Wake

by Abria Mattina

  “Couldn’t wait,” he says, and uses the plastic spoon to greedily scrape the sides of the Tupperware.

  “At least you have an appetite.”

  “Feel free to bring more of this,” he says, and stifles a cough.

  “Don’t eat too fast.”

  “Would you judge me if I licked the bowl?”

  I say no, just because I want to watch him do it. Jem gets sweet potato on his nose and tries to lick that off too.

  “Don’t they feed you here?” I joke.

  “All-liquid diet,” he says. “It blows. I never feel full.”

  Eventually Jem has to concede that the container is indeed empty, and sets it aside with a pout. He tries to make me promise to bring more and I tell him I’ll have to check with his parents before sneaking any more food in.

  “Traitor,” he mutters. Jem makes a show of being put out with me, but the food has made him sleepy and content, and he can’t sustain the act. He falls asleep while I massage lotion into his hands, and all too soon visiting hours are over. I don’t want to leave him.

  I kiss his forehead before going. “Goodnight.”

  Tuesday

  My temperature is normal. No swollen glands. No tender throat. Sinuses and breathing are normal. Whatever germ Jem has, I don’t. It would have manifested symptoms by now if I were susceptible. I’m so excited about this development that I do a little victory dance in the bathroom and rail my elbow on the doorframe. Totally worth it.

  I call the Harper house before school. I meant it when I said I wouldn’t bring more food without talking to Jem’s parents, and I know he’ll be sore with me if I show up sans food.

  Dr. Harper is puzzled by my request at first. “Is he not eating at the hospital?” I hear him turn to his wife and ask the same question. Somewhere in the background Ivy says, “He eats, but not enough.”

  “He’s on an all-liquid diet right now,” Dr. Harper tells me. I ask of soup is fair game in extremely small quantities.

  “I don’t think his body can handle something as rich as soup right now, not with his kidneys still so fragile.” I’m tempted to tell him how well and how eagerly Jem ‘handled’ soup last night, and smirk at our little secret.

  “I figured I’d have to adjust the protein content for his kidneys and the diary for his lungs. Any other restrictions?”

  I think Dr. Harper is mildly annoyed that I haven’t immediately backed down on this idea. Behind him I can hear Ivy say, “If she can get him to eat, let her.”

  Dr. Harper sighs. “Okay, but only a small amount of soup.”

  Elise picks up the line from elsewhere in the house and puts in her two cents, “See if you can get him to eat his fruit cups.”

  “I’ll give it a shot.” But I’ll feel bad doing it—packaged fruit puree is gross. Dr. Harper gives me the details of what Jem can and cannot eat right now. A small part of me is pleased that I guessed right with the sweet potato soup—it perfectly fits his dietary guidelines.

  “It’s nice that you want to do this,” Dr. Harper admits.

  “It’s my pleasure.” Anything for Jem.

  *

  To hell with homework, I have high-vitamin, low sodium soup to make. I boil carrots, peas and yams with a pinch of garlic, and thin the puree with homemade vegetable stock. A splash of honey and lemon compliments the sweetness of the yams.

  I take a thermos full of it to the hospital with a bowl and spoon—I remembered this time—so that his parents can decide how much to allow their son. When I step off the elevator on the third floor, I find Elise sitting in the waiting lounge, reading a book.

  “I wouldn’t go in there yet,” she says.

  “What happened?” I flop down beside her on the couch.

  “Dad’s with him right now. The dizzy spells have passed and he’s not a fall risk anymore, so they took the catheter out. He’s in a really bad mood.” Can’t blame him for that. It probably mortified Jem to have to put his private parts on display, and there was probably a med student there to gawk—and that’s just the mental discomfort.

  I go down to the vending machine by the gift shop for a drink and a snack. Elise says this particular machine is least likely to eat my money. As I head back toward the elevators a sign on the wall catches my eye: Chapel. I would never have noticed anything religious before Jem and Group, but now I’m curious. I peek through the window in the door and look around. It’s just a beige room with benches. Up at the front there is a lectern with interchangeable faith symbols, and along the wall is a bookshelf with various holy texts. The room is empty apart from one guy sitting in the front row.

