The Phantom Limb

by William Sleator

  “Isaac,” Vera said, eyeing him. “Don’t be rude.”

  Dr. Ciano turned her attention back to Vera. “I’ll be keeping you on the IVs until we have a better sense of what’s wrong. I have to go now, but ring for one of the nurses if you need anything.”

  “When will you be back?” Isaac asked.

  “I may be going to an out-of-state conference soon, but don’t worry—I’m always around,” the doctor said, and left the room.

  “She’s kind of weird, isn’t she?” Isaac said very softly. “What does all that mean, anyway? EEG and MRI?”

  “They’re different tests that measure brain activity,” Vera replied. “But you know, I can’t figure out why this hospital came so highly recommended. Dr. Ciano is so peculiar. She makes me uneasy. I wonder what she’s telling them to put into these IVs.” She yawned. “I’m feeling tired again. I might just close my eyes for a second,” she said, her voice shaky. She quickly drifted off to sleep.

  Isaac stayed with her while she slept. As long as he was at the hospital he could use it as an excuse to skip school. Which was worse? The hospital or school? It was hard to choose.

  Isaac reached into his backpack and pulled out his zombie book. It was a relief to concentrate on something else.

  A couple of hours later, the door opened. Another patient was wheeled into the room. She had short gray hair and a look of authority about her, despite being a patient. Isaac hated that she was there. And the commotion woke Vera, who looked surprised at first. After a moment she pulled herself together and greeted her new roommate warmly.

  “Hi, I’m Vera, and this is my son, Isaac.”

  “Esther Kaplan. Nice to meet you both.”

  Candi entered the room and attached the new patient’s IV bag to the permanent pole. “I’m sure you two will get along very well,” she said. “Vera’s a pianist. And you?”

  “I’m a doctor,” Esther told her. Then she paused. “You look familiar. Have you worked at other hospitals?”

  “A lot of people say that. I just have one of those faces,” Candi said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to see to some other patients.” She smiled at them all as she left the room.

  “So you’re a doctor?” Vera said.

  “Well, used to be. Retired now,” Esther said. “I’m sure I’ve seen that nurse somewhere …”

  “Maybe here in the hospital,” Vera suggested.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Esther said. “Oh, I don’t know.”

  Isaac was relieved to finally leave the hospital. While he was riding to school on his bike, all of his worries came to a head: school and the Fitzpatrick twins, his mother’s illness, Grandpa and that box. The thoughts sat in his stomach like a lump of lead. He decided he couldn’t face school, so he headed home.

  At home, he thought about the mirror box. What would happen the next time he put his arms in? He was scared … but he was more curious than anything. He reasoned that since it was now the middle of the day—and not the middle of the night—he could experiment with it again. He suddenly felt wide awake and alert. Anything that happened now had to be real, not the result of fatigue or his imagination.

  Isaac remembered the way the hand in the mirror had shown him the woven smiley face and then had waved at him. Was it mocking him, just like the twins? Or was it trying to tell him something?

  His heart began to speed up as he ascended the stairs and went into his room. He was hoping more than anything that the hand in the mirror wasn’t real. He had too many things to worry about already—he didn’t need to add “menacing hand” to the list.

  Isaac stood in front of his closet door. His hand moved to the doorknob, then pulled back. He turned and prepared to walk away. He wasn’t ready to risk putting his hands inside that thing again. But something urged him on, some nagging need to figure out what was happening. He turned back and made himself open the door.

  There was the box, right where he had left it … except that the side with the holes was facing to the right. Was that how he had put it in there? He thought that the holes had been facing toward the door. He wasn’t sure. Tentatively, he reached into the closet and pulled out the box. He had to get this over with.

  Nothing will happen, he kept reassuring himself.

  He put the box on his desk, sat down in front of it, took a deep breath, and slid his hands inside. It was a cool day, but he could feel sweat forming on his forehead. At first, he felt relieved to see only the reflection of his own hand.

