No, you don't.
“Beth covered for you, no problem, came right in as soon as we heard. You going to need a few more days?”
I don't know what to say. He's telling me I don't have to work, but what else am I going to do? I'm only allowed in to see Claire for a few minutes at a time. And my friends are all working, so it's not like I've got anyone to loaf with. But does it look bad if I go to work? Will they think I'm a heartless freak if I do my shifts with my sister lying in a coma? I still need the money, but doesn't that sound beyond selfish? But what if she's like this … what if it goes on … for, like, months?
“Natalie?”
“Uh, oh, hi—sorry, Doug. I'm here. I think maybe I kind of need to work. I need to be doing something. Is that okay? If I come in this afternoon and just stay on schedule?”
“Well, yes, of course, Natalie,” he says.
“I mean, there might be a day here or there,” I say, trying to keep the option open. “You know, if things change… but right now … I… it's good to be doing something….”
“Not a problem, Natalie. See you this afternoon.”
Who Was Driving?
I'm trying to concentrate on Frosted Flakes, but the headline in the newspaper is distracting me. The picture is Claire wearing her mortorboard and gown.
A popular high school graduate and top-scoring player for the Central High soccer team is in a coma, in critical condition, following an accident Saturday night. Pedestrian Claire Johnson, 18, was hit by a car and seriously injured. Medical personnel made efforts to save her life at the scene, and she was admitted to East General Hospital at 11:34 p.m., where she remains in intensive care.
The driver of the car, Ted Scott, 28, of nearby Trenton, sustained minor injuries.
Overview
I'm in the bathroom upstairs with my forehead pressed against the window, catching the minute's worth of cool glass before it warms to match my skin. Dad and his brother are in the backyard with half the lawn mowed. But now they're standing close together, Mike's arm around my father. Just standing there. I imagine my hand pulling back and smashing through the window, the jagged shards shredding my knuckles and ripping my wrist, scarlet blood pouring out, staining the lacy curtain. I imagine the surprised look on the men's faces if I did that.
What Do They Mean, Exactly?
Coach McCafferty is not one of the policemen, so it's all business, from what I can hear. Kind noises at the door and then into the living room for questions. I hear Dad's voice going up.
“You're telling me the driver was not at fault? You're telling me Claire was to blame? Have you spoken to this young man? Or are you suggesting—”
But Mom cuts in to stop him with words too calm and quiet for me to catch at the top of the stairs. How could Claire be to blame? She's in a coma and the driver isn't.
Dad starts again. “Let me get this straight…”
I know Mom is pulling on his arm, trying to make him listen, be still. That's all we need. To make some lawyer-messed-up case out of this.
I start to close my bedroom door, but then I change my mind. I tiptoe down the stairs to listen. But they're in the hall already, saying goodbyes. “We'll be in touch,” says one of the policemen.
And they go. How could it possibly matter? Could any answer change anything?
Mrs. Flint
No one else is getting the phone, so I do, and I regret it within seconds.
Taylor got back from the cottage late last night, so she just heard about Claire. She's crying so hard she has to hang up. Then she calls again and hangs up again, and then her mother calls, but I pretend there's someone at the door and I hang up. Mrs. Flint is someone I cannot deal with.
No more than nine minutes later there is someone at the door, and it's Mrs. Witchy Flint holding a plate of brownies. Taylor, with her face all red and puffy, has stopped halfway up the walk, as if she's six again and shy, coming for a playdate. But I know, from all the times before, that really she's dreading whatever is about to come out of her mother's mouth.
“How's your mother?” says Mrs. Flint, holding on to the brownies. “My Taylor's been in a dreadful state since she learned the terrible news, and we can't stop thinking of dear Claire.” She manages not to say it, but I can hear her thinking, Thank heavens it's not My Taylor.
“Uh, Mom is resting,” I say.
“I always knew those summer parties … All week Taylor was begging us to come back into town for the weekend, kept telling us she was missing the best parties and her life would be ruined…. Well, can you imagine? If she'd been here, she might have been mowed down right alongside Claire!”
