A quick ride down and we were on the main floor. We turned to the front doors, but there were people there, a security guard and a porter laughing about something.
“Think, Kasey, think.” I started to sweat. “There must be another way.” And then I remembered Lizzy saying she and Dad came up the back way. The back way. I looked down a hall behind us. There was a bright red Exit sign at the end. I hustled Ivy and Missy Wong down the hallway. We were close now, so close.
I pushed open the door and we stood there, framed against the dark, smelling the fresh night air. Made it! Missy Wong started pushing past me to get outside. A voice floating out of the darkness made me jump.
“Should prop that door open, kid. It locks.”
Louise! It was only Louise! Relief flooded through me. She was on the grass to the left of the door, sitting with her back against the building. She tossed a thick stick over. “I usually use that if I want to get back in.”
“Thanks. What are you doing here, Louise?” She’d finished work hours earlier.
She stood up and dusted off her jeans. “Just didn’t want to go home. Hey, Missy Wong.” Her voice softened a little. “What are you doing all the way down here?”
“I think she wanted to see the stars, Louise. I think that’s why she always wants to go upstairs. Not upstairs, but up. So I brought her outside. Just for five minutes.” I was talking while Louise helped Missy Wong sit down on her jean jacket. I lifted Ivy over because her wheels don’t work so great on grass.
With the door mostly shut again, the darkness closed around us. It was quiet and still warm after the hot July day. The silky night air smelled of flowers and cut grass and not of hospital. I’d forgotten how wonderful the nonhospital world smells on a summer night. We sat in a row with our backs against the building. When you think about it, kind of a strange group—a sixteen-year-old, a ninety-four-year-old, a twelve-year-old and Ivy (I’m not sure what age she is).
“Well,” said Louise, “you picked a gorgeous night.”
I looked up. The blue-black sky was clear, and the stars were shining like they knew we needed them. I turned to Missy Wong eagerly to point up, to say, “See? Stars! Just the same as the stars on your shawl.” But I didn’t end up saying anything. I didn’t need to.
In the faint light from the door, Missy Wong’s round face was lifted to the stars. Her dark eyes glittered, and her mouth was open in a wide smile. Her tense little body had completely relaxed. She looked peaceful. She looked young. Like one of us kids.
“Good call, kid,” said Louise out of the dark to my left. There was a smile in her voice.
I’ll write more tomorrow, Nina, because there’s more. It’s zero hour—00:47 hours (12:47 AM). Early for me, but I’m so tired.
Your friend who plays by her own rules,
Kasey
Twenty-Three
Dear Nina,
It’s the next day now. So where were we? Still outside, I see by reading over what I wrote.
Well, it wasn’t quite as easy to get Missy Wong back as it was to bring her down. First of all, she didn’t want to leave. I think she’d have spent the whole night out there if she could have. So Louise and I sort of wrestled with her, giggling semihysterically. Missy Wong laughed too, like we were playing some game.
Second of all, the security guard came by with a flashlight. Louise said, “It’s okay, Bob, it’s me,” which reassured him because he knows Louise works there, but it was pretty clear we had to get inside. I only saw Bob that one night when Ken raged into my room, but Louise has told me about him. He looks quite intimidating, because he’s a big guy with a brush cut, but Louise says he’s just a goofball. He’s her friend’s brother.
Because Missy Wong seemed pretty unsteady on those little up-down feet, Bob got the porter to bring over a wheelchair, and he lifted her into it.
“Holy cow, she weighs practically nothing,” he said.
That scared me, Nina. A human being shouldn’t weigh “practically nothing.” It’s not healthy, right? She should weigh a good, solid something. I made a mental note to tell Rosie to try to get Missy Wong to eat more. In the bright hospital light, Missy Wong sat crumpled in the wheelchair. She looked desperately old now. She looked faded and tired, a completely different person than the amazed stargazer from only a few minutes before.
