The Someday Suitcase

by Corey Ann Haydu

  He laughs so hard at that one sentence that I know for sure it’s been nothing but frowns and cold stethoscopes and worried whispers for days. He laughs so hard at that one sentence that I’m worried things are way worse than I thought.

  “It’s all I have in the world,” he says. “How dare you take my Jell-O! What kind of friend are you?” He has an IV in one arm and his eyes are sleepy. He has a fever.

  He is the sickest I’ve ever seen him. I didn’t understand why he had to see so many doctors and skip so many days of school until right now, until this second right here.

  I’m supposed to say something funny back, but I get distracted by the sweat on his brow, by the pointy IV and the way it glints at me, like a warning.

  I ask him what his temperature is and write it down in my science notebook, alongside my symbiosis notes. Ms. Mendez says the best scientists watch and listen and record, then think about it later. She says science is beautiful because it is a way of communicating with the world we live in.

  I try to name the color of Danny’s cheeks. Ms. Mendez says scientists are very specific. Ivory with gray mixed in, I write. Yellowish-beige, I write. Sandy with a hint of fog. None of it captures the actual color, though. Sick-colored, I write, and that’s the best I can do.

  “It’s okay,” Helen says, “you don’t need to take notes, Clover. The doctors are doing that.” Helen’s talking to me the way I sometimes talk to Jake, and I think I get it now, why he hates it so much. I try to be nice because I think you have to be nice in the hospital.

  “I know,” I say, matching her slow, quiet, careful tone.

  “You can put the notebook away, honey. We’re here to hang out with Danny,” Mom says.

  I give Danny a look, and he gives me a look right back. He nods. “It’s okay,” he says. “I like when Clover helps. I need all the help I can get.”

  Helen sniffs. The sniff turns into a hiccup, which turns into a little cry. She excuses herself.

  “You know not to say things like that in front of your mother, Danny,” Ross says. He sounds tired. Danny looks tired too. There are lots of new rules about what we can and cannot say and do, and the new rules must be really wearing them all out.

  “It makes me feel better to tell Clover how I’m doing,” Danny says, and this seems to be enough for Ross, who nods and steps back. Mom puts a hand over Danny’s hand, and we all pretend for a moment that we’re not in the world’s smallest, cleanest, whitest hospital room.

  Danny takes a deep breath that looks like it hurts. He tells me to write down that he ate applesauce for breakfast and nothing else. He tells me how he felt at seven in the morning and at noon and that he feels a little better now, at four thirty in the afternoon, with me right next to him watching his every move. I’m monitoring the changes in the weather as they relate to his fever. (It’s raining now; it will stop soon; his fever is down from 104 to 101; the air conditioner is so strong my nose and toes are cold; the one sad window is foggy from humidity.)

  “What are the other symptoms today?” I ask, pen poised. I sit on the bed next to him, and our knees touch. Neither of us eats the Jell-O. We didn’t want it anyway; we just wanted something silly to talk about.

  A doctor comes in, as if the word symptoms calls him to action. Danny’s mom comes back in too, red-eyed and puffy-faced and not really looking my way.

  Danny starts coughing, that awful cough that I sometimes hear in my head at night. He coughs so much his whole body shakes, and the bed too. He coughs so much that Helen tears up again and I think Ross wants to cover his ears.

  Everyone else steps away from coughing Danny. But I go right for him. He’s leaning forward, so I get my hand on his back and rub. I press down hard and keep the motion slow and smooth, right along his spine.

  The hacking turns to regular coughing.

  The regular coughing turns to big, scratchy breaths.

  The scratchy breaths turn to regular breaths, and Danny’s skin looks the littlest bit pinker and healthier.

  The look on Danny’s face is total confusion.

  “I haven’t taken a full breath in days,” he says. He puts his hands on his ribs like he wants to make sure they’re all there.

  The doctor looks surprised too, and he gently pushes me aside. He puts his stethoscope under Danny’s shirt in the back and has him take some big breaths. The doctor smiles a little, listening to the in and out.