  But then the image disappeared, and the phantom limb came into view. It was holding a tattered piece of fabric with a faded yellow smiley face on it. Half of the smile was unraveled.

  Isaac squeezed his eyes shut. Forcing his muscles to obey him, he kept his hands, trembling, inside the box.

  The phantom limb was real after all. He hadn’t imagined it.

  But what was the hand trying to tell him?

  Whose hand was it?

  Isaac had so many questions but lacked any answers. The hand could only sign to him, not speak—so how could he understand what it was trying to tell him?

  He slowly opened his eyes again. He was just in time to see what happened next.

  With a sudden violent movement, the phantom limb yanked a thread, and the smile unraveled completely.

  HE TEN-YEAR-OLD GIRL STOOD IN THE kitchen, peeling potatoes that her mother was going to cook for dinner. She was smiling as she listened to the music that was being played in another room.

  The music was coming from her brother. He was twelve now, a brilliant pianist—a prodigy, everyone said.

  She had tried to learn to play the piano, but she was just no good at it. After a while, her mother had refused to keep paying for her lessons.

  The girl finished peeling the last potato and dropped it into the kettle full of cold water. She cleared her throat. “All done,” she said softly because she didn’t want to interrupt the music. Her mother, who had been standing in the doorway listening blissfully to the piano, turned and looked at her.

  “Did you cut them up?” her mother asked. She came over and looked into the pot and saw that the potatoes were still whole. “Give me the knife, please, and go work on your homework until dinner is ready.”

  The girl handed her the knife and left the kitchen. She went as quietly as possible up the stairs. She didn’t do her homework, though. Instead, she picked up her baby doll and locked herself in the bathroom.

  SAAC WAS STILL TREMBLING SLIGHTLY AS HE put the dreadful box back into the closet. He was consumed with a million thoughts. He couldn’t understand why the phantom limb had unraveled the smiley face.

  At lunch, he sat across from Grandpa. The sandwiches Isaac had made were good, but not as good as Vera’s.

  “Did you find out anything at the hospital?” Grandpa asked, snapping Isaac out of his momentary distraction.

  Again, Isaac was so surprised at Grandpa’s question that he was tongue-tied for a moment. He and Vera had both assumed that Grandpa’s dim state of mind was permanent and would only get worse. But now Grandpa was actually speaking, and making sense. How was this possible?

  “They did some tests on her brain, and they came out abnormal. They’re going to do more tests and really check her out,” Isaac said. “But her doctor is real weird about the whole thing and has her on all these medications that make her groggy.”

  “Oh,” Grandpa said. He turned away and stared vacantly out the window, as usual. “Maybe I’ll drive us over there sometime.”

  Not on your life, Isaac thought. He wouldn’t get in a car with Grandpa in a million years. The last time, Grandpa had fallen asleep at the wheel on a crowded highway and ended up veering toward another car. “Grandpa! Wake up!” Isaac had screamed. Grandpa woke up instantly and said, “I was only asleep for a little while.”

  Isaac rode his bicycle back over to the hospital late that afternoon in a light rain. He really didn’t want to return, but he needed money. He figured his mother must have taken
her purse with her—he had checked, and it wasn’t at home. Her ATM card must be in it. She didn’t need it in the hospital.

  He didn’t see Candi. But he heard two familiar, shrill voices—there, in doll-like matching white and pink–striped uniforms, were the Fitzpatrick twins.

  “Loser,” one sneered openly, now that Candi wasn’t around. She added, very softly so the other nurses wouldn’t hear, “I bet you’re really worried about your mommy.” She smiled. “Oh, and don’t forget—the hospital has lockers too.”

  Isaac looked down. When he looked up, he caught the other twin’s eye—the one who hadn’t insulted him. Her eyes met his for a moment.

  “DCynthia, Destiny—I need you,” one of the nurses called.

  They left without another word.