We all went back up to the unit, and the Night Owl pounced as soon as we got through the unit doors. She looked flustered and fluffy and red-faced as she took hold of Missy Wong’s wheelchair.
“What the—where have all of you been? Do you know what time it is?”
Good old Louise. She said, “Kasey caught Missy Wong going downstairs, so she went with her and got her to come back up. I was just helping when Bob came by.” It wasn’t the truth, exactly, but it wasn’t technically a lie either.
The Night Owl thanked me and Louise, which made me feel just a bit guilty. Louise volunteered to take me to my room, and the Night Owl looked grateful.
“Goodnight, Missy Wong.” I leaned over and touched her hand. Usually she’ll grab your hand in both of hers and hold on. She didn’t even move, didn’t even look up.
“She’s exhausted,” said the Night Owl. “We need a good, long sleep, don’t we, little Missy?”
I watched them head down the hall. The nurse blocked Missy Wong out completely, but a corner of her shawl trailed along the floor.
“C’mon, kid,” said Louise. “You better get to bed too. You look super tired.” She walked me to my room, watched me climb into bed and pulled the covers up for me. “You need anything? Water? Cheetos? I can get you some Cheetos from the cart.”
I laughed and shook my head.
“Yeah, maybe those would be gross right before bed,” she agreed.
“Probably. Thanks, Louise.” She knew I wasn’t talking about the Cheetos.
She looked around the room, sighed and said she wished she could sleep in one of the spare beds rather than going home. It was strange, because just at that moment, I’d been thinking that all I wanted was to be at home rather than in the hospital. And here was Louise, wanting to be in the hospital and not at home.
“Maybe when I get out of here, you can come to our house, Louise,” I said. “For a visit. Meet my family. It’ll be noisy,” I warned.
She smiled and said, “Sure, maybe.”
After she left, I wrote that last letter to you, and the whole time I was thinking about families and homes. I wondered about Missy Wong, where her family was, and why they never visited, and if she thought of the hospital as a home, and us (the other patients and the nurses) as her family. And whether she thought of other people when she looked up at those stars and wondered whether they were looking at the stars too. Or were up with the stars. She must have had parents. Was she thinking of them? Maybe she had a husband, and children, and even grandchildren. Maybe even great-grandchildren. Where were they all? In her head? In the stars?
I thought of Ken, the confused old man who searched for his kitty that one scary night. Rosie told me he has a home and a family that visits him all the time. I’ve even seen them—a nice old lady with poufy bluish-gray hair and very white running shoes, who must be his wife, and other people who must be his sons and daughters, even though they seem older than my grandparents. It’s confusing, but the sad part is that he doesn’t know any of them. He doesn’t remember his home.
I’m so lucky, Nina. That might surprise you after a month of letters complaining about everything in my life. But it’s true. Sure, this bone disease hasn’t exactly been a party, but otherwise, I’m so lucky. I remember my home. I love my home. I love my family. I love Squeakers. I love my bed, my messy, shared room, our noisy kitchen, the family room where you’re always stepping on some toy, our concrete basement with the hockey nets and basketball hoop and giant tote of dress-up clothes. I even love our yard with the scrappy grass, the peeling fence and the swing set that jumps off the ground if you swing too high. I love my mom’s singing and my dad’s
lame jokes, and Lizzy’s facts about the life of squids, and Molly’s bizarre and very long plays, and Kyle’s being a “BIG guy!” and the baby’s gummy smile and his tiny toes that are the exact size of peas (Lizzy and I measured).
I’m also very lucky to have a friend like you, Nina. Thanks for reading all these letters. And for writing to me and visiting me. You’re part of “home” to me too.
Your lucky, lucky friend,
Kasey
(Whose mom just dropped off a burger and fries. See what I mean? Lucky!)
Twenty-Four
Dear Nina,
It’s two days since my last letter.
Are you sitting down? I never asked you how you read these letters. I always imagined you on your couch with Sheba on your lap, reading my letters while you pet her long soft fur. Anyway, if you aren’t already sitting down, please sit. And grab Sheba. You might need her.
