Two Girls Staring at the Ceiling Read online

  Just pick her out something

  nice to wear, okay?

  She’s gonna want to look good

  for going home.”

  Her voice gentles:

  “Okay, Mrs. Klein,

  he’s on his way. But

  traffic is terrible, he says.

  So don’t wait up.

  He’ll wake you

  when he gets here.

  “What’s that, Sam?

  Oh yeah, and he says

  tell you he loves you.”

  Her voice wobbles as she adds,

  “A bushel and a peck.”

  But Mrs. Klein’s hand’s

  already eased in mine.

  Her eyes flutter closed.

  I stand by her bed listening

  to the oxygen machine

  till Shannon raises a hand

  to slap me five,

  and mutters

  “Damn, I’m good.

  “Hell, I should have

  told him to bring us

  a breakfast burrito

  while he’s at it.

  And some coffee.”

  Her eyes slide away.

  “And underpants.”

  I know, I know, I know.

  I nod too many times.

  “Bring mine, too, Sam,”

  I say into my

  thumb and pinky phone.

  With proud, sad,

  crooked smiles

  we push our poles

  back to our beds

  to wait for sleep, or Sam.

  THIRD DAY

  Whap!

  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.

  “No 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.”

  “Let’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.

  “Chessie, 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.”

  The 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!”

  “Poor 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.

  And in the silence

  left by all the words

  unsaid,

  it’s pretty clear

  I’ve stepped

  off the edge

  of my life

  Into Sickland.

  No! I crank my bed up,

  slide feet into my new flip-flops,

  unplug, unsnarl, unhook

  my nose-tube tub,

  rehook the tubes to my IV pole,

  wrestle its wheels around

  the heinous commode.

  No! There are no night beetles

  in the daylight,

  Just spots dancing

  in the corners

  of my eyes.

  And I’m walking,

  right?

  Walking.

  Tile by tile,

  step after step,

  past the doctors

  leaving Shannon’s bed.

  Hang in, the
Orange Croc Doc said.

  That chitter in my ears

  is just the hum

  of the machines.

  Or evil juice.

  The face waiting

  in the bathroom mirror

  will not be me.

  Only six

  more tiles to go.

  And who said

  I have to look?

  Just pee.

  Stand clear of the mirror,

  brush tongue, teeth, scrub armpits

  with someone’s Listerine,

  rake hair into a lump,

  no pencil like the Orange Croc Doc’s

  to hold it up, stab someone’s toothbrush through,

  twist tendrils till they agree to curl,

  pinch cheeks, bite color to my lips.

  “I like the little peach-fuzzy hairs

  on your lip,” he said.

  “You’re telling me I have

  a mustache.”

  “No. They’re nice. I like

  the way they feel.”

  Now if I just climb up on the toilet,

  I can see if my belly looks

  as giant as it feels,

  if the rest of me looks fat.

  Please, God, not that!

  If it weren’t for all these

  stupid tubes tangling,

  and this damn balloon!

  Oh, no!

  Forget the pinpoint eyes, hair like roadkill,

  skin like someone who’s been floating

  facedown in a river for a month or two.

  There’s nothing

  in my nose.

  Above me the blue balloon bobs.

  Somewhere down my chest,

  the tube with three greenish bubbles

  caught in its coils.

  “I don’t know what happened,”

  I tell the nurse who rushes

  to the bathroom

  when I ring.

  She glares like I’m a dog

  who piddled on her floor.

  “What do you mean,

  what happened?

  You pulled

  it out.

  Your doctor

  is not

  going to be

  pleased.”

  “No. It must have fallen out!

  I WOULD NEVER … I SWEAR!

  I’M NOT THE KIND OF PERSON WHO …”

  And yet,

  do I know?

  “How ’bout we give it a try

  without the tube,”

  the Orange Croc Doc says.

  “We’ll put the tube back

  if we need to… .”

  “No! Please! No!”

  She’s talking blood counts,

  this rate, that rate, numbers

  I can’t understand.

  “Meanwhile, why don’t I ask

  for someone

  to come down from psych