“Mmmm,” I say. Taylor waves her hands at me, denouncing any connection to this woman, and then puts her hands over her eyes.
“She'll certainly be a little more willing to listen to her mother's instincts from now on. Wouldn't you say? Once again, teen drinking—”
“Claire wasn't drinking, Mrs. Flint,” I say. “And it wasn't a teenager driving. Nobody was drinking.”
“Oh, I doubt that's true, Natalie. There's always something to hide in these situations.”
I want to punch her. “Are those brownies for us?” I say. Or are you just holding them as bait so I'll have to listen to you?
She hands me the plate. “Tell your mother I'll stop by again. If there's anything we can do, just give us a dingle.”
“Uh, thanks, Mrs. Flint.”
“Claire was Taylor's oldest friend.”
Taylor has crept closer, behind her mother.
“Was?” I say. “She's not dead.”
They both wince. “Oh my god, Natalie! Don't say that!” cries Taylor.
“Taylor, dear,” says her mother. “Let's get you home.”
“Yes,” I say. “It's upsetting for all of us.”
I shut the door.
Invasion of the Well-Meaning
Mrs. Flint only happens to be first. Gina shows up with this huge bowl of strawberries. Maeve Benson, who runs the health-food store, arrives with a bag of organic lettuce and a tray of carob nut clusters. Kate comes back with her mother and a plate of warm scones. I'm getting used to people throwing their arms around me, but the kitchen seems to be inhabited by extra bodies all the time. My brain wants to flee, but somehow I end up sitting there while they talk, first about Claire and then recipes and how hot it is and then about the sticky topic of college. Mom starts to cry again.
“I should be calling the registrar,” she says. “Letting them know.”
“Don't worry,” says Kate's mother. “I'll do that for you. Nothing is so urgent as saving your strength for Claire.”
Claire has a name for this little crowd of women who have poured a thousand cups of tea at our table; she calls it Mommy's Coven. We have our covens too. Claire has Kate and Taylor and Carli. I've got Audrey and Leila—and even Zack. Mom has Gina and Maeve and Shelley.
“Nat,” says Kate. She tilts her head to say, Upstairs? So I go with her, and when we get to our room, she turns to me and says, “Are you mad at me?”
Somehow it makes me feel better that she's thinking about herself. So I don't have to.
“Of course not,” I say. “I'm just, you know, blown into a billion bits.”
“Yeah,” she says. “You must be.” And she starts to cry.
I have this guilty twinge, knowing that really she does love Claire.
“I miss her so much!” she wails. Even if she loves herself more.
Our Room
Mom makes our room the thing she flips out about. Flips. All. The. Way. Out.
I'm on the computer, talking with Audrey, who is so mad at Leila that everything is normal for a minute.
audball says: such a sneaky spoiled brat
gnatbite says: no kidding but we know all that
audball says: ive been saving tips for a month to get that skirt&she goes&buys 2!
“Natalie!” Mom's at the door. She steps in and looks around.
“Hi, Mom,” I say.
“What did the cops want?”
She looks at me as if she's deciding whether I can handle the news.
“What?”
“The driver says that Claire appeared out of nowhere. That she ran into the road.” Her hand goes to her eyes.
“Mom, you don't think…? No way,” I say. “You put that evil thought out of your brain right now. It was an accident, through and through.”
“It had to be.” Mom sounds so weary.
“What do the cops think?”
“They're just asking questions. None of it will make a difference to Claire.”
I turn back to the computer.
audball says: i am so gonna spill something on her 1st chance i get
audball says: chocolate milk AND ketchup AND gravy
I think Mom's gone, but then, “Natalie Johnson, this room is a sty.”
I glance around. It is kind of trashed. All the drawers half open, clothes on floor, both beds unmade, all surfaces hidden under dishes and debris. But no more than usual.
“Meh,” I say. “Most of it is Claire's.”