  I think about going in, but I don’t want to disturb the guy. Then I realize it’s Eric, taking full advantage of the front row to extend his legs comfortably. For a moment I stand outside the door and watch him. He’s normally boisterous, but here he’s so still and quiet. It’s fascinating, watching his sense of connection to this place—or whatever divine thing dwells within it.

  I slip in and walk quietly to the front of the room, studying him. Eric’s eyes are closed and his face is relaxed. Is that what it is to pray? It looked different in church—boring, zealous, halfhearted, token. This is something different.

  I sit down next to him in the pew and Eric slowly opens his eyes. Maybe I had it wrong and he was actually napping.

  “Is he okay?” Eric asks of Jem.

  “Still in a bad mood, from what I hear.”

  Eric nods once and closes his eyes.

  “Tired?”

  “No.”

  I envy his easy peace. “Teach me.”

  He looks at me with confusion. I tell him I’m not religious, or even spiritual. Eric wraps his strong hand around my upper arm and tugs gently. I scoot closer to him on the bench, but that’s not close enough for him. He isn’t satisfied until he’s picked me up and placed me down on his lap, back to front. His arms wrap around me and his cheek rests on the side of my head.

  “Here,” he says lowly, and takes my little hands in his sturdy ones. He makes me press them palm-to-palm with my wrists turned up toward the center of my chest. The posture feels good, like a full heart and a clear head.

  I look at Eric out of the corner of my eye and find that his are closed. He has that peace about him again, like he’s listening to something I can’t hear. I try to tap into it, but it doesn’t come easily.

  “What do you ask for?” Don’t prayers always ask for something? Some blessing, or divine intercession?

  “Don’t ask,” Eric says lowly. “Give thanks.”

  I don’t know how prayers usually start, so I just launch right into it. Thank you for letting me get away…and for not killing him before I moved here.

  I don’t know what to say after that, so I just sit quietly while Eric makes his peace with the divine. When he seems to be finished I admit that I admire him for being able to focus like that.

  “I don’t know how you do it either,” he says. I get the feeling we’re not talking about prayer. “You’re the only person I know who can just be with him. It’s exhausting.”

  “You do it too. You took all those photos.”

  Eric shakes his head. Maybe taking pictures was his way of avoiding the act of ‘being’ with his sick brother. He can hide behind a camera and express himself through still images that reveal everything and nothing at once.

  “How do you look at him at his worst and not be bothered by it?”

  I consider that for a moment. “It does bother me. But…I just become what he needs. He doesn’t need bothered people. Forget your own agenda.”

  “And now, when he’s being a whiney bitch?”

  I shrug. “I’m gonna go try to see him now.”

  Eric and I share pretzels in the elevator. He has no intention of really ‘visiting’ Jem. He’s only here because Elise needed a ride to the hospital. Apparently it’s Eric’s habit to make an appearance, snap a few photos for the album, and then disappear until he’s needed. It’s how he copes.
>
  When we get to the third floor, Elise is no longer on the couch. Eric sits down in the lounge and calls, “See you later,” to me. I head to Jem’s room, hoping to find Elise and a conscious Jem.

  Dr. Harper is in the visitor’s chair, leaning back with his head against the wall and his eyes shut. Tired after a long shift, it seems. Elise is sitting at the windowsill, probably as close as Jem will allow, reading her book quietly. Jem is lying on his side with his back to the door, sulking.

  “Hey.” I come up behind him and kiss his shoulder. Jem turns his head to look at me and some of that scowl softens. “Word has it you’re cranky.”

  “I’m not cranky,” he snaps. I just chuckle. He’s lost the hospital gown and is wearing his own pajamas. The dark blue cotton looks a lot comfier than a thin gown.

  “You look nice.”

  Jem gives me a withering look. “If I was a car you’d have sold me for scrap by now.”

  “Have you seen what I drive? I wouldn’t give you up until you couldn’t go another inch.”

  Elise snickers quietly in her corner. Jem shoots her a glare and she mutters, “Shutting up now.”

