I slapped the pile of germy magazines down on one of the other nightstands, sanitized my hands and stacked my books and my drawing stuff on mine. I arranged my stuffies like I do at home, the best ones up near my head, the lesser stuffies under the blankets down at my feet. I put up the “get well” drawings Molly and Kyle drew for me on the small corkboard, which helped to cover up an ugly hospital notice on needle disposal.
Kyle drew a huge pile of dirt. Must’ve used an entire brown crayon. On top of the dirt he drew a spidery backhoe with a big open mouth saying, NO dont eat drit! which I’m sure is hilarious backhoe humor if you’re nearly three. Molly drew an uncertainly smiling baldish person (which is supposed to be me, only I can’t have that huge a head, can I?) with her arms, round hands and stick fingers all stretched out, saying, My bones are feeling all of them FINE! The word fine is underlined four times in red pen. She’s determined that my bones will get better, so I will be too.
That’s going to be my motto for this month, Nina. My bones are feeling all of them FINE!
So you know the ice-cream truck that comes around in the summer with that piercing song every kid seems to know in their bones means ice cream? And how if you’re inside, you hear that song and freeze? Then you run out, wild-eyed, clutching the money Mom scrambled to find in her wallet, trying to figure out where exactly the truck is? And you start running. You run and listen and turn and run some more and finally you find it, and it stops, and you agonize about what to choose, and finally you just pick something. And Mom tells you that for that money you could buy a whole tub of ice cream, which is exactly not the point. The point is the excitement, the chase. The point is the whole idea of the truck.
Well, exciting news! The hospital has a sort of ice-cream truck, only it’s a snack cart that comes around some evenings. I’m trying to figure out exactly which evenings so I can look forward to it. This evening was the first time I’d seen this wonderful thing.
I was lying in bed, clock-staring (1914 hours, 7:14 PM). The TV, by the way, is lame. Babyish kids’ shows on one channel, and baseball (or worse, golf) on the other. Anyway, I heard a rattling sound pass my door. It stopped, then backed up.
“Wow, a kid!” said the girl pushing the cart, like I was a zoo exhibit. She rolled the cart into my room, right up to the side of my bed. It looked sort of like the regular food carts but appeared to have way better food. “What’re you doing here?”
We both seemed astonished to see another person under the age of seventy.
“They say my leg’s sick,” I said.
“Sucks. No other kids in the whole place. But at least you got your own room. Look, you want some snacks?”
I hesitated. “Like, for free?” I asked.
I know, I know—I’m not sounding very smart here. Or cool. Fact is, though, I didn’t happen to bring any money on this adventure, Nina. And how stupid would I have looked if I took a whole bunch of stuff and had no way to pay? I’d be washing the gross remains of other people’s dinners off plastic plates, probably.
The girl gave a snort-laugh. “Absolutely free, kid.” She saw me look hungrily at the sandwiches and chips and small packets of cookies.
“Look, take anything you want. I got a full load today, and the old folks will never eat it all. Leave some of the soft stuff though.” She sat down on the side of my bed and started to chip blue nail polish off her thumbnail.
I took a sandwich and a bag of chips. She looked up, said, “Oh, please” and tossed me some cookies, a pudding cup, a granola bar and even a tiny chocolate bar. “Better stock up,” she said. “The food they serve here sucks.”
The snack girl talked to me while I gulped down that delicious food. Her name is Louise. Louise isn’t like anyone we’ve ever met, Nina. She’s got spiky black hair, smeary black eye makeup, ripped jeans and a black-and-red-checked shirt under her hospital apron, and she smells a little bit of smoke. She is in eleventh grade at the high school and hates it. She is a vegetarian. When she said this, I thought she said “veterinarian,” which seemed strange, not only because this is a people hospital but because she’s pretty young to be a doctor. After a really bizarre conversation where I asked her about sick animals and she talked about vegetables, we figured it all out. She asked me about my family and seemed envious of my sisters and brothers. Louise lives with just her mom, and I don’t think they get along.
