My dad lowers his head. “Yes. Adderall does help you focus but it also speeds up your heart rate. And if you take too much of it, it can be very dangerous. It can also make you act erratically.”
“But she’s going to be okay?” I confirm.
My dad drapes an arm over my shoulder and squeezes. “She’s going to be fine.”
“Can I see her?”
He pushes himself back to his feet. “Of course. Come on, I’ll take you.”
I follow tentatively behind my father as he leads me through a series of long corridors. The smell of disinfectant is overwhelming and I’m reminded of the Centennial Nursing Home where I’ve spent so many of my weekends over the past couple of months.
My dad enters a patient room but I choose to linger in the doorway. My sister is awake and talking, but she looks so strange in her blue hospital gown with tubes hooked up to various parts of her body that I have trouble approaching her. Her skin is pale and her arms lie like limp strands of spaghetti by her sides.
One word flashes to mind as I watch her. And it’s a word I’ve never used to describe my sister in all my life.
Defeated.
Suddenly I feel like the wind has been knocked out of me. Like the world has been turned upside down.
This can’t be right. This has to be a dream.
Izzie doesn’t make mistakes. She doesn’t do things that land her in hospital beds or police stations or on the eleven o’clock evening news. That’s my area of expertise. Izzie is the smart one. The one who makes good decisions. The perfect one.
But the beeping heart monitors are screaming otherwise. The scribblings on the chart that hangs on the outside of the door are spelling another story. The pink curtain that divides the room in two is pulled back to reveal a very different truth.
That no one is perfect.
That anyone can suffer from a momentary lapse of judgment.
Even Isabelle Pierce.
“Brooks.” My mom beckons to me. “It’s okay. You can come in.”
Upon hearing my name, Izzie struggles to turn her head toward the door. A smile fights its way to the surface.
“I’m going to get some coffee,” my mom tells us. “Dan, will you come with me?”
As my parents disappear out the door, I step hesitantly toward Izzie and reach for her hand.
“How you feeling?”
“Pretty stupid,” she replies with a weak laugh.
I laugh, too. But only because I feel like I’m supposed to. Not because there’s anything funny about this. “You scared me,” I tell her in a scratchy voice.
“I know,” she admits softly. “I’m sorry.”
I squeeze my fingers around her hand and force out a smile. “It’s okay. I’m just glad you’re all right.”
Izzie sighs and turns her head out the window. The sun is setting, leaving the sky a beautiful shade of coral pink. “No, I mean, I’m sorry I failed you.”
My grasp automatically loosens and I shake my head at her, baffled.
“When we were little,” she explains, “Mom and Dad told me that you looked up to me. I didn’t believe them. But I always thought, you know, just in case, I should probably set a good example. So I’ve always tried to be this perfect role model for you. The perfect older sister. But tonight, I wasn’t. And I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I assure her, glancing up at the IV bag hanging over our heads and reaching out to catch one of her tears on the tip of my finger. “I never liked you very much when you were perfect. You’re much cooler now that you’re human.”
The Other Side of Moody
After Mrs. Moody’s death, my mom offered to call Lawyer Bob and have him request a transfer so I could complete the rest of my community service requirement elsewhere but I refused, insisting that all I needed was one weekend off and then I would be fine to go back.
My sister was released from the hospital yesterday and is now enjoying a relaxing day in front of the TV while I find myself walking back through the front doors of Centennial Nursing Home.
Gail keeps me extremely busy for the first half of the day. I think she feels obligated to distract me. And she’s been doing a pretty good job at it. She jam-packed the schedule with games and special events and even a field trip to the park where we play croquet with some of the more active residents.
But now things are starting to die down around here and people are getting tired and retiring to their rooms for extended naps. I’ve set myself up in the activity room with Rummikub, but so far no one has wandered over to play. Jane, my regular Rummikub partner, is staying at her daughter’s house for the Thanksgiving holiday and I’ve learned rather quickly that playing Rummikub by yourself is not only boring but nearly impossible.
After winning three games of solitaire, I finally decide to take a stroll down the corridor to see if the nurses need help with anything but I find the station empty. So I keep walking. I know exactly where I’m going, I’m just not sure if I really want to go there. But my feet seem to have a mind of their own, and before I can convince them to turn around, I’m standing in the middle of room 4A.
It’s empty. Uninhabited. Apparently they’ve yet to admit any new residents.
I pull the orange plastic chair into the middle of the room and plop down into it. Then I wait. Except after five minutes, I realize I don’t know what I’m waiting for. It’s strange. How someone can be here one minute and then gone the next.
I’ve never known anyone who’s died before. All of my grandparents are still alive. My mom is allergic to dogs and cats so we’ve never really had any pets. My sister and I got a turtle when we were younger but he died a few days later so I don’t think that counts since I never really got to know him very well.
When I close my eyes, I can almost still feel her in the room. I picture her in the bed, her bony, vein-covered hands grasping tightly at the covers. I wonder where they took her. After she died. Was she buried? Cremated? Is it bad that I never thought to ask?