  “You sound better. Sounds like you’ve cleared up a little. I like to see that. Maybe we’ll have some answers soon.” He takes a bunch of notes. Doctors love taking notes. They scribble really fast and bite the ends of their pens. They mouth things, words that take shape but don’t make sounds. They scratch the ends of their noses with the tips of their pens and I’m pretty sure they write one thing in the notepad while saying a whole different thing out loud.

  “You hear that, Helen?” Mom says. “Danny’s sounding a little better. You’ll know more soon.” She’s doing that thing where she says something positive but keeps frowning.

  “I’ve been feeling pretty good since Clover got here,” Danny says. The doctor looks up like he’s finally remembered there are more people in the room than just Danny and his lungs. His eyes rest on me. They’re nicer eyes than I originally thought. Shiny and grass-green.

  “You must be Clover,” he says. He looks less like a doctor when he smiles. “I’ve heard a lot about you these last few days.”

  “I’m trying to figure out what’s wrong with him and what helps him,” I say. I want him to take me seriously.

  “We’re trying to figure that out too. We’re trying medicine and diet and rest and all kinds of things. We’re running a lot of tests and watching him very closely. It seems like something’s finally helping.”

  “Ms. Mendez, our science teacher, says a good scientist is always open to all possibilities,” I say. The doctor smiles. I think I like him. I think he’s a good doctor.

  “We’re going to figure this thing out,” he says. I nod. I think he’s including me in the we. “About time to wrap up with your visitors, Danny. I’m so happy to see some of what we’re doing is working for you.”

  Danny’s straight up in bed. He looks good.

  “Maybe I’m all better now! Maybe I’m not sick anymore!” he says, but I know we have to focus on research first, then conclusions. Danny doesn’t like that method. He has always had big dreams and this fizzy, fun imagination. We had an imaginary dog when we were six, and Danny’s pretending made him seem almost real. His name was Rocky and he was a goldendoodle. He was big enough for us to ride on his back, and we even brought him to the dog park a few times.

  With the power of Danny’s imagination, it was almost like really having a real dog.

  Same with our fake snowball fight. It felt real. Danny’s imagination can conjure pets and weather patterns and even magical healing powers.

  It’s Danny’s job to have big, crazy dreams, and it’s my job to figure out the real world. If he’s better, why? What has he been sick with? What made it happen? What’s making it fade?

  I want to remind him of Rocky and how real he sometimes felt; I want to remind him of all the things Ms. Mendez says about being a scientist; but Danny’s almost his regular color and his breath isn’t having any trouble moving in and out of his mouth. He’s not sweating or shivering. He’s better and he doesn’t care why.

  I care why.

  I scribble in my notebook and try to describe everything that’s happened at the hospital today and any possible evidence there is about what is making Danny sick.

  “Oh, I almost forgot!” I say, going to my bag and pulling out the extra snow globe. “Dad got one for me and one for you too.”

  I hand it to Danny.

  He holds it gingerly, like it could break. He doesn’t shake it to watch the snow flutter. He lets the world, the snow, the universe inside the sphere stay still.

  “There’s a whole world outside the hospital,” Danny says. He sounds like he’s
dreaming, but he’s right here.

  On our drive home, Mom turns off the radio, which means she wants to have a Serious Talk.

  “It’s not your job to fix Danny,” she says. “I want to make sure you know that.”

  “I know it’s not my job, but I want to help,” I say. “I want Danny to get better.”

  “You have to let the doctors do their job, and you stick to being a fifth grader, okay? No need to be too adult. You can keep having nice days at school with your new friend Elsa. You can visit Danny without a notebook.”

  Mom doesn’t like when I’m being too adult. She has worried about it since I was little. I’m too adult when I’m getting up in the middle of the night to help Jake with his nightmares, and I’m too adult when I’m getting up early to fix Dad a few bags of snacks for his truck rides. I’m too adult when she catches me watching the seven o’clock news before bed, and I’m too adult when I ask her if we’re going to be able to pay our bills this month.

