doc?”
“Not now, no. And hopefully,
we can continue to manage your
disease medically.”
“Hopefully?
Does that mean you don’t know?”
“Doc!”
Cigarette voice,
spattered work boots,
Shannon’s dragon eyes:
“They took her in at six!
It’s half past one!
What’s goin’ on?”
“Just a minute, Mr. Williams.
Chess, Crohn’s is an
unpredictable disease.
I can’t promise you won’t—”
“Yeah, and even if she did,
we know what her
promises are worth!”
His cane jabs the air.
“You people promised
no more surgery.
Said there’d be nothing left
if you kept cutting,
and now …
I told her mom
she should have taken her
down to New York.
Or Boston.
Anywhere
but here!”
The Orange Croc Doc touches my arm.
“We’ll talk more later, Chess.
Walk with me, Mr. Williams.”
Beetles rattle in my ears,
cloud my eyes as she leads
him toward the elevator,
And I want to follow,
find out what they’re saying,
Or scream: No!
Come back!
Talk to me now!
But Monitor Me hears my voice
hollow-bright as Nana’s:
“She’ll be okay.
Don’t worry, Mr. Willliams.
Shannon will be fine.”
“H
appy birthday, darling!”
“I told you we’d
bring the party to you!”
“Here’s our beautiful girl!”
“Hey. Chess.”
Mom, Nana, Poppy,
Charlie, Dawn, and
Cousin Kimmy
hug me, kiss me.
“Have some sparkling cider.
A cupcake.
Your doctor said it’s fine.
They’re so good.
I bought a ton
in case friends come.”
“Mother.” Dawn and Mom
exchange raised-eyebrow glances.
“Where on earth
did you find those pajamas?”
Poppy launches into
“Happy Birthday.”
“Excuse me!”
The lady in Mrs. Klein’s bed
clears her throat.
“I happen
to be a very
sick woman.”
“We’re sorry, sweetie,
it’s just—”
“My name,
for your information,
is not Sweetie.
I taught Language Arts
in the Albany schools
for forty-one years.
My name is Mrs. Murch.”
Kimmy chokes
back giggles,
Nana offers
Mrs. Murch a cupcake,
Poppy pulls in chairs,
pulls out jokes,
While Mom wonders if she dares
have a cupcake, since it is my birthday,
And Aunt Dawn wonders if we wouldn’t
be more comfortable in the lounge,
And Mrs. Murch mutters she’d
be more comfortable, that’s for sure,
And I try to find smiles,
thanks, not now thanks,
When all I want is to jump free
of this body and disappear.

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