Two Girls Staring at the Ceiling
Page 8
roiling burning
fainting feeling
starts and
I can’t
do anything
to stop it.
And first
I’m just afraid
I’ll puke,
but then
There’s the
smell.
And I try to jump
into the lake
before it’s too late,
But
it’s too late.
And I try to swim away
from the stink,
from the mess,
from poor David,
who, baffled,
or maybe horrified,
has jumped in after me,
And the water’s so cold
I’m sure I’ll die,
but it’s numbing
the pain enough
so I can keep
swimming,
trying to kick
my underpants off
and swim at the same time,
praying the water
will wash off the mess
before he catches me,
terrified I’ve ruined
Lexie’s dress,
And it’s starting to rain,
and the whole swim
back to shore,
the whole wet, wordless
walk with him
along the road
to the pine tree
where he left his guitar,
The whole way
to his truck,
the whole shivering
ride home, me squashed
up against the open window
in case there’s still the stench,
he’s like: “Are you okay?
I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
And I can’t tell
if he’s too sweet,
too grossed out,
or too petrified
to say anything
but “Sorry.”
Or if there’s any,
any, any way
he doesn’t know.
Not that it matters.
I can never
see him again.
Tubes draining stuff out,
dripping stuff in:
Clothespin thingy
on her finger,
Electrodes, wires,
glubs and beeps.
I watch her mom and grandma
play gin rummy
While nurses bustle
and Shannon sleeps.
All night
through the curtain
I hear whispered words
of comfort,
complications,
prayer.
Meanwhile,
I eat
cupcake
after
cupcake
until
somehow
I sleep.
Only to wake
tangled in covers
gunked with frosting,
clammy with sweat,
in a room still dark
and, except for the gurgle
of machines, silent as a tomb.
No. Shannon’s breathing.
Don’t think. Don’t look
at crumpled cupcake papers.
Or my face in the mirror.
Brush my teeth. Wash.
Push the pole up the hall,
down the hall, up again.
Walk yesterday away.
“Something you need?”
The clock on the wall
behind the nurse
says four-thirty-three.
“Food?”
Hunger surges as I say it.
And a calm giddiness
almost like a runner’s high.
“Um. Do you think it’s possible
to get so mad it blasts
the sickness out of you?”
Knowing full well if that was true
Shannon would be out dancing.
But then why this sudden …
“Because I had a giant meltdown
yesterday, and even though I ate
like seven cupcakes last night,
if you gave me a lobster right now,
I’d eat it shell and all.
Plus just yesterday
I could barely walk this far,
and now …”
The nurse checks my chart
on her computer.
“You’ve had four days
of pretty powerful meds.
Some of it might be the steroids
revving you up, but it looks to me
like you’re on the mend.”
FIFTH DAY
Before the sun,
before the carts,
Before the blood man
comes for blood,
Brisk and chipper,
the shower-cap docs
Crowd round her bed,
nodding as the briskest
Reads out the latest
from her chart,
Frowning when he asks
if she’s passed gas,
Striding off again
when she doesn’t answer.
Med students’ eyes are softer
than the docs’.
They file in
behind their Duck in Chief,
trying to look earnest
when he asks about the gas,
Their eyes so soft
yet so determined
to miss nothing
and fix everything,
These shiny-haired, blue-scrubbed girls
and one cute rumpled guy
who even walks like a duck
and looks like he would kill for coffee.
I can’t help wondering how I’d
look in scrubs like theirs,
stethoscope around my neck,
asking how people feel today,
So relieved and proud
when they say “Better.”
Which, amazingly, I do.
Because, it seems, I am.
My numbers are looking great,
they say. They’re cutting
back the evil juice. Switching me
to pills instead of the IV.
Which makes my heart so glad
so guilty, so scared
when I peek through
at silent Shannon,
Tubes gurgling stuff out,
dripping stuff in,
legs in puffing
life-preserver thingies,
Pain button
in her hand,
I think of calling Mom.
Eat another cupcake.