Like an alien possession the way she goes from Stoned Dowdy Mother to Shrieking Harridan in the time it takes to click a mouse.
“Getawayfromthatscreenthisinstantandgetyourbutt towork.Don'tyouthinkweallhaveenoughtoworryaboutwith-outturningintocompletepigs?Howdareyoubehavelikethis inyoursister'sroomthrowingshitallovertheplaceasifnothing matters.Nothingcouldmattermorethanyoulookingafter everythinguntilyoursistercomeshome!”
She actually says butt and shit. And she gropes her way out of the room exploding into tears, fingers grabbing the doorframe so she doesn't fall over.
The rims of my eyes are burning, fighting tears. How can she pick on me now? How wrong is that? I'm suffering as much as she is! More, maybe, since she's got meds to supposedly numb her feelings. I'm suffering more than Claire, even, since she's unconscious! Can't Mom see that? I'm the one with the black hole in my universe.
Archeology
I kick the door closed, bam!
Then,
gnatbite says: g2g, momspaz
audball says: boo, k bye
I sign off and roll onto the floor.
I have to breathe a few times, let the furious buzz subside. I hear Mom leave for the hospital, still crackly-voiced, telling Dad she's going to see Claire before she picks up her sister, Jeanie, at the train.
I get distracted and examine things from the floor point of view for a while. Picture of neglect. Plenty of dust bunnies. Dust antelopes, actually. Can't see too far under the beds, with the heaps of kicked-aside clothing blocking the vista. Except there's my red sweatshirt, lost before the end of school. And Claire's excellent prom shoes, half a size too small for me.
I find the shin guard that Claire had to pay for because she didn't return it, and here's Joe-boy's Sixers T-shirt that Claire swore she'd keep forever.
I start tossing stuff into a pile on the rug. Eventually, as the pile gets higher, I'm forced to stand up. I start at the top, folding each thing and sticking it on Claire's bed or mine. Even as I'm realizing there are clothes here that Claire may never wear again. Don't go there….
The black thingy has not yet left my body.
The room gets cleaner than it's been in weeks. I put Claire's clothes into her drawers and mine into mine. Overflow into the laundry hamper, dirty or not.
Empty water bottles … recycling. Chip bags, salsa jar with fungus, apple cores, orange peels, frosted donut wrappers … garbage.
I'm getting carried away, using tissues to dust the dresser, lifting the lotions and scents and replacing them exactly. I spray Vanilla Musk into the air and breathe in Claire with a catch in my throat. There are movie ticket stubs, receipts from Beanie's, a few quarters, hair elastics, feathers collected on the beach at the lake. There are a dozen photos stuck in the frame of her mirror, scribbled notes, old birthday cards, the fortunes from about twenty cookies taped to the glass.
A lifetime friend shall soon be made.
A show of confidence can be as good as the real thing.
Alas, the onion you are eating is someone else's water lily.
I scoop her hoop earrings into the music box that tinkles a bar of “You Are My Sunshine” before I moan and slam it shut.
Life with Claire surrounds me, whichever way I turn. Every object has its own little story.
Graduation Present
Right in the middle of Claire's desk is her new computer. Uncle Denny and Aunt Jeanie pitched in to buy a laptop for her to take to college, since the TV-sized hulk we have in our room is not going anywhere without a team of mules. I almost cried with jealousy when her new one came: a baby Mac so sleek and silvery it begs to be stroked.
I have this icy hot rush from my temples on down. It's going to be mine now. And then I slap my own mouth in case I said it out loud, and the tears gush out like scalding tea.
How could I think such a thing? My sister's not dead and here I am looking at her prize possession, licking my lips. How sick is that? I cram her pillow against my face and scream into it. I'm sorry, Claire! I'm sorry! Ohgod, sorry, sorry!
New Scenery in a Small Town
I glance at Dad as we're driving along. He thinks he looks younger when he doesn't shave for a day or two, but he doesn't realize the whiskers are coming in silver. I reach over and pat his shoulder. He looks at me and winks. I suddenly realize where we are.
