Kasey & Ivy

by Alison Hughes

  I was feeling tired, and my hand where Ivy’s needle went into me was hurting in a pinchy, cold-liquidy way.

  My dad looked concerned. He touched all the switches in the room, trying to turn off the overhead light, and gathered up a pile of grubby magazines to germ up my nightstand.

  “After you wash your hands,” I said, “you should just go home, Dad. I’ll be fine.” I gave this letter to Dad when he left. He’s promised not to read it and to hand it only to you. We can trust him.

  I’m sure I’ll be home tomorrow, probably even back at school. Are we still doing end-of-the-year cleaning and watching movies? I love the end of June at school. There’s an almost-summer-holidays slackness to it. A fun, no-rules feel in the air. I already miss it. I’m sure I’ll be there tomorrow.

  I just have to make it through this one night. One night won’t be so bad. And it looks like I have this huge room at the end of the hall all to myself, although I have to stay in this bed and not try the other three. This is the only spot I’m allowed, apparently. I asked. The other beds are waiting for other patients, and they “don’t want to have to make them again, missy.” But really, after sharing a room with Lizzy and Molly for so long, for practically my whole life, and never, ever having any privacy, it seems very strange and even a little bit exciting that I’ll be here on my own.

  Well, not quite on my own.

  Me and all the old people.

  Wish me luck,

  Kasey

  Five

  Dear Nina,

  It’s two o’clock in the morning of the longest night I’ve ever spent wishing for the morning to come. And that includes every Christmas Eve and the night after we watched part of that horror movie when I slept over at your house. Why did I ever let you convince me to do that when I’m a total chicken? Do you still think about that movie? I do. I’m definitely thinking about it right now, when I am alone and unprotected. Even though I tell myself to stop it, I keep thinking of clown puppets with evil red eyes and pointy fangs slinking down the hospital halls in the gloom…

  So anyway (she writes nervously, trying to find something else to focus on), I know it is 2:00 AM because I have a loudly ticking, glow-in-the-dark clock on the wall in my room. Technically, it’s 0200 hours, because the hospital doesn’t use normal regular time. It uses army time, where all possible time is divided into twenty-four hours. So there’s no 2:00 AM and 2:00 PM, there’s 0200 hours and 1400 hours. It seems confusing and unnecessary until you think how a hospital runs all day and all night. So say some nurse says, “Give that patient his super-important, life-saving medicine at 4!” and leaves. The nurse who’s left holding the medicine might think, “Wait a second…did she mean 4 AM or 4 PM?” and might make a mistake. A life-ending mistake. Or think of operations—you have to be very precise in situations where knives and anesthetics are involved.

  So you start at midnight, which is 0000 hours (which I think is hilarious! Absolutely zero hours—none at all!), and after that everything goes pretty much according to regular numbers. For example, breakfast is at 7:00 AM (0700 hours), and school starts at 8:30 AM (0830 hours). But only until noon (1200 hours), when every hour after that is counted up from twelve. So 1:00 PM is 1300 hours, 2:00 PM is 1400 hours, 3:00 PM is 1500 hours, etc. until 11:00 PM (2300 hours).

  Is this boring? I’m sorry if you’re bored. I don’t actually find it super interesting either. I’m just trying to erase the red-eyed clown puppets from my brain so I can go to sleep again. Writing to you helps.

  I didn’t figure out the clock thing all by myself. I asked Edna, the lady who came by to empty the garbage cans, and she sat right down on the bed and explained it all to me, which I thought was really nice of her. Other than Edna and the nurse who came in to check on Ivy and tell me that Mom had called, the only other person who’s come into my room since Dad left was a completely silent, thin little person (I call her the Shadow) who brought me “dinner.”

  I say “dinner” in quotation marks because I suppose that’s technically the meal usually served around 1700 hours (I’m such a show-off). I was starving, but “dinner” was disgusting. Horrible. How else can I describe it? Grim? Repulsive? Revolting? Putrid? Yes, putrid should definitely be in there somewhere.

  I always thought being served food on a tray would be wonderful. Glamorous, even. Especially if you’re lounging in bed! That seems like the life of someone rich and famous, right? Like a movie star. I always loved the idea of plates that you have to uncover, peering underneath while exclaiming, “Well, well, what have we here?”

