The Other Side of Dark

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  “You have to go to your office? But it’s so late.”

  “Uh, extra work,” he says. The wrinkle between his eyebrows deepens as he looks at me. “Are you sure you’ll be all right, Stacy?”

  “Are you afraid something is going to happen to me?”

  “No! Oh, no! I just meant, do you need anything? Can I do anything for you while I’m here?”

  His glance slides away from mine. He’s not telling me the truth.

  “Better hurry, so you won’t miss dinner,” I answer. He holds me tightly in a big hug, then leaves, pausing at the door to give me one last, searching look and an attempt at a smile.

  I’m staring at the dented metal top that covers the plate on my tray, wondering if I really want to take it off and find out what’s under it, when a nurse with hair so red she looks like a lit candle pokes her head in the door. “Turn on Channel Two!” she says. “Quick!”

  I move toward the television set that is mounted on the ceiling, but she bounces across the room and grabs a remote-control device that was lying behind a large box of tissues. She quickly presses buttons until she gets the right channel.

  A man and a woman are tasting spaghetti and rolling their eyes with delight.

  “It’s going to be after this commercial,” she tells me.

  “What is?”

  “You!”

  I sit on the edge of the bed, wondering what she means. “There weren’t any television reporters here.”

  “Oh, they were here. They just didn’t get in to see you. The office put you under tight security.”

  “Security!”

  “Oh, didn’t they tell you that? There’s a real cute off-duty policeman stationed in the hall to keep out the reporters and photographers. Norma’s been walking by him so often she’s wearing a path in the tiles.”

  “But what—”

  She holds up a hand to hush me. “Listen. Here it is.”

  The newscaster is saying, “Stacy McAdams, Houston’s sensational Sleeping Beauty, two days ago awakened from a four-year-long comatose state to announce that she is a potential eyewitness to a murder. However, she is just as inaccessible to reporters as the original Sleeping Beauty was to the rest of the world.”

  As he speaks the front door of the clinic is shown on the screen. So that’s where I am. It’s a white one-story building that seems to ramble over a large area, and there are lots of pine trees shading it. There are people standing on the steps of the building and, on the grass, some of them carrying cameras. A policeman is facing them, his back to the closed doors.

  On the screen appear the same two photographs that were in the newspaper.

  “—called a model student by her teachers,” the newscaster continues.

  “Oh, no!” I groan. “That’s not true. I wasn’t a model student. I hated algebra. Anyhow, what he said makes me sound like a creep.”

  “You can’t hear what he says if you don’t keep quiet,” the nurse answers, but a picture comes up of a group of protesters at the city hall, and the newscaster is off on another story.

  The photographs of the two girls stay in my mind. Especially the one taken by the newspaper reporter. “Do I really look like that?” I whisper to myself.

  The nurse hears me. “Sure you do! You’re just as pretty as Sleeping Beauty was too! Remember the Walt Disney one, with her dark hair and big eyes?”

  “That was Snow White.”

  She shrugs and laughs. “Doesn’t matter. You’re a really good-looking girl. You’re going to have lots of dates and lots of fun.”

  She scurries out of the room. It’s just as well, because I’m suddenly too surprised to talk to her. Dates? I don’t know how to date. I don’t even know what to say to a guy. Oh, sure, there were cute guys in my school, but Jan and I and my other friends didn’t talk to them much, except when we worked up enough courage to say things like “You were real good in the game yesterday.” And when they weren’t around, we giggled a lot about them and talked about what we’d do if a guy wanted to kiss us. Suzie told us she’d been French-kissed, and she described what it was like and a lot more, but Jody kept yelling, “Yuck, yuck, yuck! That’s gross!” so Suzie said we were babies and she wasn’t going to tell us any more. We didn’t care. We’d all read the same book Suzie had.

  Jan and I asked our mothers when we could date, and they both said not until we were in high school. Jan and I made a real fuss about it. I guess now that was pretty silly, since none of the guys had asked us for dates.

