Two Girls Staring at the Ceiling Read online

  so we can get you a bit

  more comfortable,”

  she says, so brisk and tender

  with her corkscrew curls,

  All I can do is nod

  and try to smile.

  Tassel loafers,

  clipboard, blue blazer,

  laser-blue eyes:

  “So I hear you’re having a rough time.

  What’s up?”

  He looks more college admissions officer

  than shrink.

  I pull out my interview smile.

  “Not much. Besides me, that is.

  Sitting up.

  In this chair, I mean.

  Plus, I just took my first walk.

  To the bathroom.

  And my doctor says

  I’m doing fine.”

  “That’s good news. Now why don’t

  you tell me what’s been going on.

  Then we’ll see what we can do

  to make you more comfortable.”

  “Another pill?

  Because, my theory?

  I’m not that sick anymore.

  It’s just, no one has any clue

  how I am, because of the drugs

  they’ve got me on.”

  “That’s an interesting theory, Francesca.

  And we can talk about it.

  But first we just need to get through

  a few routine questions.

  “Would you mind telling me

  what year it is?”

  Would you mind telling me

  why you’re looking at me

  the way they look at Shannon?

  Not just like I might be

  a crazy person,

  But like I’m one of those tiny

  transparent guppies

  Mom bought for me

  that swam in circles

  for a day, then, belly-up, floated to …

  abscess

  remission flare-up

  immuno-something

  treatment goals

  Doctor words

  I thought I hadn’t heard

  flash like fireworks

  in my brain.

  “Francesca, can you tell me

  who’s the president of

  the United States?”

  … activation of immune system

  leads to influx

  of inflammatory cells

  to the intestine …

  … once activated,

  the immune system doesn’t shut off,

  resulting in chronic

  inflammation …

  … disturbs immune system’s ability

  to distinguish between self

  and nonself …

  “Francesca, would you be

  more comfortable

  lying down?”

  “NO! I mean, no, thank you.”

  And I keep hanging on

  by my politeness,

  giving him the answers

  he’s looking for, until

  Monitor Me hears my tiny transparent

  guppy voice ask: “If I do

  have whatever this is,

  am I going to die?”

  The shrink sets down his clipboard.

  Leans in closer.

  I watch his eyebrows knit,

  his Adam’s apple bob,

  his lips tighten for an instant

  before he speaks

  of perfectly understandable concern,

  normal to worry, not saying

  there won’t be challenges, but …

  I wait for Die? You?

  Of course not!

  Don’t be ridiculous!

  Wait through cautious, useless

  doctor words.

  Wait for him to go.

  “Doctor! Wait!

  Come back!

  “Like, for example, that girl

  in the bed next to me?

  Her body is basically out to get her?

  Hates her as much as she hates it?

  That’s what ‘autoimmune’ means?

  “And ‘chronic’ means

  no matter how good

  she thinks she feels,

  it’s got her?

  She’s got it?

  She’s.

  It?

  “Is that

  what everyone is saying?”

  “Francesca,” he says. “I can’t speak

  to what others might have said,

  but I can assure you, no matter what

  disease you may or may not have,

  you’ll still be you.”

  “But what’s that mean?”

  I’ve been trying to whisper

  in case Shannon’s listening

  through the curtain, but

  his careful kindness

  cracks my voice

  wide open:

  “Who’s ‘you’ when

  your own body is

  your biggest enemy?

  “If her own body

  can’t recognize

  her, how can she?”

  “You’re asking important questions.

  It might take a while

  to figure out the answers.

  But right now, I think

  what we need to do

  is give you something to calm

  your nerves and let you sleep.”

  “No! Doctor. You don’t understand!

  If I lie down and sleep,

  if I die, I’ll never know!”

  “YO! NO DYING HERE!

  GOT THAT?”

  Shannon’s voice slices

  through the curtain.

  “NOBODY DIES IN MY ROOM!

  INCLUDING ME!”

  “Leap, ladies! Leap over the lake!

  Don’t let those feet get wet!

  Tummies in! Arms out!

  Heads up!”

  I soar above the mirror-shiny floor,

  land easy as a dragonfly. “Perfect!”

  Ms. Filipova bestows her chilly smile,

  whispers to my mom:

  “Remember what a clumsy little girl

  she was? No turnout, no elevation,

  those pudgy legs. She dances

  so much better dead.”

  To the easy music of the waves

  I dance with David in the dark.

  Bonfire sparks glint in his eyes.

  He swoops me into the air. I fly,

  Swim beside him in the lake.

  Damselflies skim over us.

  Words waft in

  from miles away.

  It is so pleasant being dead, so easy

  floating naked here with David

  in the ocean,

  waveless now, and warm.

  Words drift in …

  “Couldn’t you just sneak her up

  in the middle of the night?

  “She’d be so good, Mom.

  I know she would.

  She wouldn’t make a sound.”

  Drift out …

  “Oh, baby, you know

  we can’t do that.”

  “But I miss her so much.”

  “That’s why we need to

  get you better.

  So you can be with her again.”

  “Couldn’t you just bring her

  underneath the window

  so I could wave?”

  In fading light I wake

  to a headache and a tray:

  cold tea, melted orange icey,

  yellow Jell-O.

  A doctor voice wishes Shannon

  good night.

  In the hall a cigarette-voiced man yells,

  “You guys with your million-dollar

  machines and thousand-dollar pills!”

  Mrs. Klein, on her imagined phone,

  orders a salmon steak,

  enough for two,

  make sure it’s fresh this time.

  I hear Shannon crying.

  And with the dark

  the night beetles gather.

  I hear their oil
-slick shells rattle,

  feel the prickle of their legs,

  the tickle of their feelers.