  So you can imagine my disappointment when I lifted the dull-pink plastic lid (not shining silver, like it should have been) off the main meal to reveal pieces of meat-ish substance floating in a greasy pool of cream sauce with some mushrooms perched evilly on top. You know how I practically have a phobia about mushrooms, Nina. I’ve told you my theory that they will eventually poison the whole human race. So I obviously wasn’t eating any of them. I gagged just looking at them.

  The smell of that main course almost knocked me out completely, but I gritted my teeth and ate a tablespoon of rice that hadn’t touched the mushrooms or been mucked up by the sauce. Then I covered that dish up super quick, because my stomach was lurching from the smell. There was a small foil-covered milk. I hate milk anyway, but especially when it’s almost warm and supposed to wash down a vile-smelling dinner. There was a small cup of “fruit,” which was really some canned sludgy, fruit-like cubes in syrupy water. I choked back what I think was a cube of peach. I even peeled the plastic off the cheese and nibbled a very little on that. It tasted like warm rubber. I ate the two crackers, trying not to touch them with my germy hands. I hadn’t had time to wash them, because the Shadow just silently put the tray down on my table and wheeled the table right over top of me, pinning me to my bed.

  I thought of that open bag of all-flavor jelly beans we had at home. You know how you take a scoop and pick out the best flavors, like the cherry ones, the limes and the lemons? And then there comes a time when the best flavors are all gone, because everyone likes those, so the next time you take a scoop you take the second-best flavors (maybe the peach or the licorice)? Then those are gone, so you eat the ones you really don’t like at all, like the ones that are supposed to taste like pears or watermelon (but don’t), just because you want some candy. I would have eaten every least-favorite jelly bean in the bag at this point. I was that hungry.

  Ivy has made things less lonely. She’s quiet, of course, but her blinking lights are cheerful, and she does this comforting drip-drip-drip of medicine water that is soothing and even mesmerizing if you’re terrified and awake at, say, 0223 hours. And this may sound strange, but she’s a good listener. Thoughtful. Considerate. She never interrupts. And another bonus is that if I had to protect myself, I could swing her steel pole hard and really smack someone a good one. Right at the knees, I’m thinking. Anyway, she’s happy, in her quiet way, to be useful.

  She does, however, have to come everywhere with me, and I mean everywhere. For example, the washroom. I’ve gone once, and I don’t think I’ll be doing that again anytime soon. I left it for as long as I could, and I had to pull on my socks with just my right hand, which is awkward, but I’m scared to use my left hand because what if that needle gets banged around and slips into something that is not a vein? What then? Anyway, it took forever, but like I was going to walk into a hospital bathroom in bare feet. Can you even imagine the germs? Billions of them. Then I had to hold the back of my gown together with my right hand (I was walking right past the window) and push Ivy with my left. We clattered over to the washroom, and I had a moment of heart-stopping panic when it looked like she might not fit in the room.

  “Okay, Ivy, just sort of…bend,” I muttered, clanking her against the top of the door frame.

  She did her best, but I had to tilt her so her liquid-bag head swung back and forth. After a lot of shifting and tugging, we were in.

  The toilet is freakishly high,
but I promise that’s all I’m going to say about that even though I wonder why it’s so tall. Believe it or not, there are some things I will not write about. But I will say that it is very, very difficult to give your hands a good scrubbing with lots of soap in the sink when one of them has a needle and a tube sticking out the back of it.

  I wrestled Ivy out of the bathroom, making a loud racket in the quiet of the night, and when that noise died down, I heard another noise. What was that noise? I stopped and listened, my heart pounding. It was a strangled, gargling sound that made me feel cold right through.

  I looked at the door to the room. It was propped wide open so nurses, hospital workers and murderous red-eyed clown puppets could slip in and out with ease. I pushed Ivy over warily, tightening my grip on her pole body. She’s very graceful and silent on the smooth linoleum. We peeked out of the room and peered down the long hallway.