  Jan. Jan would know how to date, but I can’t ask her what to do. She’d think I was really dumb. She’s not the Jan I used to know, and I feel shy with her. Maybe I can ask Donna what to do.

  I flop on the bed, nearly overturning my still-covered dinner tray.

  From where I’m lying on the bed I can see the bottom edge of the door. It’s open just a crack, just enough so that someone must be holding it open, just enough for someone to be watching me.

  Quickly I scramble off the bed and manage to stammer, “Who—who’s there?”

  The door opens wide, and Monty blinks and grins. “Hey, it’s just me.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Your tray,” he says. “I’m collecting them.”

  “You just brought it.”

  He shrugs. “Go ahead and finish,” he says. He comes into the room, shoving the door so that it shuts behind him, and sprawls in the armchair. “Saw you on TV,” he adds.

  “You’re not supposed to be in here.”

  “Gotta take a break once in a while. They really work us hard around here.”

  I grab the tray and shove it at him. “Here. Take it.”

  “You didn’t eat anything. Aren’t you hungry?”

  “No.”

  He still doesn’t move to take the tray. “You’re a celebrity. You know that?”

  “Go away.”

  Slowly Monty bends and curls as though it were taking a lot of effort to pull his body together and out of the chair. When he gets to his feet, he says, “You’re not very friendly. I just thought it would be kind of interesting to ask you about what happened.”

  “I don’t mean to be unfriendly. I just don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You’re scared. Right? But you don’t have to be scared of me.” He moves a step closer. “You can tell me. What did the guy look like? Do you know his name?”

  I can’t answer. I try to back up, but the bed is behind me. Only the tray is between us.

  Monty’s voice lowers. “It’s sort of like a movie, you being the only one who can identify the guy who shot you and your mom. If it was a movie, you know the guy would come hunting for you, and it would probably be Jack Nicholson or somebody, and you’d try to hide out and—”

  I drop the tray, and he hops backward, grabbing his left foot.

  “Whadja do that for?”

  “Get out of here!” I yell at him, and I jab at the call button.

  A petite nurse with cropped black hair comes in as Monty is picking up the dishes and trying to wipe up the globs of food that decorate the floor.

  “What’s the matter?” she asks.

  “She did it, not me!” Monty complains.

  “I told him to get out! He kept trying to ask me questions!”

  Monty stands, holding the messy tray. He grins at the nurse. “She’s a celebrity. I just wanted to talk to her for a few minutes.”

  “Get back to your job,” she says sternly. “You could get fired for deliberately annoying a patient.”

  She glares until he leaves the room. Then she smiles at me. “Don’t mind Monty. He’s not the brightest person around this hospital, but he’s harmless.”

  “He wouldn’t leave when I told him to. He frightened me. He asked too many questions.”

  “He was just curious,” she answers. “Naturally the staff has been talking a lot about you, and he probably wanted to brag about getting some inside information. I’ll tell the head nurse to chew him out, and he’ll leav
e you alone. Want another dinner tray?”

  “No, thanks. I’m not very hungry.”

  “Okay now?”

  “I guess.”

  She leaves, and I sit on the edge of the bed, thinking about what happened. I guess I overreacted and got scared of Monty because I’m scared of so many things now. I don’t want to be on television! I don’t want a policeman guarding me in the hall! I don’t want to be afraid anymore! I wish I were still thirteen!

  I don’t have time to think about Monty or policemen or anything else the next morning when the day snaps into place with doors banging open, blinds clattering up, breakfast, a shower, and Alice changing the dressing on my hip.

  “Looks lovely,” Alice says. “It’s healing nicely. Dr. Peterson will be pleased.”

  “I’m pleased,” I tell her.

  Alice laughs. “That’s taken for granted.” She hands me a clean pair of jeans and a slightly faded T-shirt with a strange face on it. “This was my daughter’s,” Alice says. “I thought you’d like it.”

  “Is that your daughter’s picture?”