  “DON’T TELL ME

  VISITING HOURS ARE OVER

  AND DON’T TELL ME TO CALM DOWN!”

  yells the hall man.

  “I’LL CALM DOWN

  WHEN SOMEBODY STOPS SPOUTING

  MEDICAL MUMBO JUMBO AND STARTS

  MAKING HER BETTER!”

  Their vinegar stink stings

  my nostrils,

  their whisper weight masses,

  making ready, marching

  to my heart’s drumming.

  “I’LL CALM DOWN

  WHEN YOU STOP

  TALKING ABOUT

  CUTTING HER OPEN.

  “I’LL CALM DOWN WHEN YOU

  JUST TELL ME. WHEN. ARE.

  YOU. GONNA. MAKE. HER

  BETTER?”

  When I was little,

  waiting for the night to end,

  my dad could always

  scare away the night beetles.

  I have no legs, no voice,

  can only clench myself closed, try

  to fly my mind somewhere safe

  as the night beetles swarm.

  And I whisper to the dark:

  “I wish I could be just me.

  Without my body.”

  Then through the curtain,

  so soft

  I hardly know

  it’s her:

  “Sometimes it helps

  if you imagine purring.

  One of those big old stripey—

  I’ll just stand here on your pillow

  and keep this going all night

  long as you don’t do something

  to annoy me—

  tomcats with a rumbling purr

  that quiets down your breath

  and helps your heart un-hurt.

  “Anyway. That’s what works

  for me sometimes.”

  “I had a cat when I was little.

  Bobo. My dad used to tuck her in

  with me at night.

  “That Cupcake thing?

  That’s what he called me back then.

  And I’m not saying

  it was my goal in life:

  ‘So, Chess, what do you want to be

  when you grow up?’

  ‘Oh, I want to be a fattening pastry item.’

  “And I realize

  the cupcake bottom line

  is, you get eaten,

  but I felt so …

  “I mean … who doesn’t

  love a cupcake?

  Small and perfect.

  Neat. Sweet …

  “If it were up to me

  I wouldn’t even

  have

  bowels,

  “Never mind

  a disease

  with ‘bowel’

  its middle name.

  “ ‘Oh, hello! I’m Chess!

  I have a bowel disease!

  I’m gonna be spending my life

  looking for a bathroom!’

  “Not happening.

  I do not

  have it.

  I refuse.

  “At least cancer,

  even the meanest person

  wouldn’t be all ‘Ewwwwww!’

  behind your back,

  or, when they see you,

  trying not to look away.

  “I mean, sick

  is the last thing

  you’re supposed

  to be thinking about

  on an island in the middle

  of a lake in the middle

  of the night with a boy

  like no boy you’ve met before.

  “He was the first boy

  I liked who ever really …

  you know …

  wanted me.

  “Shannon?

  Y’awake over there?”

  “Yeah. But this pity-party shit

  is getting on my nerves.

  “They can’t take shit,

  who needs ’em.”

  “Could you stop saying

  that word, please?”

  “Oh, does Cupcake like

  the D-word better?

  Cuz you know, diarrhea

  can be your friend.”

  “I said, stop!”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Teacherperson.

  This exam takes how long?

  Because I think you should know

  I have this little diarrhea problem—”

  “I DON’T WANT TO HEAR

  THIS!”

  “Oh, Aunt Mabel,

  I’d love to clean your garage.

  But unless you got a bathroom close by,

  and I mean REALLY close …”

  “SHANNON!”

  “And you don’t even have to say

  the D-word, but trust me, if you do,

  no one will mess with you.

  They don’t need to know

  your pills got it under control.”

  “Pills?

  There are pills?

  Besides the evil juice?”

  “Oh yeah.

  They got all kinds of pills.

  Pills, shots, shit they drip into you …”

  “That work?

  Because

  I mean, if

  they work,

  how come

  you’re so sick?

  “Sorry!

  I shouldn’t

  have said that!

  I’m so sorry!”

  “And it’s not like psoriasis

  or something where the whole world

  can see what you have.

  You might feel like crap, but

  to people who don’t know

  you have a disease,

  you look fine.

  “Except for if you get the acne

  and the fat face

  from the evil juice,

  or your hair gets thin and weird.

  Like mine.

  “But you know what?

  Most people are too busy

  worrying how they look

  to be thinking about you.

  “Unless the evil juice

  makes you blow up

  like a balloon.

  “Which obviously never

  happened to me. In fact,

  I could stand to gain—”

  “If I get fat again

  I’ll die!”

  “Would you shut up about dying?

  I’ve been in and outta here

  since I was ten, okay?

  And do I look dead to you?

  Don’t answer that!

  “Forget dying.

  Forget fat.

  Forget necessary evil.

  There’s only one necessary thing

  and that’s to get it through your head:

  “We don’t take stress.

  We give stress.

  “Which is why

  you need to lose this ‘sorry’ shit.

  Someone comes to take your blood,

  and you’re like: ‘Oh, thank you!

  How much would you like?

  Oh, have some more!’

  “Uh-uh! ‘Go away! I barely

  got enough to keep me going here!’

  Why d’you need to be all meek

  and shit?

  “You’re the one sick!

  And you’re worrying

  some boy

  won’t like

  you for it?

  “Does that

  sound right to you?

  “Yo. Are you even listening?

  You didn’t go to sleep on me, did you?”

  “I can’t be sick.

  I’ve got this really busy life:

  this summer job, plus

  going to look at colleges.

  Plus, I’m planning

  to go out for track, so

  I’ve been doing a lot of running.

  “When I wasn’t feeling too bad.

  “Cuz
I haven’t been feeling

  all that good these last months.

  “Plus, we had this whole plan—