  “He’s really sick, Mom,” I say. It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud, and my voice breaks on the words. So does my heart, because I know it’s true. “Did you hear what he said, about the world outside the hospital? He’s sick and he’s sad and he’s lonely.”

  “I know, Clo. I know.” Mom turns the radio back on. “But you need to be a kid no matter how sick he is.”

  We drive by Levi’s house, which isn’t so far from mine. I’ve been there a few times for birthday parties and end-of-school get-togethers. It’s a nice house, and he has a nice mother with long brown hair and lots of bracelets on her wrists. Her name is Rachel, and people say she’s strange. They say it like it’s a bad thing, but I’m pretty sure it’s a good thing.

  Levi and Elsa and a few of my other classmates are on his front lawn today with water guns and water balloons. Everyone is soaked to the bone and open-mouth laughing.

  I could be there, I think, with the bare feet and the dripping hair and the promise of a Popsicle and a sunburn.

  That’s what Danny meant, about the world outside the hospital. There’s so much out there.

  Hypotheses: Things That Maybe Help Danny

  – What they feed him in the hospital (Jell-O????)

  – The medicine they’re giving him at the hospital

  – The IV in his arm

  – Danny’s mood

  – Hours of sleep the night before

  – How much water he’s drinking

  – Body temperature

  – Amount of physical activity

  – Time of day

  – The special tea Helen makes him drink some days

  – Positive thinking

  – Having visitors, especially me

  12

  Danny finally left the hospital Thursday night, so on Saturday morning I bring him bagels, even though he’s had a stomachache since getting home. Three bites in, he starts to feel better.

  “Bagels might be the cure,” I say, and I’m joking, but I write it down anyway. The doctors tested a bunch of foods he could be allergic to, so maybe there are some foods that make him feel better, too. Ms. Mendez says it’s important to entertain all ideas, all theories. “Just because something sounds silly doesn’t mean it is,” she said. “Great scientists don’t dismiss anything.”

  Danny raises his eyebrows at my note taking, but he doesn’t say a word. I finally tell him about the science fair project, and he raises his eyebrows at that, too.

  “I’m not an experiment,” he says. He’s got a half smile and cream cheese on his chin. He’s saying one thing, but I can see he’s going to let me do it.

  “I need to take your family history,” I say.

  “Clover. Come on. I do tests all day, every day. When you’re here, I want to relax.” He scarfs the rest of his bagel and his face brightens—what was gray is pink, what looked gaunt seems full. He looks good. He looks like Danny, only a little knobbier and sleepier.

  I understand. I really do.

  But all the understanding in the world isn’t going to make me stop trying to figure out what’s happening to my best friend.

  “You have to let me do this,” I say. It comes out quiet and strong all at once, and that combination forces Danny to listen, I guess, because he looks me in the eyes and nods.

  “Family history,” he says with a big sigh. “My parents are healthy. . . .” He trails off, and that’s when I know there’s something he’s been hiding from me.

  “I know your parents are healthy,” I say. “What about the rest of your family? Doctors are supposed to know everything about your whole family.”

  “Yeah,” Danny says. “They know.” He taps his foot and looks at the remnants of our breakfast—globs of cream cheese, used napkins, black and white seeds that fell off the bagels.

  “And?”

  “My dad’s dad was sick a lot, I guess.”

  “With what?” I poise my pen over my paper. Ms. Mendez says research is messy and not to worry if the pieces don’t seem like they fit together. But I have a feeling I’m about to hear something that fits. I’m desperate for something simple and clear and obvious.

  “They don’t really know,” Danny says. “Auto something? I guess it was a little mysterious. A little like what I have. My dad doesn’t remember too much.”

  There’s a pause and I have one hundred questions, easy, but Danny doesn’t want to hear any of them.

  “The mall!” he says, like he’s only now remembered the word. “Mom said if I felt good, I could get out for a little while. Let’s go to the mall!”