  “You’re not a fall risk anymore?” I ask. Jem shakes his head and goes back to sulking. “How long has it been since you’ve been out of this room?”

  Jem looks up at me again. He’s caught the spark of the idea.

  “Want to go to the lounge?”

  “My head hurts.” He gives a feeble cough.

  “Some other day, then.”

  “I want to.”

  “Wait till you’re ready.”

  Jem’s stubbornness rears its head. He’s restless and snappy and determined to get out of his room now that I’ve mentioned it. Elise suggests using one of the ward wheelchairs to travel to the floor lounge, but apparently that’s beneath his dignity. “What am I, an invalid?”

  “You’re sick,” she says. I really think she’s going to put up a fight about this, but when Jem asks her to pass him his slippers she does so like a loyal dog told to fetch. Jem stands without signs of weakness, but when he starts to walk to the door I really regret ever mentioning this stupid idea. He shuffles along like an old man and needs his sister’s arm.

  “You’ll need a mask,” she says. Jem mutters a few very colorful curses, but dutifully dons a mask to be out among the other patients.

  The floor lounge is only twenty feet from the door of Jem’s room. We take it slow, and Jem keeps one hand on the wall-rail and the other on his IV pole at all times. Elise takes the excursion, foolish as it is, as license to be chipper, and chatters about her book. It seems almost absentminded, the way she also keeps her hand on the IV pole to keep it from skidding away from her brother.

  The pediatric lounge has toys and board games for the young patients, but Jem isn’t up for anything more than watching TV, so we park ourselves on the couch and search for something to watch. Jem finally begins to mellow out as he’s cuddled from both sides—or maybe he’s just too tired from the walk to be snippy.

  We’re joined in the lounge by another boy, wheeling his meds along with him. He sits down next to Elise and strikes up a conversation. I get the impression that they’re old friends on this ward. It’s actually kind of cute—I think the boy is flirting with her.

  Jem doesn’t seem to care. Where the hell did the protective older brother go? He just rests his head against mine and stares blankly at the TV. I tell him about buying condoms for Paige and her high-pitched anxiety about sex. It was a toss-up between ribbed or flavored, since she didn’t specify. Laughing at the stupidity of others cheers him up some.

  “And I brought soup.”

  Jem’s eyes slowly narrow. “Why are you withholding it?”

  “I left it in my backpack, in your room.”

  “You were gonna let me starve,” he accuses, and I think I see a smirk behind the blue mask.

  “Fruit cups aren’t filling?”

  Jem wrinkles his nose. “Are you going to feed me or not?”

  I get off the couch to retrieve my backpack. As soon as I come through the lounge door Jem reaches out a hand and makes grabbing motions.

  “Jeez, you’re demanding.”

  Jem actually makes the effort, weak as he is, to scoot down the couch to be nearer to the holy grail of soups. I give him the spoon first, but as soon as I hand over the soup the spoon is forgotten. Jem drinks straight out of the lid, practically chugging.

  “Easy, you’ll upset your stomach.”

  “I told you I was hungry.” Jem stifles a cough and keeps on drinking.

  “Why not savor it?” Elise says, and Jem looks torn. He eyes the thermos, trying to judge how much soup is left and how to ration it.

  “It’ll keep for a few hours with the lid screwed on tight.”

  “Good.” Jem picks up the thermos and tucks it under his arm like a teddy bear. “Cheers.”

  *

  Jem gets completely food drunk on two cups of soup, and is practically asleep when Elise and I wheel him back to bed. The nurse replaces his nasal cannula with an oxygen mask to give his nose a bit of a break, and then Elise and I are encouraged to say goodbye.

  “You get some rest,” Elise says to Jem.

  “I will. Where’d that thermos go?” Elise helpfully points to the side table and the unused spoon.

  “I’ll meet you at the elevator,” she says to me, and then Jem and I are left alone. I take one of his hands in mine and kiss the back of it.

  “Hey, beautiful,” I whisper. He tugs on my hand, pulling me in for a hug. I try not to disturb the oxygen mask as I lay my cheek next to his. I tell him I love him, and that he’s precious, and under no circumstances will I be selling him off for scrap.