“Excuse me?” A voice startles me and I leap out of the chair.
I look up to see a middle-aged man standing in the doorway dressed in a pair of jeans and a sport coat. The kind with leather patches on the elbows. He’s carrying a large box and a manila envelope.
“Sorry,” I say, pushing the chair back into the corner. “I was just leaving.”
He takes a step into the room. “Actually, I’m looking for someone named Baby Brooklyn. The receptionist said I might find her in here.”
The mention of the nickname catches me off guard but I put my hand to my chest and say, “Um, I guess that’s me.”
He seems to find humor in this because his lips curl into a smile. “With a name like that, I didn’t know what age to expect.”
“Well, it’s not really my name.”
He looks at his feet. “No, of course not. I didn’t think—Never mind. I’m here to deliver this to you.” He heaves the box forward and sets it down at my feet.
“What is it?” I ask, eyeing it skeptically.
“It was left for you by Gertrude Moody.”
“Mrs. Moody?”
He offers me a tight-lipped smile. “Yes.” He removes a thick stack of papers from the manila envelope and flips to a page in the middle. “In her will, she asked that these be given to you. Well, to ‘Baby Brooklyn,’ rather.”
“Oh, you must be her lawyer,” I say, eyeing the papers.
“No,” the man replies, looking extremely uncomfortable. “But her lawyer sent me.”
I delicately lift the lid of the box and peer inside. Filling the box, all neatly stacked in rows, are the familiar blue and white bindings of Mrs. Moody’s You Choose the Story collection.
“Oh my gosh,” I cry, bending down to pull out a random title. “Thank you so much!”
He seems to find fulfillment in my reaction. “You’re welcome. The nurses here said that you used to read these to her.”
I nod, a prick of moisture stinging my eyes as I run my
hand over the book’s worn and weathered cover. I flip it open and catch sight of the “This Book Belongs To” sticker adhered to the inside.
My head pops up and I stare inquisitively at the man standing in front of me. “Wait a minute,” I say, touching the sticker. “If you aren’t her lawyer, then who are you?”
“Oh, I doubt she ever mentioned me.” He dismisses my question with a disheartened smile. “My name is Nicholas Townley. I’m her son.”
“You’re Nicholas Townley?” I ask, giving the stranger another once-over. I’m not sure what I expected Nicholas Townley to look like and that’s probably because I never expected to actually meet him. The only proof I had that he even existed were these stickers and a mangled photograph of a four-year-old boy in red overalls, holding a daisy.
He shifts his weight awkwardly. “So she did mention me.”
I snort out a laugh. “Well, I wouldn’t say that, exactly.”
“Then how do you know about me?”
I flip the book around in my hand and show him the scribbled label. “Because your name is in all of these books. And when I asked her who you were, she nearly had a heart attack.”
Recognition registers on the man’s face and he nods solemnly. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”
“If you’re her son,” I begin accusingly, “then why did you never come to visit her when she was alive?”
“I didn’t know she was here!” he defends, pain shadowing his eyes and the deep lines around his mouth. “She refused to see me or take my calls or even tell me where she was living.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Why would she do that? And why did she react to your name like that?”
His shoulders fall in defeat and he looks to the ground. “We had a falling-out. Years ago. I told her I was getting married and she freaked out. Said she never wanted to see me again. That I was ‘dead’ to her.”
Skepticism infiltrates my tone. “All because you were getting married?”
“All because I was getting married to a man,” he clarifies.
“Oh.”
“I tried to contact her. I tried to reconcile several times. But this was her choice. And when my mother makes a decision, that’s the end. It’s no use trying to change her mind.”
I glance down at the You Choose the Story in my hand. Coincidentally it’s the one about the island inhabited by vampires, the first title I ever read to her. I hug it to my chest. “I know,” I whisper, a slight smile forming.
“And so we never spoke again. After my dad died about ten years ago, she changed her name back to her maiden name—Moody—and just like that, it was as if we weren’t even related anymore. Until her lawyer called me to tell me that she had passed away and that her things could be collected at this address…if I was interested.”
“I’m sorry,” I mumble, fidgeting with the book in my hand, opening the cover and flipping through the yellowed pages. Then I eye the box by my feet, crammed full of adventures just waiting to be taken, and I think about the sticker inside each one of them, declaring their rightful owner. “These books belonged to you, didn’t they?”
He leans down and pulls one from the cardboard box, laughing nostalgically as he reads the title. “They used to be my favorite,” he tells me, fingering the binding. “She used to read them to me when I was little. Every night before I went to bed. She’d let me make all the choices. And when we’d reach a dead end, she’d always let me start over…until I found the ending I was looking for.”
I laugh, too. Because suddenly everything about my long hours spent in Mrs. Moody’s room at the nursing home makes perfect sense.
I return the book in my hand to the box and push it toward him. “You should really keep these.”
But he shakes his head and takes a step toward the door. “My mom wanted you to have them. And I want to respect her choice. For once. Because God knows, there were many of them that I never could.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, hoisting the box of books into my arms. “For bringing these over here.”