  Isaac watched them as they walked away, and then he headed down the hall to his mother’s room. As he entered the room, he saw that Dr. Ciano was standing over Vera. She looked surprised to see him. “I was just doing one last check before going off to my conference,” she said, and left.

  “Mom, sorry to bring this up, but I’m out of cash.”

  Esther was watching them from the other bed.

  “Take my ATM card,” Vera said. “It’s in my purse, over there in the cabinet.”

  He stuck the card in his wallet and took a last look at her.

  That was when he noticed it: a sore just below her right elbow, an odd bluish color. How had it gotten there?

  He was shocked and really concerned.

  VEN THOUGH ISAAC WAS WORRIED ABOUT his mother, he had something else on his mind: the puzzling behavior of the phantom limb in the mirror box. Maybe, he thought, if he found out more about the people who had lived in his house before them, he could solve the mystery of the mirror box—where it had come from, what its purpose was.

  But where should he begin? He knew that the young boy had been sick and was a patient at the hospital. Could he find his file? He doubted that any hospital employee would give him that information—these things were confidential.

  As he left Vera’s room, one of the twins appeared. “How’s your mom doing?” she asked.

  It was DCynthia—the one who had looked at him earlier, when Destiny was mocking him. He was surprised at her caring tone, but it was also confusing. Either she was setting him up for a joke or she was genuinely concerned. Was it possible that the twins weren’t so mean when they weren’t together?

  “Not great, but thanks for asking,” he said shyly.

  Isaac wondered if he could ask DCynthia for help. Since she was only a volunteer and not a hospital employee, she might be willing to bend the rules if he asked her nicely. “Um … would you … do you think … could you maybe help me with something?” he forced himself to say.

  She shrugged. “It depends,” she said, looking over her shoulder to make sure her sister wasn’t watching. “Why? What’s up?”

  “I need to get some information—about the people who lived in my house before us. Is there any way that you can look them up on the computer?”

  DCynthia raised her left eyebrow. “Really?” she said slowly. “Well … I’ve watched the nurses use it. I know the password.” Isaac knew that the twins liked being mischievous and breaking rules. She looked around. The nurses all seemed to be somewhere else. “Just keep an eye out for staff,” she said as she hurried to the computer. Isaac heard her whisper the word “Orwell” under her breath. “What’s your address?”

  “77 North Union Street,” Isaac said.

  “Damn! The people who lived at this address before you were at County, not City, Hospital. But it still shows up on our network,” DCynthia said. Luckily, she knew how to access the network.

  She worked quickly, but it still took her a while. Finally, she grabbed a piece of paper, wrote something on it, and turned off the computer. She handed the paper to Isaac. “Here’s their name, their new address, and their phone number.”

  Isaac looked at her. “Wow, thanks,” he said. He carefully folded the paper and put it in his wallet.

  “You’re welcome,” she said. “But this is between you and me.”

  Isaac was grateful that she hadn’t asked him any questions. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel angry.

  Just then Destiny appeared. “What are you doing talking to this freak?” she said.

  “I—I wasn’t,” DCynthia said. “He was talking to me about something stupid, just asking me why we volunteered here. I told him we had to. Community service for—you know. Forget it. He is seriously disturbed. Let’s go.”

  As soon as he was outside, Isaac took out his phone and dialed the number. The name DCynthia had written down was “Haynes.” After a few rings, a man answered. He sounded old, even older than Grandpa.

  “Hi, uh … is this … um … Mr. Haynes?” Isaac asked.

  “Yeah. Who’s this?” the man answered gruffly.

  “My name is Isaac. I know this is random, but I was wondering if you might be able to help me. I’m living in the house you used to be at—77 North Union Street. And … in the storage room I found this mirror box …”

  “Yeah, so?” The man didn’t sound at all interested.