“So is it true
I’m getting better?”
I ask the Orange Croc Doc.
“What does better mean
for somebody like me?”
Inside my drawer
Mom’s cell buzzes,
buzzes.
“It means,”
the Orange Croc Doc says,
when I don’t pick it up,
“you’re on your way
to being out of here.”
“Then what?
Cuz what if I start, like, hoping,
and then—”
The voice mail dings.
“I think you know, Chess,
Crohn’s is a tough and
unpredictable disease.”
“Yes. Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Crohn’s can flare up
and it can calm down again.
But let’s not get ahead
of ourselves. For now,
the plan is to taper
you off the steroids,
to get you in remission,
and back to your life.”
“What if unpredictable doesn’t work
for me? What if I need to know
what my life is gonna be?
How do I know I won’t … what if I …”
The text chime rings.
“That’s gonna be my mom.
/>
Telling me I upset Nana.
Or Nana telling me I really upset Mom.
It was my birthday yesterday.
I kind of ruined it for everyone.”
“Then let’s start by making today better,”
she says. “I know you’ll be glad
to lose the IV.
How about a shower?
Wash yesterday away.
Put some curl
back in your hair.”
Unhooked,
I’m light enough
to float up
to the ceiling,
flutter
to the bathroom floor.
The nurse swaddles
the IV needle
still sticking in my vein
with plastic wrap
and rubber bands,
hands me two big towels.
“Enjoy,” she says.
Anyone who thinks heaven
is not hot water
behind a locked door
has forgotten
what it means
to live.
Okay.
Like getting up your nerve
To step
onto the scale, I edge
Zitful, puff-bellied, pin-eyed,
moon-faced, brown-toothed,
crawled-from-the-crypt
seaweed-hair steroid girl?
Or interestingly older,
poet-pale, heart-achingly brave,
winningly fragile, newly wise?
With dragon eyes?
Toward
the mirror.
Hmm.
Face fatter
than I’d like.
Except for the bruisey
circles under my eyes,
cadaver pale.
But clean.
Not fat.
In fact,
really thin.
In fact, somebody
who liked me/
loved me/
really knew me
might,
if they weren’t
grossed out or terrified
I might die,
might in the right light,
candles, or maybe
moonlight …
Hey, David.
Does ethereal antelope
work for you?
“Text me,”
he said.
Or did he say
anything
as I stumbled
from his car
thanking God
for the dark
so he couldn’t see
me cry?
No.
Let it go.
Start by making today better.
I press the call button
beside the toilet.
A nurse voice booms:
“Need some help in there?”
“No. I just wanted to ask.
Does this place
let people
wear clothes?”
In the last pajamas I hope/swear/hope
I will ever wear, here or possibly in life,
I scrunch, twist, twirl my wet hair
to help it curl, step
From the steamy bathroom
into my room’s early-morning sun.
So my heart should soar
when Mom, dressed for work, appears
with my gray sweats, a choice of tees,
my underwear, my bra.
Gingerly, as if she’s from the bomb
disposal squad, she steps toward me,
lifts a careful eyebrow
at my pajamas.
“I thought you might want something
a little less … not that it wasn’t really
sweet of Nana, but …”
I give her
a matching eye roll,
lift my eyebrow in return.
“You’ve saved me
from her sushi.”
When we need something safe
to bond around, a Nana joke
is tried and true.
“And look at you!
No tubes.
All clean and shiny.
Practically your old self again.
I thought about bringing jeans,
but then I thought, no, better …”
And I’m about to thank her
for her perfect timing, step
into her arms, tell her
I didn’t mean
to ruin the party,
When she tells me Bri
called last night to say
she and Lexie took a drive
to Sugar Snap Farm
to pick up some raspberries
for my birthday.
And the lava
starts boiling up again.
“What? Mom, I specifically
told you …”
Ears buzz
like electrocuted beetles.
“I’m finally
starting to feel a little better,
finally got myself to stop
thinking about things,
and now here you are
telling me my friends
did exactly
what I told you
and told them
not
to do?”