He gives me an awkward sort of wave. “No problem.”
“Well, if it makes you feel any better,” I try, “she wouldn’t let me read anything else to her.”
“Thanks. It does. A little.” A strained smile appears as he turns to leave.
“Wait!” I call, struck by a last-minute thought. I dig through the box until I find the book I’m looking for, then I flip through its discolored pages until I arrive at the photograph.
Nicholas Townley, age 4.
“Here,” I say, handing it over to him. “I found it in one of the books. For whatever it’s worth…”
I can tell that he’s no longer comfortable being here. He takes the picture from my hand, thanks me again, and is gone within a matter of seconds.
I’m alone again. And even though the majority of Mrs. Moody’s mysterious secret past has finally been revealed, I still don’t feel any better about her absence. She left behind a hole. A giant, gaping hole. And it’s too late to fill it. It will always be there, casting a gloomy shadow on Nicholas Townley’s life.
And I guess, in a way, casting a shadow on mine as well.
Because suddenly it dawns on me. Mrs. Moody and I are the same. We’re built from the same mold. A mold of poor judgment and a propensity to make terrible choices. It’s why she liked me. Why she trusted me and no one else. I was the “little girl who fell down the mine shaft.” The little girl who became famous for her mistake.
In Mrs. Moody’s eyes, I was safe because she saw me as a mirror image of herself.
The room is starting to feel claustrophobic. The walls are closing in, and if I don’t get out of here, I fear they’re going to squeeze me into pulp.
I dash from the room, down the hallway, and out the back entrance until I’m in the wide-open space of the parking lot. I take a deep breath, the frozen air chilling my lungs and awakening my cells.
I don’t want to be like Mrs. Moody. I don’t want to be a ninety-year-old woman with a life full of regret. I don’t want to wake up one morning seventy-five years from now and discover that my life has been a series of bad decisions and wrong turns and heartbreak.
But what if that’s just my destiny? What if I’m doomed to end up right here, in this very nursing home, bitter and irritable and biting the hands of nurses because I’m angry about all the terrible decisions I made? What if, ironically, I don’t have a choice?
The moment I get home, I look at my computer and I know what I have to do. It’s what I’ve always had to do, but somewhere along the way, my vision got cloudy and distorted and I strayed from the plan. I can’t trust my own decisions. I can’t trust my ability to lead myself in the right direction. And I know there’s only one thing that will save me from becoming her. Or more important, that will save me from myself.
* * *
My Life Undecided
CAUGHT IN THE MIDDLE
Posted on: Saturday, November 27th at 11:01 pm by BB4Life
I know I owe you all an explanation. I know you probably have a lot of questions. And I know that some of you may even be mad at me. But I hope it will suffice to say that I’m sorry. I’m sorry for abandoning the blog. I’m sorry for abandoning you. I can’t go into the full details of my previous decision to jump ship but I’m here now because once again I need your help. I need you to help steer me down the right path with your wisdom. To keep me from doing something I’ll regret later.
Do you remember Rhett Butler? Do you remember how charming and beautiful and popular he is? Well, he’s asked me to go to the winter formal next week and I’ve said yes. And I couldn’t be more excited about it. Rhett is everything I ever thought I wanted in a boyfriend. He fits effortlessly into my life. Like white on white.
So what’s the problem, you ask?
Well, remember Heimlich? My cute and somewhat dorky debate partner? He’s exactly the opposite of anyone I ever thought I would fall for. In fact, before this blog, I never even gave him a
second look (or a first look, for that matter). But now that I’ve seen him, I can’t look away. Somehow he’s managed to find a way into my thoughts and he won’t leave. Somehow he’s managed to get me, even when I don’t.
And here lies my dilemma.
What are you supposed to do when one person makes you feel safe and another person makes you feel alive? It’s like I’m caught between two versions of myself. The person I used to be and the person I’m too scared to become. I feel like I’m looking into a mirror and my reflection doesn’t match. I just want to be myself again. Only, I’m not sure who that is anymore. Is it the girl in the mirror, the one I’ve struggled to be my entire life? Or is it this stranger living inside me who wants nothing to do with her? How do you decide between them? How do you know which one is really you? Especially when they’re each in love with a different person.
So please, tell me what I’m supposed to do. Tell me who I’m supposed to choose.
I can’t do it on my own. I can’t see straight. I need your clarity.
Please vote.
Your lost and lonely friend,
BB
* * *
Missing in Action
Shayne hasn’t stopped talking about the winter formal since we got back to school. It’s all she can think about. Dresses and limos and hairstyles and the gorgeous necklace she found at the mall this weekend. Although I would never say it aloud, I’m honestly getting sick of hearing about it. I mean, does this girl really have nothing else to talk about but clothes and boys and updos? Has she always been like that or is this just the first time I’m noticing it?
“So anyway,” she continues as we head to my locker after lunch on Monday. “We should probably go shopping together this week. To make sure we look good next to each other in pictures, but not too matchy matchy, you know?”
My Life Undecided Page 20