  “Well, I’ve been doing some research, and I know what the mirror box is for, and … Listen, could we talk in person? I was wondering about who it used to belong to and where it came from. You see, my mother, who’s in City Hospital right now, is … um … having some problems there. Her doctor is strange and stuff, and if you could answer some of my questions, it might help me figure out …” Isaac trailed off. He couldn’t gather his thoughts. He felt completely flustered.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man said sternly.

  “Please, if we could just meet for a minute, I could explain what I mean …”

  “I don’t have time for this,” the man said, and hung up.

  Embarrassed but undeterred, Isaac waited a few minutes and then called again. He was determined to get some answers.

  This time a woman answered. “You want to know about Joey?” she asked, so softly that Isaac could barely hear her.

  Isaac grabbed at the chance. “Yes!” he said. “Because whoever the mirror box belonged to, I’m curious about him.”

  “My husband is going out in half an hour,” the woman whispered. “Come over then.”

  “But where?”

  “I’ll meet you in front of the building,” she whispered.

  Then the line went dead.

  HE GIRL’S BROTHER WAS THIN AND SICKLY, yet he was devoted to practicing the piano as much as possible. He liked to compare himself to Frédéric Chopin, the famous composer and pianist who lived from 1810 to 1849. Chopin, who was also thin and sickly, died young.

  When her brother was sick, as he often was, the girl took care of him.

  She liked taking care of him. It made her feel needed and important, qualities she never felt when she was around kids her own age, or her teachers, or her mother.

  She knew that he looked forward to her visits to his sickroom, when she’d bring him a tray with a bowl of chicken noodle soup or a cup of hot chocolate. Plus she always added special treats. Then, while he slowly ate or drank—he was never that hungry—she would tell him stories about school. Mostly they were made up. Her brother had already finished high school; he was waiting until he was well enough to attend the prestigious music conservatory that had given him a full scholarship.

  Because they spent so much time together, they became very close. Now, whenever their mother got mad at her, her brother would defend her.

  One day, while their mother was out, the girl explored her bureau and found her prescription pills. She experimented using them on her brother. He just got sicker and sicker. She kept giving him the pills.

  Although his health rapidly deteriorated, he still managed to hobble down the stairs to the piano. But his playing was different now because he was so weak. He fumbled and made more mistakes than he had before.

&nbs
p; Eventually, he couldn’t even make it downstairs. All he could do was listen to music in bed, music he wished he was creating.

  When her brother died, the doctors didn’t understand why. They couldn’t figure out what caused him to become so sick.

  After her brother’s death, she began reading medical books, studying whatever she could get her hands on.

  She knew what she wanted to do.

  She wanted to become a doctor.

  FTER HE HUNG UP, ISAAC HOPPED ON HIS bike and rode off to meet the woman he had just spoken to.

  Now he had a name to associate with the mirror box: Joey. But why was the man unwilling to tell him anything? And why did the woman have to keep it a secret from her husband? Most important of all, how could he persuade the woman to tell him what he needed to know?

  By the time he found the address, he was panting and sweaty from the bike ride. It turned out to be a brick apartment house. With its large glass double doors, it looked like some kind of institution. An old lady who was wearing a baggy brown dress and holding a cane was standing on the sidewalk. She almost seemed to be hiding behind a tree.

  He hopped off his bike and walked over to her, wheeling the bike beside him. “Mrs. Haynes?” he said. “I’m Isaac.”

  “You’re the boy who called?” she asked. “The boy with Joey’s mirror box?”

  “That’s me. So it was Joey’s box?”

  “We can’t talk here,” she said, pulling at Isaac’s arm. “If anybody sees me with you, they’ll tell Harry. Come on. This way.” She started off down the street, back in the direction Isaac had come from. There were storefronts along the block. “Here,” she said, pointing to a parking lot behind a drugstore.

  The old woman was breathing heavily by now and looked as if she needed to sit down. But of course there was no place to sit, so they just stood.

  “When you called,” she said, “what did you mean about your mother being in the hospital and having problems with the doctor? What does that have to do with my grandson Joey?”