  “You made my day,” he confides with a contented smile.

  “You made mine.” I wonder if it’s dangerous to rely on someone for my happiness, but by the time I reach the elevators I’ve decided that I don’t care. It’s hard enough to be happy without worrying about why.

  Jem: June 14 to 15

  Wednesday

  The devil is five feet tall and carries a suction catheter. She lifts her thumb off the end of the tube and the thing growls at me.

  “We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”

  Never toy with someone who is willing to bully you to get the job done, especially when that job involves a hard rubber tube up the nose. I cough and cough until it feels like my lungs are about to explode, and Nurse Kim jokes that I must be five pounds lighter without all that phlegm. This disgusting routine is what my days have been reduced to: cough up phlegm; cough up more phlegm; piss into a sample container; eat disgusting food; blood draws; more coughing; enjoy exactly four minutes of privacy while shitting; swallow pills; nap; contemplate death by boredom.

  Mom is with me for most of the day, working from her laptop while I rest. When I’m awake I’m bored and in pain, so I try to sleep a lot. This plan has the added benefit of keeping me rested for when Willa visits after school.

  Today she comes in the company of Eric and his Polaroid camera. “You got mail,” he says, and hands me a fat envelope. It’s a get well card from my friends in Seattle, including Celeste.

  “You told them I was sick?”

  “Cee knew,” he says. “She bought the card and got everybody to sign it.”

  Emily left me a cluster of X’s and O’s with her well wishes. Morgan sends me a ‘God bless.’ Eli has drawn a picture of what appears to be a clown and written ‘get well’ in a speech bubble, like I’m five years old. Caitlin has written: Alright, now you’re just doing it to get attention. Kidding, we all love you. Get better. From Celeste I get a terse, Feel better soon, and Ava sends me a whole novel. Most of it is about Willa and I—she’s heard we’re a couple, it seems—and apologies for ‘the incident’ last time we saw each other. I let Willa read it and she seems vaguely amused.

  “Was it even good?” I shouldn’t ask such stupid questions.

  “She was enthusiastic,” Wil
la says, and leaves it at that.

  Eric snaps a picture.

  “Will you knock it off?”

  “Nope.” He shakes the picture. “We’ve got to get Willa into the album.” I think my brother has delusions of being an actual photographer, because he directs Willa to pose with me by the bed and snaps a few shots of us together. She just chuckles and goes along with it.

  “You don’t have to humor him, you know.”

  “Have a little fun.”

  Thankfully, Eric eventually stops taking pictures. Willa has brought more soup. While I inhale it she opens the tube of cream on the nightstand and massages it into my calves. I’m going to owe her big time when I get out of here.

  “You want a neck massage too?” she says, and winks at me.

  “You’re spoiling him,” Eric warns. I stick my tongue out at him. He’s just jealous.

  Did I mention Willa has great hands? Small and soft and warm, but strong enough to push through the stiff knots. Her fingers rub from my shoulders to the base of my skull, stretching the muscles. Her thumbs work little circles behind my ears, pushing at the edges of my hat. I just close my eyes and relax into her touch.

  Willa turns my head in her capable hands and I smile when her lips touch my cheek. “Open your eyes,” she whispers. I do, and Eric immediately snaps a picture. Willa helped him set up the shot—had me smiling and everything.

  “That’s a nice one,” Eric says, and holds it out to me. It’s a romantic photo, aside from the fact that it was obviously taken in a hospital. Willa and I are cuddled close and happy. I don’t look like I’m dying; just content.

  “Holy crap, you actually took a good photo.”

  “Har har,” Eric says, and snaps a photo of Willa. He tosses that one at me and says, “Is that a good one?” It’s a snapshot of her chest.

  “You son of a bitch,” Willa mutters.

  Eric feigns offense. “What did you just call my mom?”

  I whisper loudly to Willa, “He’s actually adopted.”

  “Ah. That explains it.” Just to be on the safe side, Willa pockets the photo of her tits so it can’t make its way into the album.