  Alice giggles. “No, honey. That’s Glory Beans.”

  “Who’s Glory Beans?”

  “Why, she’s—” Alice stops and stares at me with wide eyes. “Oh, my, I didn’t think. You wouldn’t know, would you? She’s a very famous punk star. All the kids are crazy about her.”

  “Punk?”

  “Whew!” Alice shakes her head. “I guess the best thing to do is bring you a four-year stack of newsmagazines, so you can catch up.”

  Mrs. Montez hops into the room as I pull the shirt over my head. “Fifteen minutes,” she says. “I wrote your appointment on the schedule. Meet me in the physical therapy room on time!”

  “Where is the—” But she’s already galloping down the hall.

  Alice gathers her tray of things and heads for the door. “Just turn left and go straight down to the main desk, then turn left again. It’s at the far end of that wing. You can’t miss it.”

  I go into the bathroom and brush my hair. It needs a trim. I could probably use a haircut, a new style. What are the new styles? Maybe there’s a choice. Jan’s hair looked good, not like that reporter’s. I study my face. I’m getting a little more used to it now. It’s not too bad. I wish my nose weren’t so long and my eyes were bigger, but on the whole I kind of like this face. It’s so much like the face I was used to seeing on Donna.

  Quickly I get the lipstick from the drawer of my bedside table and run back to the bathroom with it. I smooth it on with my little finger. There. Maybe later I’ll try some of the eye stuff. Not now. I remember Mrs. Montez’s order to be on time.

  As I enter the hallway I hear some voices to my right, down at what must be the nurses’ station, but the hall to my left is empty. What happened to the policeman who was here? The hall is long, but at the end I can see a desk, or counter or something, and a lot of potted plants. That must be the main desk. Feeling like a six-year-old who’s allowed to cross the street for the first time, I start down the hallway, following the directions Alice gave me.

  Suddenly someone swoops up from behind me and grips my upper right arm. As I stiffen, digging in my heels and trying to pull away, a voice says, “What’s with you? I’m just trying to help you escape the mob.”

  The voice belongs to Monty. He smiles at me, and I try not to stare at the wide gap between his front teeth.

  I tug my arm out of his grasp. “What mob?”

  “Down at the main desk.”

  As I take a skeptical look in that direction, he says, “Well, it’s not exactly a mob, but a couple of reporters there are asking a lot of questions about you.”

  “I don’t see anybody.”

  “They’re by the main door. The cop is with them. If you go past them, they’ll see you.”

  “I have to go by the main desk to get to the physical therapy room.”

  “Not if you use my shortcut. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  It makes sense. I don’t want to have to talk to any reporters right now. So I shrug. Okay. Which way do we go?

  He takes my arm again and pulls me down the hall to a swinging door, where he jerks me through. We’re in a corridor that’s narrower than the main hallway. I try to pull away. “You’re hurting my arm. Don’t squeeze it! And don’t go so fast!”

  “C’mon. You don’t want to be late.”

  I nearly stumble, trying to keep up with him. The corridor turns, and I begin to realize that we’re going in the wrong direction. We’re heading toward what must be a back door to this building because in the upper half of the door is one of those crinkly-looking opaque glass windows, and I can see light shining through the window.

  I grab his arm with my other hand, tugging and yelling, “Stop!”

  When we’re almost at the back door, he does stop, so suddenly it throws me off-balance. I bang into the wall, and the only reason I remain upright is that he’s still hanging onto my arm. His eyes dart to each side as he nervously looks at the row of closed doors. “Don’t make so much noise,” he says.

  “Let go of me!” I try to kick his leg, but he jumps aside.

  His face is close to mine. I can smell the salty sweat on his forehead. “Hey, hold on. You’ll get me in trouble if you don’t shut up.”

  As I open my mouth wide to scream he claps a hand over it and in a low voice says, “Listen to me, will you? I’ll get twenty bucks from one of the reporters if I bring you to the back door. The guy just wants to ask you a couple of questions and get a picture of you. That’s all. You don’t have to say much if you don’t want. Okay? I mean I can really use the twenty bucks.”