  They dim the lights at night, so even though the hospital hallways are still lit, it’s gloomy. Nobody was around. The noise was coming from up ahead on the right. As I got closer, it got louder. Way louder. A dreadful gasping, gulping, wheezing sound. I swallowed and took a few silent footsteps down the hall. In my socks, I was just as quiet as Ivy.

  I swear, Nina, a hospital at night is the loneliest place in the world.

  I’d come to the doorway of the Ghastly Noise. It died down, then gathered, so that it was horribly loud, then sputtered out, then started up again. I pushed Ivy ahead of me with both hands and took a few steps into the room. Why did I do that, Nina? Why? In scary movies, the main character is always stupidly and frustratingly curious about that crashing/gurgling/cackling sound in the dark basement and just has to go and explore. And we always say or think, “Don’t go! Stay where you are! Don’t go into that dark room!” And here I was, creeping down a dim hospital hallway, turning in to a dark room to find out what an eerie, creepy noise was.

  You’re going to laugh, Nina.

  Here I was, all freaked out, tense and sweating and ready to fight for my life, but it turns out the noise was just one of the old patients snoring! Snoring louder than I ever thought a human being (or any being) could snore, but still, snoring, with his mouth wide open. I wondered how he ever lived out in the normal, nonhospital world when he snores like that. How could his family stand it? How could anybody he lived with sleep through that racket?

  I backed Ivy quickly out of the room, feeling guilty. I’d been worrying about hospital creepers, and it turns out the creeper was me! It isn’t right for people who don’t know you to see you when you’re sleeping. I’d sure hate it if anybody watched me while I was asleep.

  Thankfully, the nurse who’d checked on Ivy earlier came out of a room up ahead and walked quickly down the hall away from me to the desk. She didn’t look my way, but I watched her wide, swaying back until she disappeared. So I wasn’t the only person awake in the world! There was somebody here, somebody in charge. I pushed Ivy back to bed, huddled under the covers and grabbed the little remote with the nurse call button. I didn’t press it, but holding it in my hand made me feel better.

  And I wrote this letter to you. Thanks for helping me through The Night That Wouldn’t End, Nina.

  See you tomorrow.

  Your friend who may or may not get some sleep,

  Kasey

  At 0322 hours (3:22 AM to all you nonhospital types)

  Six

  Dear Nina,

  Hospitals wake very, very early. And they wake noisy, like my baby brother.

  There are carts rattling, people talking loudly in the halls, patients coughing and calling out, bells ringing, you name it—all before 0700 hours. A new nurse came in to change Ivy’s bag head and chattered away cheerfully at my barely awake self. I was, however, relieved to see that she was wearing plastic gloves. Finally (I thought), somebody who cares about cleanliness! Only, this nurse bustled in and out of the bathroom (touching the door every time) and came back to my bed and touched all over Ivy’s tubes and bag. So it seems the gloves were for her own germ protection, not mine.

  People just walk in and out of this room whenever they feel like it, Nina. There is no polite knock, no privacy. For example, a man walked straight in, said “good morning,” slapped a breakfast tray on my table, raised the head of my bed and swung the table in front of me. I guess The Shadow only does dinners.

  Each tray has a room and bed number on it, so that we all get the delicious food we crave, apparently. I’m the body attached to tray 212(2). After last night’s dinner, I was actually afraid of breakfast. I lifted the lid very slowly, like I was disabling a bomb. Turns out it was only mucky oatmeal with a hard bun. I was nibbling a few bun crumbs and struggling to open the little foil-covered apple juice when Dad walked in.

  “Morning, Pumpkin,” he said cheerfully. But his eyes were worried. “How’s my best hospital gal? I came as soon as I could. Hope you had a good night?”

  “It was terrible. I’m starving,” I said. So much for trying to be brave. Or subtle. It did the trick, though, because he went right down to the hospital coffee shop and brought back a hot chocolate, a huge blueberry muffin and a donut. And while I was ripping those apart like a starving wild animal, he gave me your note.

  Thank you for writing back, Nina! Even if it was only a few sentences while my dad was standing there talking to your parents, and even though I’ll probably be home today anyway. Seven exclamation marks!!!!!!! You’re such a great friend!!!!!!!! (you deserve eight). It means so much to me to know that you know how much all this sucks.

  I’m back.