Rosie and Louise came into my room today. I knew right away that something was wrong. Louise’s face is like mine—we don’t give much away. But Rosie is always, always cheerful. Not today.
“What is it, what’s wrong?” I asked.
Rosie sat on the side of my bed while Louise shoved her hands in her pockets and stared at the floor.
“Kasey, I have to tell you something sad,” Rosie said, holding my hand. “Missy Wong passed away a little while ago. You and Louise were her friends. She was a friend of mine too. She was a dear, dear little lady, and she had a very long life. And she passed away so peacefully in her sleep.”
I looked at Louise, who was studying the pictures Kyle and Molly drew for me, blinking hard.
I couldn’t actually concentrate on anything Rosie said after that phrase “passed away.” Such a strange phrase. Passed what? Away to where? None of it seemed real.
I’m sorry if this is a shock, Nina. It was a shock to me too. I’ve never known anyone who died. I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t know what to feel or what to say. I just felt cold.
Rosie said that my parents were coming for a visit soon so we could all go and see Missy Wong one last time.
“Could we go now? Just you and me and Louise? I’d rather go with you.” My mom and dad didn’t know Missy Wong like we did, and what if they brought all my brothers and sisters? No, it was better to go with Rosie and Louise. And Ivy. She knew her too.
We went down the hall to Missy Wong’s room, to the bed behind the curtain. And there she was, peaceful-looking, like Rosie said. She looked smooth and still, like a little doll.
I touched her little hand that I’d held so often. So small, that hand. “Goodbye, Missy Wong,” I whispered. “I hope you’re going home.” All of a sudden I had the wobbly feeling that my poker face was slipping. It was crumpling up. I turned, and Rosie crushed me in a big hug.
“She was getting sicker and sicker, Kasey,” said Rosie. “Better this way.”
“I think we should give Louise her shawl,” I said too loudly. “She was so nice to her, and saved her applesauce and pudding. Missy Wong would’ve wanted her to have it.” That shawl had comforted Missy Wong, had been a part of her, and she didn’t need it anymore.
Rosie said it was a wonderful idea and turned to a small pile of folded clothing on the chair near the bed. On top of it was Missy Wong’s chart. I saw the spine, which read Wong, Mei-Xiu. Mei-Xiu was her real first name. She was a hyphen too! Maybe she hated the hyphen when she was a kid and decided to go by Missy like I picked Kasey instead of Katherine-Charlotte.
Rosie shook out the shawl, and it glinted and glowed in the sunlight from the window, rich turquoise and gold, brilliant red and emerald green. Then she held it out to Louise, who grabbed it and muttered, “Thanks.” She looked like she was going to say something else. Her eyes met mine. But then she turned and left the room.
“Just upset,” said Rosie.
“Rosie,” I said, “when I’m back at home, will you look after Louise?” She said of course she would. That’s what friends are for.
I thought Louise might be mad at me. Well, not really mad mad, but upset. But she wasn’t.
Later that night, when Ivy and I snuck down the hall and took the elevator downstairs to the back entrance, there was a stick propping the door open. Louise was there, sitting with her back against the building, wrapped up in the shawl. She moved over to make a spot for me on her jean jacket.
We sat there not talking, thinking of Missy Wong and looking at the stars.
Your friend,
Kasey
Twenty-Five
Dear Nina,
Do you know the happy-sad feeling? I can’t believe it, but I don’t think we’ve ever talked about it. It sounds babyish, but it’s not. It’s the feeling you get in between endings and beginnings. You want to hold that ending close, close, close before even thinking about that new beginning. Like when we won the league championship two years ago. It was great but also sad in a way, because that was it for soccer for the year, and four girls moved up a division. That team was over.
The last day of school always gives me the same feeling. Obviously, I always look forward to summer holidays, but I also love school. And even when I’m really ready to be done school, I always have a moment where I think, “I’ll never again be in that grade with exactly those kids and that same teacher.” Do you think ever think like that?