  He takes his hand away from my mouth, and I spit and rub the back of my left hand over my lips, trying to wipe away the taste of his fingers.

  “Well?” he asks.

  “I don’t think a reporter would do that.”

  “Look, who asks questions? Twenty bucks is twenty bucks.” He smiles, as though he were trying to put me at ease; but his eyes narrow, and for an instant he looks away. I think he’s lying.

  Suddenly the knob of the back door rattles, and I look up to see a shadow through the glass. The door is locked, so the person on the other side gives up and presses against the glass, trying to see through it. The glass distorts his face into a monstrous blob with squashed nose and two dark spots for eyes. Can he see me? Those dark spots shift and seem to be staring in my direction. The doorknob rattles again.

  Chapter Six

  I yell at the top of my lungs, and now my kick connects with one of Monty’s shins. He shouts an obscenity and grabs his leg. Two doors fly open, and people crowd into the corridor, squeezing behind and around each other, squishing Monty against the wall, where he squirms and struggles like a beetle on its back.

  Maybe I don’t make much sense, but I shout at everyone about what happened. The policeman arrives and dashes through the back door, but he comes back to say that whoever was at the door has got away. He grips the back of Monty’s neck and marches him off.

  Someone has an arm around my shoulders and is trying to calm me down. People are demanding, “What did she say? What happened?” But a loud, firm voice shatters the confusion.

  “Now!” Mrs. Montez says, clapping her hands into the silence. “We are already well off schedule, and I will have no more of this silly chitchat in the corridor. We will all get back to work. Stacy, you come with me.”

  I follow her through a room that connects with one of the major hallways. Rubbing my arm where the orderly had held it, I ask, “If the man outside the door was a reporter, he would have stayed, wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t have run.”

  “Don’t think about it,” Mrs. Montez says without breaking her rapid pace. “That is the policeman’s job. Your job is to pay close attention to what I will show and tell you.”

  We march into a room that is like a small health club with all sorts of exercise equipment, some of which I recognize, some of which I’ve nev
er seen before.

  “Did I use any of this?” I ask her.

  “Of course,” she answers. “How does your hip feel?”

  “Alice says it looks good.”

  “I didn’t ask how it looks to Alice. I asked how it feels to you.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Very good, Stacy. Then hop on the bicycle.”

  There is no question but that she should be obeyed. I can’t imagine anyone ever questioning her authority. I begin to pedal, and she sets a timer. She acts like the queen of the world, but she’s really not so bad. I can tell that she’s made a shell to hide in so that people can’t see that she really cares. But I look at the warmth in her eyes, and I know she does care. I pedal a little faster and glance at her and smile.

  And I do pay close attention to what Mrs. Montez tells me. She’s arranged for the loan of an exercise bicycle and insists that I also walk at least a mile or two a day. Believe me, I’m going to keep doing the exercises and stay in good shape because I’ve got a lot to do. First on my list: As soon as I can see the face of the guy with the gun and they catch him, I’m going to make sure he’s convicted of murder.

  The policeman comes by to report. Whoever was at the back door of the clinic was probably an inexperienced reporter who chickened out when the fuss began. Lots of apologies that I was upset, and please don’t worry. No real problem, except for the orderly, who was in big trouble with the clinic manager.

  I nod and make all the right answers, but something at the back of my mind keeps nagging uncomfortably that the orderly’s answers were too easy. I don’t believe it was a reporter. Why would a reporter use such sneaky tactics to meet me? But who else would it be?

  Dad arrives to check me out soon after I get back to my room. Dr. Peterson joins us, and Alice comes in to help me pack. I am starting to get a little shaky, thinking about what it will be like to be back in our own house without Mom there too, when the phone rings. It’s Detective Markowitz.

  “They told me you were checking out. Will you be able to come downtown this morning to look through some mug shots?”