“Why did we come this way?” I ask him. “Look.”
He slows down so we can peer over at the stuff piled on the lawn in front of the Dietrich Insurance building. I knew it was here because Zack has already been and read all the notes. It's like a garage sale spread out to tempt the passersby. There are bouquets of flowers lying there in paper cones. A sign lettered in glitter says CLAIRE. The hydrant sticks up like the Virgin Mary at a roadside shrine, surrounded by teddy bears and Mylar balloons and letters and candles and garlands….
“Wow.”
Dad picks up speed. “So, that's the spot.”
He drops me off in front of the hospital.
“I'll be there in a bit,” he says, and drives away. He's going to tell his client in person that the walnut case with beveled glass doors will be late.
Washing Her Feet
Mom's not here and the nurse is washing Claire when I get inside the hospital. It's Florence, the older lady, dark skin with springy white hair. She wears photos of her grandchildren in a locket around her neck. She's got a basin and cloths and she's giving Claire what she calls a sponge bath, without a sponge in sight.
“Hello, dear,” she says. “How are we today?”
“Well, okay, I guess, you know.”
“It's a tough thing to get used to, isn't it?”
“ Um-hmm.”
“You want to help me out? You could give your sister's feet a little massage. Keep the circulation going.”
I don't expect disgust, but it jabs me like an elbow.
“Uh, I, that's okay, I…”
I don't like touching her, my own sister. Except of course she's not really Claire. She's changed shape, like in a science-fiction movie. She's swollen and pale and clammy-looking, as if her skin might peel back and reveal a subterranean insect tribe scuttling back and forth along her muscle fibers….
Oh god, that's hideous. Why does my brain take me places like that?
“Come on over here, dear. There's nothing to be afraid of. Think how nice it'll be for her to have a little foot rub.”
“Will she know?”
“It's nice to think she knows, isn't it? Put out your hands, I'll give you some lotion. That'll do the trick.”
What choice do I have? Obey? Or run from the room and let them all know I'm a sissy who can't face her own sister?
Florence untucks the sheet at the end of the bed and reveals Claire's feet. They look a little puffy, like the rest of her, but they're just feet. I can see that.
Florence says, “You all right from here? I've got other patients needing washing.”
“Yes,” I say. “I'm all right.”
Your Feet
They're just your feet, after all. Okay, I've never given you a foot massage, but I've painted your toenails about a hundred times. Hospital lotion is unscented. What's the point of that?
I know your feet. Your second toes are longer than the big toes and you claim that's significant, that it means you're a descendant of Egyptian royalty, that it makes you a faster runner.
I know this jagged white scar on the side of the sole, where you stepped on broken glass on the beach at Lake Huron. We had to drive to the hospital in Bayfield with you lying on the backseat holding your leg up in the air so the blood would supposedly stop flowing so hard. You screamed every time the car joggled you, even if an insect hit the windshield. And I was squeezed over to my side because even though Mom wrapped the cut with picnic napkins, blood was dribbling down and you purposely kept swerving your leg in my direction, trying to gross me out. When we turned into the hospital parking lot, your foot hit me in the face and splattered blood over my lips and chin. At the Emergency reception they thought for a second that I was the victim. You straightened them out fast. And you got stitches. Eight or nine, I think. A lot, for a little kid's foot.
Must have been a beer bottle smashed to bits. Thoughtless teenagers, probably, Mom said.
On the way home, we both got Fudgsicles even though you complained that I wasn't hurt. Dad settled it by promising that when I inevitably did get hurt in the future, you could have one too.
So, you still have the scar, in case you were wondering. I guess they took off the nail polish. I've heard they have to do that in a hospital. They need to see your nails when they put you under so they can monitor your oxygen levels or something, during an operation. Goodbye, Ruby Champagne.
Okay, how was that? You now have the softest, most relaxed feet in town.
Would You Page 5