And I can’t let myself yell
or I’ll wake poor Shannon,
And I hate the hurt
in Mom’s eyes as she says,
“I did tell them.
I told them the other day
you’re not supposed
to eat anything with seeds.”
But still the words howl
out of me:
“AND NOW YOU’RE TELLING ME
I CAN’T EVEN EAT RASPBERRIES?”
“Chessie.
I talked to the doctor.
She said they’re going to lower
your steroid dose again tomorrow.
That should help with the mood swings
and there are plenty of things
you can eat. She said—”
“DO I LOOK LIKE
I WANT TO HEAR
ABOUT MOOD SWINGS?
I HAVE NO CONTROL
OVER ANYTHING
IN MY LIFE.
NOT MY BODY.
NOT MY FRIENDS.
NOT EVEN YOU.”
“We don’t take stress, we give
stress, isn’t that what you said?”
I tell Shannon through the curtain
when Mom’s gone.
“You said it was time to lose
that sorry shit. So I did.”
Tell her even
though she’s sleeping.
“It’s okay to be pissed, right?
Pissed is good.
“Like being pissed at you
if I thought you knew
“You were having that surgery
And didn’t tell me.”
Then I leave a really pissed message
on Bri’s phone.
All day I prowl the halls,
passing every pole-pushing hospital-gowned patient
Trudging up and down like me, nodding
to every thumbs-up smile I pass,
Trying not to look for Bri or Lexie around every corner.
Or think or wonder.
Walk, doze, nose around
the nurses’ station.
Try to ignore Mrs. Murch’s incessant complaining,
Mom’s cell’s insistent buzzing from my drawer.
Peer at Shannon through the curtain
as doctors confer, hover.
Listen to her mom and grandma
ask about fevers after surgery,
Tell her we’re just waiting
for her new meds to kick in.
Watch them sponge her face,
murmur, pray.
Tweeze my eyebrows.
Turn my TV on to drown out her whimpers.
Turn it off again. Shut down Mom’s cell.
Turn off the ringer on the bedside phone.
Talk to an aide
named Ernie.
Take another walk, another nap, fetch nurses
when her IV’s beeping or the groans get louder.
“So, Shannon, did you know
everyone here has name tags?
The blood man’s Astro.
Orange Croc Doc
is Dr. E. Hochstein.
“And did we know
the shrink guy
is Dr. B. Blank?
Dr. Duck’s name
is C. Nguyen.
“The floor clerk, Ms. P. Johnson,
who’s worked here thirty-seven years,
showed me a nest with three baby
pigeons peeping so loud
you could hear them
through the kitchen window.
“Did you even know
there was a kitchen room?
Where you can help yourself
to powdered soup and tea?
“And a lounge down the hall
with magazines?
They were all like Golf Digest
and G a s t r o e n t e r o l o g y Today,
“But I can look
for something better
for you if you want,
when I go out again.”
Study myself in the mirror
eavesdrop, pester anyone
who’ll talk to me
about complications after surgery,
read Golf Digest,
read G a s t r o e n t e r o l o g y Today.
“So, Shannon, I thought
you might want to know.
The Orange Croc Doc’s ‘E’
is for Elina.
“And those pigeons?
I didn’t actually hear them peeping.
I was just, you know, trying
to entertain you.
“Okay. Now here’s
something entertaining.
My dinner tray.
Want to know what’s on it?
“Something that may
have been a veggie
in its former life.
Cream soup the same green
as the curtain.
Rice with flecks of some sort.
Rigor mortis chicken.
“Believe me, Shannon,
you are missing nothing.”
Guiltily gobble
every scrap.
“I know, Shannie.
I know it hurts.
“But the thing about pain?
It fades.
“If women could remember
pain, there’d be no babies.
“You’ll say what we all say:
It hurt so much
“You could hardly stand
how much.
“It hurt so bad
you thought you’d die.
“But it’ll just be words.
Those words will be just ghosts,