  “What were your grandfather’s symptoms?” I ask. “Did they have a name for what he had? Do they know what caused it?”

  “Mom told me the word for what they think it was. It’s a medicine word. I don’t know what it means.” Danny clears his throat. He doesn’t know what the word means, but I think he doesn’t like saying it anyway. “Autoimmune.” He shrugs. He clears his throat again. “Sounds scary.”

  “I’ll look it up,” I say, and write down the ugly word.

  “I don’t want to know anything more about it,” Danny says. We are opposites in this. I like knowing everything about everything, even bad things. Danny likes to know as little about bad things as possible, so he can imagine they don’t exist.

  I draw an enormous star next to the word grandfather in my notebook before we get in the car.

  “One hour only,” Helen says before we leave the car. Danny’s asked me to put my notebook away while we’re at the mall, so I’m carrying it in one of his mother’s canvas tote bags. She seems to collect them the way my mother collects bookmarks and I collect snow globes.

  I think each of our collections means something big and important, but I’m not quite sure what.

  “That’s it?” I ask, and the nervous feeling I’m getting used to swarms my heart and throat and toes. We always stay at the mall for at least four hours.

  “That’s all he can handle. He needs to rest,” Helen says with pursed lips and no eye contact.

  “It’s the mall,” I say, and I know that Mom would call me out on having attitude, but I don’t think it’s attitude if I’m stating a fact, so I keep going. “He doesn’t go to school, and now he can’t do anything else either?” I’ve never argued with Helen before. I’m not sure it’s a good idea.

  “I’m letting you go to the mall,” Helen says. “Don’t be dramatic. It’s just going to be a nice short trip. That’s what’s best for Danny. And right now we have to do everything we can to keep Danny well, right?”

  “We don’t know what helps Danny feel better yet,” I say. “We don’t know what’s making him sick. You can’t conclude that the mall is bad without evidence.”

  “Clover,” Helen says, and I can hear how sick she is of me just from the way she says my name, “you aren’t a doctor.”

  “Of course I’m not,” I say. “I’m a scientist. Ms. Mendez says scientists can be any age. Some people get fancy degrees, but being a scientist is a special wa
y your mind and your heart work together, that’s it.”

  Helen doesn’t have anything to say to that. “One hour,” she says again, instead of continuing the debate.

  The mall is air-conditioned and we can get extra-large lemonades. But being together outside Danny’s house or the ugly hospital room is what makes today special.

  All we do for the first ten minutes is make pinched faces from the lemony lemonade and watch people, and it’s the happiest I’ve been all week. We look at jars of candy and new books with unbroken bindings and T-shirts that seem funny but we’re not sure and gloves that heat up when you rub them together.

  Danny is the only one with much money today, and he buys slippers that sing songs when you walk in them and two oversized Tootsie Rolls and a cookbook of chocolate-chip cookie recipes, because I love baking and Danny loves cookies, and if we can’t go out together, we at least need to have something wonderful inside.

  There’s a snow globe in one store, but it’s a jokey Florida one, where tiny confetti suns fall when you shake it up, instead of snow. The idea of a snow globe without snow inside makes me so sad I ask if we can sit at the fountain for a minute to recover.

  “We need snow,” I say when we’ve been sitting in silence for a while. I can’t let go of how terrible I think a snowless snow globe is, or how happy Danny looked when he saw the snowy snow globe in the hospital.

  Danny nods, solemn.

  “I think we really do,” he says.

  I sneak out my notebook. Healing power of snow? I write under the column of hypotheses of things that might help Danny. I smile at the way the words look together—hopeful and easy.

  Danny puts on his slippers by the fountain and they sing “Ramblin’ Man,” which is a song we know because my dad plays it on repeat when he’s shaving, and my mother hates it.

  My dad says it reminds him of his life as a man on the road.

  “Exactly,” my mother says. It’s the only time I ever really see how badly she wishes he were home all the time.