by Sarah Ready
“How nice,” says Sylvie dryly.
“It was spring. I got depressed. I’d spend hours outside throwing flower seeds into the wind. The packets had been a wedding gift. I thought I could throw all those gifts away. Funny thing, come summer, there were flowers everywhere. Darn stubborn things. I grew with them. Learned I was strong. Maybe not beautiful. But worthy. I started to love myself. I bloomed. Became me. Once I loved myself, nothing could take it away from me. Not Vince. Not this cancer. Nothing. My whole life has been a garden, full of weeds and flowers. But, let me tell you, the best bit has been learning to love myself. Me. Cleo.”
She hits her palm against her chest and leaves it to rest above her heart.
“That’s a real romance,” she says in challenge.
For the first time, I see her not as a wrinkled woman with a down-turned mouth and a sour expression, but as a thorny flower that has thrived in rocky soil.
“Well done, Cleo,” says Gerry.
“Humph,” says Cleopatra.
I smile at her. “I want to survive,” I say. Then, I’m shocked, because until that moment I didn’t admit out loud that I might not. Cleo looks at me with understanding.
“And thrive,” I add.
“Throw your seeds to the wind then. From my view, you’ve been closed up tight your whole life. Try blooming for a change,” says Cleo.
I shake my head. “I don’t know how.”
Sylvie tsks. “Dear, every flower is born knowing how to bloom. You have to trust yourself.”
“Follow your joy,” says Gerry. “Like I followed my David.”
“Oh, blah,” says Cleo.
“Steve and I always made lists. You could make a list of the things you’ve always wanted to do,” says Matilda.
“A survive and thrive list,” I say.
“The fall in love with yourself list,” says Cleo.
We settle into silence. I think about all the things I’ve never allowed myself to do. I’m lulled by the soothing click clack of Sylvie knitting my love blanket.
14
Dany
* * *
When you think about your bucket list, all the things in life you want to do before you die, what’s on it?
I can’t think of a list of things to do so much as emotions to experience. I’ve not let myself experience the full range of emotions life has to offer. At six, I put on a mask of placid charm and I never took it off again. I worked at being polite and unobtrusive so hard, that I became those things and nothing else.
I’ve forgotten what the real me looks like.
Am I wild? Geeky? Boring? Funny? I don’t know, because I’ve never let myself be anything but…but grass. Muted. Utilitarian. Walked all over. Anytime grass reaches or tries to grow it’s mowed down.
That’s me. Any time I felt or wanted to do something out of the bounds of “proper” I mowed the urge down.
I’m grass.
I stop walking. I made it to the hospital lobby. The exit is ahead. I look around the lobby at the people walking through. I can only see the bustle. The nurse rushing across the hall with a coffee. The mother carrying a crying child. There are a lot of stories here, moving through. I look more closely. There’s an older man sitting in a wheelchair. He’s facing the window, looking out over the parking lot. Everyone is moving and hurrying, except him.
He turns toward me. He catches me watching him and stares back.
I shift under his look.
Usually, if someone catches me staring I quickly turn away. It’s embarrassing. But, hey, I’m ready to experience embarrassment in all its shining glory.
“What’s your name?” he asks. He has an interesting accent, a mix of British, American and something else. I can’t put my finger on it, except to say, it sounds like adventure.
“Dany,” I say.
“I’m Dave. Stuck in this purgatory. Got a spare kidney by any chance?”
“What?” I squeak.
“I’m looking for a kidney. Figured I’d ask. Never hurts.”
I laugh and step closer. “You wouldn’t want my kidney. It’s chock full of chemotherapy drugs.”
He holds up his hands and shrugs. His skin is yellow and papery fine. His hair is wispy. But he still has a sort of roguish air. A dapper old man. He’s dressed in a gray three-piece suit under a silk robe and has a blue silk handkerchief. He uses it to wipe his forehead.
I smile and am about to say goodbye when he continues.
“At this point, I’d take a kidney from a plague-infested yeti. I saw one in the Himalayas back in ’74.”