“Well, better get carting,” she said, releasing the cart’s brakes with a stamp of her black Converse. She turned at the door. “Hey, you know about the buzzer button? If you need the nurses, you just press that and they’ll come. See you soon, kid.”
She doesn’t say “kid” in a mean way. Just in a casual way, like it’s a nickname. I like it.
Like I said, I don’t know what the cart’s schedule is, but I’m feeling happier knowing that snacks and Louise are part of this hospital, even if it’s only sometimes.
Anyway, I thought you should know about “The Incident of Louise and the Snack Cart.” I’ll try to get more information from her about why she hates high school. I know we’ll only be going to junior high in September, but we should prepare ourselves, I think.
Your finally not-ravenous friend,
Kasey
Ten
Dear Nina,
Day five.
Only my fifth day in the hospital, but already it seems like I’ve been here forever. I can only vaguely remember my pre-hospital life. Okay, I’m exaggerating, but seriously, Nina, it feels like I’ve been here for a month already. I already have a routine (brace yourself, it’s going to sound totally pathetic).
0730 hours: breakfast (I won’t complain anymore about the food—that must be getting old.)
0745 hours: reading or clock-watching
0830 hours: sitting with the old folks at the desk, watching the Bouncer
0900 hours: taking Missy Wong for a walk around the ward
1000 hours: visit from Mom and the baby, then drawing/reading/clock-watching
1130 hours: lunch (more food I could complain about, but won’t)
1200 hours: fast-walking around the unit or seeing if the nurses need any help (I helped distribute jugs of ice water today.)
Afternoon: clock-watching/reading/drawing/ writing letters to you/hoping it’s a snack-cart day
1700 hours: dinner (see, no complaining)
Evening: pretty much the same as the afternoon
Writing all that down just depressed me more.
Anyway, my point is that something different happened this afternoon. Something not in my routine.
I was reading when a nurse I call the Grumbler came in.
“Bath time, Kasey!” she announced.
Bath time. Like I was two years old. Hey, let me just grab my foam letters, water toys and bubbles, and I’ll meet you at the tub! Of course, I didn’t actually say that. I often think things I don’t say, which is probably a good thing. Anyway, I’ve obviously been washing in the bathroom (did I mention this was my fifth day here?) because I didn’t know they even had showers. But apparently it’s a bath.
“Where exactly do I have a bath?” I asked her carefully.
“Oh, tub’s just down the hall,” she said, plucking at Ivy’s tubes. “Haven’t you seen it? Got a winch and everything!”
A winch? Is that like the crane in Kyle’s book? This did not make me feel very optimistic about bath time. In fact, I was starting to get a pit-of-the-stomach feeling of dread about it. I had a vivid mental picture of being lowered naked, in slow dips and lurches by a huge machine, into a big tub.
“You know what?” I babbled. “I’ve been doing a great job scrubbing myself down in my own bathroom. Even washed my hair just two days ago. I’m, in fact, incredibly clean.”
The Grumbler wasn’t even listening. She changed Ivy’s bag head and then started pulling her to the door, so I pretty much had to follow her.
We went down the hall into a room I thought was a big storage closet. But, sure enough, there was a bathtub
in there. The Grumbler was already turning on the water and swilling out the tub with her hand. Very effective, scientific disinfecting.
“You guys must be scrubbing this bathtub out with tons of disinfectant all the time, hey?” I asked nervously. She didn’t even glance over. But they must, right? Right? I mean, all of these sick people…just imagine the germs! I can’t even think about it.
The tub was huge and (of course) hospital green. No joke, Nina, my whole family could have fit in there at the same time. It also had very steep sides, like a ditch, like it was designed to keep people in and prevent them from scrambling out. There was a big dangling, strappy thing attached to the ceiling, linked to a machine over on the right.
“Yep, that’s the winch, Kasey,” the Grumbler said as she stood up, her face flushed from the hot water. “And let me tell you, that thing has saved our backs!” While the water ran, I had to listen to how they used to have to wrestle old people into that tub with two (and sometimes three) nurses. But now they strap them up to that winch, which does the job. Great, just great. So many people give you too much information.