  Where do I begin? When Mom and the baby came in? Or when the group of doctors came in while they were here? Yes, maybe there. At 0824 hours (8:24 AM).

  Even though a whole bunch of doctors swooped into my room (without knocking) like a flock of rumpled white birds, it was quite clear that only one of them mattered. The head doctor. He’s a little guy with about six strands of hair pasted across his bald head that weren’t fooling anybody. The others were just doctors in training, not yet really doctors, and while they politely gathered around and peered at the red lump on my ankle, they didn’t dare say anything. The little guy—Dr. Roberts, or, as I call him, Dr. Robot (because that’s exactly what he sounds like)—called the shots, no hospital pun intended.

  So, after a bit of awkward, robotic small talk, Dr. Robot focused his laser-beam eyes on me.

  Dr. Robot: Young lady. This bruise on your ankle. How did you get it?

  Me: Playing soccer.

  Dr. Robot (with a very thin little smile): Soccer. Well, I hope you won the game.

  [Hysterical laughter from all the student doctors. I guess that was Dr. Robot’s idea of a joke. And when Dr. Robot makes a joke, you’d better laugh, apparently. I could tell he didn’t really care how the game ended, so I didn’t tell him we actually lost 3–2.]

  Dr. Robot: But seriously. It is clear from the bone scan that this red lump [he pointed with a pen at my leg, like he didn’t want to touch it with his finger] indicates a bone disease called [osteo-something-something-itis. [I can’t remember everything, Nina. It was a long, scary-sounding word. No matter what it’s called, isn’t it enough that it’s a disease of the bone??]

  Mom: A disease!

  Dr. Robot: …in which bacteria invade and devour the marrow of the bone.

  [I was very proud of Mom for not saying, “The marrow!” or “The bone!” I think we were both stunned silent by those two cheerful words, invade and devour.]

  Mom: So what do we—how can we cure it, Doctor?

  Dr. Robot: Well, of course she has to go on a lengthy course of antibiotics. Many years ago, you wouldn’t have been walking out of this hospital on two legs, young lady. [Uncertain laughter among the student doctors, quickly stopped as Dr. Robot whirled around at them]. Yes? Yes? Who here thinks the amputation of limbs is some big joke??

  Me and Mom (shrieking at the same time): AMPUTATION???

  [Really, Nina, wouldn’t you have shrieked that word?]
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  Dr. Robot: At one time, very possibly. Historically. Not now, of course. Now listen to me. [He spoke in an irritated way and slowed down like he was talking to small children.] The treatment is a course of antibiotics for four to five weeks.

  Mom: So pills, then?

  Dr. Robot: IV antibiotics and antimicrobial therapy, Mrs. Morgan. High doses of intravenous drugs administered by professionals. Bottom line, we’ll need her here in the hospital for at least a month.

  Did you read to the end of that, Nina? I wouldn’t blame you if you were sort of skimming. I do tend to go on and on. But that last sentence is important, wouldn’t you say? In case you didn’t catch it, quick summary: I WILL BE IN THIS HOSPITAL, HOOKED UP TO IVY, FOR AT LEAST A MONTH!!!!!!! Now that deserves at least seven exclamation marks.

  A month at least. Possibly even longer. I’m still in a state of shock at this news. A small red lump on my leg, and poof! There goes half of summer vacation. July. In the hospital. I can barely take it in. All those lonely nights, all the small, darkish hours, alone here in room 212. Or, possibly worse, with a roommate. All the endless days with the old people. How will I ever live through this?

  I have to tell you, Nina. I did not take this news very well. But at least the doctors had all swarmed out of the room before I started to cry. Don’t tell anyone.

  Mom grabbed my hand and said, “It’s okay, Kasey. It’s going to be okay—we’ll get through it,” and then ruined it by starting to cry too. The baby woke up and started to cry. It was ridiculous, all three of us sitting there sniveling together.

  A big redheaded nurse walked by the open doorway and paused. She did a thoughtful little double knock before she came in.

  “Oh dear, oh dear,” she said, looking from me to Mom. “What’s the catastrophe?”

  Good word. It felt like a catastrophe. Actually, it felt like a CATASTROPHE.