I’m shocked. “A plague-infested yeti?”
He looks at me like I’m crazy. “Yetis aren’t real,” he says in a loud stage whisper.
“But you said—”
“I saw a kidney.”
“Oh,” I say. I’m not sure how to respond. “How nice.”
He nods. “Lamb kidneys are a real delicacy.”
“Oh.”
He winces. “Looking back, I don’t think I enjoyed it as much as I should have. The symbolism. I turned down the fried brain in China, though. Thankfully.”
“You’re a really interesting person,” I say. Hospitals are chock full of interesting people. Gerry, Cleopatra. Dave.
He hums under his breath. “People are interesting. Sometimes it’s obvious, sometimes you have to look close.”
I look out at the parking lot and the low, scraggly grass sticking out of the cracks in the pavement. Grass.
“I’d like to be more interesting.” I’m embarrassed to admit it.
He turns to me and looks me up and down.
“What’s stopping you?” he asks.
The music over the speakers starts to play the eighties rock song about time running out again. My body flinches in response.
“Nothing,” I say. “There’s nothing stopping me.”
Then I start to tap my foot.
Usually, I’d stop myself. I don’t dance to music. Ever.
But then, I nod my head back and forth. What if I do? What could happen? I decide that I’m going to dance. I’m going to dance to this freaking awful song.
I’m going to live.
“I like that,” says Dave. He wheels his chair forward and backward.
My cheeks burn red. Hesitantly, I start to sway my hips and dance to the music. Maybe I can do this. Maybe I can beat this. Maybe I can dance.
Dave laughs. He wipes at his eyes.
“Mommy, what’s that lady doing?” a young girl in pigtails lisps.
“Ignore them,” her mom says. They hurry by.
I look around, people are staring.
I cringe and my steps falter.
Maybe I can’t do this.
The hospital security guard walks up and taps me on the shoulder. “Ma’am. This is a hospital, not a dance party,” he says.
“Oh. Okay. I’m sorry.” I stare at the collar of his uniform. Not able to meet his eyes. “Sorry, sir,” I say.
Mortification fills me. I can feel people watching. The security guard walks back to his station at the revolving doors.
The burn in my cheeks spreads over me. Embarrassment is a hot wave. My shoulders hunch.
Maybe the list was a bad idea. Dancing was definitely a bad idea.
“I haven’t danced like this since that rain dance ceremony in ’82,” says Dave. He starts to chortle then he laughs, long and happy.
I look up in surprise. Dave wasn’t afraid.
That laughter. It unlocks something in me. I feel it click open in my chest.
I can do this. I can step into my life and survive and thrive.
I can.
Confidence, that’s what I feel. My shoulders push back again. I don’t have to be afraid.
“Dave, it has been an absolute pleasure,” I say. I mean it.
He takes my hand and shakes it. “Good luck, kiddo. Let me know if you run across a kidney.”
“I’ll be on the lookout,” I say.
I wave go
odbye.
15
Dany
* * *
Karl is at the curbside pickup. I walk to his window and he rolls it down.
“Hi Karl. Sorry for the trouble. You can head home. I’m going to take the bus.”
“Miss?” he asks. He knows as well as I that I have never in my life set foot on a bus.
But ten-year-old Dany always wanted to.
This is it. This is the moment that I decide whether or not I can do this. Can I survive and thrive? Experience life through a “fall in love with Dany” list? The bus is my ticket.
“The bus sounds interesting, doesn’t it, Karl?” I ask.
“Interesting, Miss?”
“Yes, interesting,” I say. “I’ve always wanted to ride on a bus. When I was little I dreamed about the smells—vinyl seats, diesel fuel, hairspray and Juicy Fruit gum. Doesn’t it sound wonderful?” In my mind, magical things happened on buses.
“Wonderful, Miss?”
“Thank you, Karl. I’ll see you next time. Or I might keep taking the bus.”
“I’ll follow the bus. In case,” he says.