“That’s enough water,” I said. “I’m just going to have a quick bath. Really quick. And I absolutely don’t need any—uh—winching, thank you. So—you can, you know, leave.” I tried to say that as politely as I could, but it still came out sounding sort of rude. Thankfully, the Grumbler isn’t a sensitive type. She just asked whether I needed help with my clothes, told me not to get the hand attached to Ivy in the water, and plunked a little step stool in front of the least steep part of the tub so that I could climb in.
“I’ll be back in a couple of minutes, Kasey,” she said as she left, leaving the door not exactly open but not exactly closed either.
I waited a few seconds to make sure she was gone, then slammed the door and had the fastest, most awkward bath any human ever had. Seriously, bathing in a puddle would have been more dignified. Not being able to use my left arm was not ideal. Try shampooing your hair with only one hand. It feels weird and weak and exactly half as effective. Anyway, I was dressed, toweling my hair and calculating how many more times I would have to endure hospital bath time, when the Grumbler came back. She seemed very pleased that I didn’t need anything in the way of work from her.
So here I lie, back in my bed, sort of bathed, sort of clean. I’m thinking that sink in my bathroom is looking extremely good bathwise.
Your semiclean friend,
Kasey
Eleven
Dear Nina,
It is 0210 hours (2:10 AM, the middle of the night, in case you haven’t been reading my explanations about the time). At home, on New Year’s Eve or if we were having a sleepover or something, I would have begged and pleaded with my parents to let me stay up past midnight. Here in the hospital, all I want is to be able to sleep the night away. Night is very, very long when you don’t sleep. Think of it. It’s like the whole day long—all that time we’re up and going to school and playing soccer and eating and doing homework—but without the light and people and things that keep you busy.
So I’m writing to you. Not thinking about evil clown puppets at all.
My family came to visit yesterday evening, just after I finished that last letter to you. While Mom was trying to keep the baby from rolling off the bed and Dad was chasing Kyle around the room, Molly leaned over, put her hands on either side of my face and whispered very dramatically, “Kasey, how are your sick bones?”
I wanted to laugh, but she was so serious that I had to keep a straight face. I showed her the medicine dripping from Ivy’s bag head into the tube leading into my arm. I tried to explain that it’s kind of like Ivy and me are holding hands, only sort of with medicine (and a steel needle, and blood, but I didn’t say that). Mom couldn’t even look at the needle taped into my hand, but Molly was very interested and kept watching the tube and announcing, “There goes anudder drip of med’cin. Nudder one. Nudder…”
“It’s weird without you at home,” Lizzy said in her slow way. “I used to think that it would be great to have more room, to only have to share with one other person, but I don’t think that anymore.” I knew exactly what she meant. Sometimes you wish for something without even really thinking about it. I’ve wished for my own room for so many years, and yet I would give anything to be back in our crowded room and hear Lizzy breathing beside me now. Or to hear Molly toss and turn and gasp and mutter in her sleep. It seems incredible that any of that ever annoyed me.
Kyle brought his favorite book to “read” to me. You guessed it. The truck one. I believe you have also read this “story” to him many times. There is really no story at all, just a bunch of oddly talkative trucks at a construction site, explaining in excruciating detail the technical, construction-related things they do. Wow, that is one boring book. Kyle doesn’t let you cheat either. Remember the one part that goes on for a whole page where Dumpty the dump truck describes how he dumps stuff? Seriously, he—and why always he, incidentally? No girl trucks around?—just dumps stuff. That’s it. He dumps stuff. But what could be a two-word explanation becomes an entire loooong page. So I always try to condense and skip ahead, but Kyle never lets me. I must say, he’s pretty smart at identifying the different trucks and their functions. So am I after reading that book eight million times. Front-end loaders? Check. Scrapers? Check. Backhoes? I will never confuse them with, say, bulldozers. Dozer the bulldozer would be very disappointed in me if I did. So would Kyle.