I’ve got that feeling now, when I’m almost free to go home from the hospital.
I went around with Rosie yesterday and said goodbye to all my friends. Sadie smiled and nodded and asked me what’s for lunch. I haven’t told you much about her, but aside from her obsession with lunch, Sadie has a beautiful voice. Does that surprise you? It surprised me. One Sunday, a choir came in and assembled by the front desk. When they began singing, Sadie (who everyone thought was asleep, and who practically never says anything) sang along with them, word for word, her eyes closed the whole time. These old folks are mysteries, Nina.
Yolanda grabbed my hand and wouldn’t let go. I had to pry it away and pat her on the shoulder instead. Ken smoothed his hair, tried to sit up straighter and frowned, trying to remember me. I can’t believe I was ever terrified of him. He shook my hand with both of his big, dry hands and said, “Ah, nice of you to come by, good to see you.” You could tell that he felt he should remember me, but he didn’t really. So he just relied on that deep-down politeness so many of these old people have. I can’t tell you how many times they’ve offered me some of their lunch or dinner, for example. Even their dessert. How nice is that? They don’t know how much I’ve loathed the food here.
We went all down the unit, and I waved to the ones who were so sick they don’t get out of their beds at all. And you know what, Nina? Some of them did brighten up and smile when they saw me. I wonder if they just like children, or if they remember how fun it was to be a child, or whether I’m just different than the people they see all day. Maybe it’s all mixed up together.
There’s someone new in Missy Wong’s bed already, Nina. She has tubes in her nose, which look uncomfortable. I don’t know her at all, but she smiled and waved at me anyway.
I told Rosie it wasn’t really goodbye. I mean, I live in this town, right? I can come and visit them anytime. And I will. And let me tell you, Nina, when I do, I’m bringing delicious food with me. I’m already thinking of homemade treats for Thanksgiving, because can you even imagine the turkey-like substance and “gravy” and wiggly, runny cranberry mush they’re going to get? I shudder just imagining it.
July 19 today. Tomorrow, July 20, I begin my summer holidays! Oh, Nina, I want to do so much. I want to run outside, climb that big tree in the park, beat Dad in a race, have a water fight, eat buckets of ice cream, eat any other nonhospital food, play that stupid goofball game with you and Lizzy and Molly and Kyle, lick Popsicles, watch movies (no, not that sequel), play soccer and play tennis with Mom.
Come to think of it, while endings sometimes feel sad, beginnings are nothing but happy.
Your friend, from beginning
to end,
Kasey
Twenty-Six
Dear Nina,
If my letters had titles, the title of this one would definitely be “The Last Letter.” You’ll notice I crossed out “The Final Letter,” which sounded formal and grim somehow, as if I shall never again write another letter in my life.
Anyway, I’m almost free!
I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, which will only be my bed for a few more minutes. Mom and the baby are at the desk, filling out paperwork with the Bouncer, switching ownership of me from the hospital back to my parents. The TV guy came to take away that useless thing. My little bag is packed. My books are in a box. My stuffies are crammed back into a (clean) green garbage bag.
The Fussbudget came a little while ago to tear all the tape and arm hair off my arm and separate me and Ivy. Her skills have not improved.
“Little pinch,” she warned, as she yanked the needle out of my hand in a burst of searing pain. Honestly, Nina, that woman should not be in charge of needles ever. I rubbed my hand as she picked up all the stuff that slid to the floor.
It was such a strange feeling watching her unhook Ivy’s bag head, and roll up her tube arms, one of which flapped at me like a last wave. She stripped Ivy down to only her pole body and wheely feet, and as she was pushed out the door, she looked like just another piece of medical equipment. Like a wheelchair or a cart, just a piece of metal that serves a purpose. She was probably going to be shoved into storage beside that enormous, disgusting bathtub (which I won’t miss). But she’ll be pulled out again to help someone else get healthy, which is a nice thought.
Kasey & Ivy Page 9