“That’s okay, Karl. No need.” I give him a wave and lift my chin as I head toward the bus stop.
When I get there, there’s a woman with a shopping basket and a younger man in scrubs.
“Nice day for a bus ride,” I say to the woman. She ignores me.
The city bus pulls up to the curb. The brakes let out a long shrieking whistle and the bus shudders to a stop. The front door opens in a whoosh.
Okay, I can do this. Easy peasy. I climb on. The smell hits me. Air freshener. Hair spray. Body odor. Diesel. Juicy Fruit gum. I was right. I take in a deep breath and smile. The bus is crowded. Not a little crowded, but crammed-in-seats, bags-in-laps, standing-in-the-aisle crowded.
“Good afternoon,” I say to the driver.
I scan the bus. There’s an empty seat near the middle and two near the back of the bus. I take a step toward them.
“Hey, lady. Pay your fare,” says the driver.
“Oh.” I stop and turn back to the front. I pull out a twenty-dollar bill from my purse. “How much?”
He looks at the bill then back at me. “Lady. Quarters only. Or a ticket. You got a ticket?” He snaps his gum through his teeth.
“Oh, um…” I say.
Behind me, the woman with the cart is crowding on. She pushes past me and shoves the wheels of the cart against my ankles. Then she sticks her ticket in the machine. It spits it back out. She shoves past me to sit in the seat near the middle.
Right, I need a ticket. My ticket.
“Where do I buy a ticket?” I ask.
“At the ticket machine,” says the driver in a slow voice.
The young man in scrubs clears his throat.
“Step aside,” says the driver. He snaps his gum.
The scrubs-clad man dumps a load of quarters in the machine at the driver’s side. A receipt spits out. His elbow jabs my side as he jostles past. He grabs a hand rail instead of sitting. I turn back to the driver.
“Could I give you this twenty instead?” I ask.
The driver scowls. “Lady. Either pay with quarters, a ticket, or get off my bus.”
“Just a moment,” I say. I rifle through my purse. There’s always a load of change in there.
“Come on, lady. You want to ride the bus or not?” says the driver.
“I do. I really do. Just a second,” I say. This is important.
In thirty seconds, that somehow feels like an eternity, I pull out enough change to pay the fare. The quarters clack as they bounce down the change funnel.
I grab the receipt that spits out.
I sigh in relief.
I did it. My ticket.
“Thank you,” I tell the driver.
“Have a nice day,” he says. He snaps his gum and jerks the bus into gear.
I stumble and nearly fall in a woman’s lap. I grab the edge of her seat to steady myself.
“Hey,” she says.
“Sorry.”
I try to keep my balance as the bus lurches through traffic. Everyone is staring as I work my way to the back of the bus. Fifty, no, a gazillion eyes are on me. Finally, I make it to an open seat. Thank goodness. I plop down.
What the…
Something squelches and warmth oozes under me.
“I sat on your sandwich, didn’t I?” I turn to the man sitting in the next seat.
“Burrito,” says the large bearded man. He’s wearing a tank top and there’s thick hair on his back and shoulders.
I raise my rear end enough to pull out the flattened tortilla. The refried beans and sauce are spread across the seat.
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
I hand over the flattened burrito. He takes it. Inspects it. Then swipes a finger along the edge and tastes the beans. Oh no.
“I could buy you another,” I say. I start to unzip my purse.
He glowers at me.
“Or not. That’s okay, too.”
The bus jostles me with every stop, start, and turn. I try to keep from bumping my seat mate, but it’s a losing battle. The beans and sauce make the vinyl seat too slippery to stay still. At the next stop he glares at me then pushes past to move to the seat behind me. Even there, I can still hear him chewing.
A new load of people gets on. I recognize the first one. I look down. Don’t sit with me, don’t sit with me. Please, don’t…
“Hey, Dany. Mind if I sit here?”
“Oh, hey Jack. Err, sure,” I say.
I move my legs so he can take the window seat.