Of course, the visit ended with the baby getting increasingly fussy and then starting to cry, and Kyle not listening when he was told a hundred times to not haul on the curtain around the bed, and Molly having to raise her voice to announce each drop of medicine. The usual Morgan-family chaos. Mom and Dad looked frazzled, so I told them they should probably head home.
What I really felt like saying, quite desperately, was “Please stay here, all of you, please just sleep in the extra three beds right here in this room. Don’t leave me alone. I’m scared of the night.” Lizzy understood, I think. She gave me a worried look and a tight hug.
“I’ll bring in Squeakers when I can,” she whispered into my shoulder during the hug. I laughed at that joke, imagining our crazy little dog barking and running down the hospital halls.
Before she left, Lizzy handed me a crumpled square of something in aluminum foil she dug out of her hoodie pocket.
Then there was a flurry of Morgans hugging and kissing and waving and leaving. And after they left, I felt very lonely, so I opened up Lizzy’s gift.
It was a piece of lasagna.
I laughed at that—you would have laughed at that, Nina. Only Lizzy would think of bringing lasagna as a gift. Other people would talk themselves out of it because even though they know I love lasagna, they would think bringing it to the hospital would be messy or weird. So they would bring a stuffie or candy or something else nonleaky.
But that was the best piece of cold lasagna I ever ate with my bare hands. Sorry if I got lasagna prints on this letter.
Thanks for keeping me company during this endless night and listening to my lasagna stories.
Your slightly sleepy friend,
Kasey
Twelve
Dear Nina,
I have to tell you about a dream I had after I wrote to you last night.
In my dream, Ivy was a real person! A tall, thin, pale girl with a gentle smile and blue-green hair. Kind of like a shy, quiet girl who might sit at the back of the classroom. Only weirder. In the dream, we were good friends, like you and I are, Nina—almost sisters. And we weren’t in the hospital. Ivy and I linked arms and walked through this sunny forest that had flowers blooming and peacocks strutting here and there, and it was all beautiful and happy.
Until it wasn’t.
Because I began to feel afraid, for some reason, and I looked over at Ivy (this is making me scared even writing it in the sunny daytime), and she was a fanged, red-eyed clown puppet! I pulled away from her and tried to run, but I ran
in that slow-motion, underwater speed you run in dreams. Ivy the clown puppet easily caught up with me and grabbed my arm in a tight, pinching grip that got more and more painful…
And then I woke up. Gasping and choking and muffled-shrieking and sweating like we’d just had soccer practice. I grabbed Ivy’s cool pole body just to make sure it was her, and her bag head swayed in a normal, reassuring way.
And my hammering heart got quieter.
And I lay in my lonely room and watched the clock and Ivy’s steady drip until morning finally came.
If you have any theories about that awful dream, I’d be glad to hear them.
Your friend (who gives you her word she will never morph into anyone else),
Kasey
Thirteen
Dear Nina,
Thank you for your letter!!! I could tell you were trying to make it seem like I’m not missing anything by being in the hospital. That was nice of you. But it didn’t work. When you said, “Our group just sat in the field at recess and made those little bird nests out of ripped-up grass,” it made me remember the dusty, almost-summer smell of grass in the field, the feel of the hot sun on my head, the semiprivate feeling of sitting in a circle and having a little piece of the field to ourselves, even though a couple of hundred kids are screaming and running all around us. It made me ache with remembering. It made me miss you guys—you and Katie and Jess and Sarah and Viv. It made me miss everything.
I’ll still be a part of the group when I get out of here, won’t I, Nina? It’s silly, but you start realizing when you’re away that things actually go on without you. Which of course they would, and you know this in your brain, but secretly you hope that maybe everyone constantly talks about how much they miss you and wishes you were there all the time. Stupid, I know. Maybe you think that way to avoid thinking about the possibility that you’ll be forgotten.
Kasey & Ivy Page 5