“Didn’t you ride with your driver today?”
I nod and try not to move too much on my wet seat. “Oh, you know. I felt like taking the bus. I love the bus. Looove it. Yup. It’s one of my most favorite things. The people that ride buses are so friendly. So, so friendly.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Do you smell that?”
“Hmm?” I ask. “Smell what?”
“Tacos or chimichanga or something? It’s really strong.”
I choke back a laugh. “Why are you riding the bus?” I ask.
“Sissy borrowed my truck. Bad idea, I know.” He shrugs. “She wanted to go to the movies with her friends.”
“Well, next time she could take the bus. It’s really a wonderful mode of transportation.” I grimace.
“Hey, lady. You forgot my nachos.”
I ignore the man behind me. Maybe he’ll go away. Get off at the next stop. Something.
“Hey, lady. You’re on my nachos.” He taps me on the shoulder.
Jack turns around and scowls at him. “Keep your hands to yourself, buddy.”
“Lady, give me my nachos.”
I shift nervously. Something crunches under me.
I don’t want to stand up. There’s going to be crushed nachos, melted cheese, refried beans and hot sauce all over my butt. I can feel it seeping through my pants. It’s passed through the linen and made its way into my lacy underwear.
“I said, give me my nachos.” The bearded man stands and looms over me.
“No,” I whisper.
“What did you say?” His hair-lined shoulders bulge.
“No,” I say more loudly.
“Buddy. You need to sit down and leave us alone,” says Jack. I bury my face in my hands.
“I. Want. My. Nachos.”
“Oh sweet sugar,” I breathe into my hands.
“Sit down,” says Jack.
“Lady,” the man growls.
I shake my head. I’m not standing up.
“I want my—”
“No. You can take your nachos and shove ’em where the sun don’t shine,” I say. Then my mouth falls open in shock. I said that. Holy mackerel, I said that.
“Lady, you already did,” the bearded man says, “and I want ’em back.”
“Sit down,” says Jack.
The man turns, raises his fist. Oh no. He punches Jack in the eye.
I scream.
Jack bounces against the seat. Collapses. His head falls into my lap.
The big man yanks on the emergency handle.
“That wasn’t nice.” He points at me. “I want my nachos.”
The bus screeches to a halt.
I raise my thigh and slowly pull out the carboard container of crushed chips.
“Here you go,” I say.
“Thank you,” he says. Then he storms off the bus.
Jack is still lying across my lap.
“Are you okay?” I ask him. “Oh no. Your poor eye.” I brush his hair away. His eye is already starting to bruise.
He groans.
“Oh no.” I smooth his hair. “You’re not okay.”
He nuzzles his face into my legs. Rubs his check into my belly and strokes my thighs. Then he turns and grins up at me.
“You…you…” I push at him. “You’re fine. Get up. Get up,” I laugh.
He rubs his cheek against my leg.
“I love nachos,” he says. “Mmm. You smell so good. Tacos, chimichangas…”
“Don’t be vulgar,” I say.
“Can’t help it. You bring it out of me.”
I brush my fingers over his hair. It’s soft at the ends. I decide that I like buses. I do. They’re interesting.
“I’m starting a new venture,” I tell him.
He still hasn’t moved from my lap.
“You want me along,” he says.
I look up. The driver is standing in front of me. His arms are folded across his chest.
“You two.” He points at us. “Off my bus.”
Jack scrambles up.
“But…but…I paid my fare,” I say.
“Off,” he says. He points at the open door.
“That’s not right,” I say.
“Aww, get off the bus,” shouts the woman that I accidently bumped earlier.
I sniff.
“I’m not driving until you get off my bus.”
“Booo,” jeers a blue-haired teenage boy.
“Go on, get off,” says a man in a Christmas sweater.
Jack chuckles. He stands. He bows and sweeps his hands toward the door in a courtly gesture. “My lady.”
I push my lips into a firm line. This is my first adventure and I’m getting kicked out of it? I shake my head.
