The Magic of Melwick Orchard

by Rebecca Caprara

  Her hospital room also had a private bathroom, a television, and a long couch that turned into an extra bed where visitors could sleep. The couch was covered in plasticky green material that squeaked whenever you moved an inch. No wonder Dad looked so tired lately. I couldn’t imagine getting a good night’s rest on that thing.

  Junie hunched over a sheet of paper, eyes squinting, tongue out, deep in concentration. Those once-pudgy cheeks looked a little deflated, but still cute. Her purple knit cap was pulled down low, pom-pom flopped to one side. She picked her nose because she thought no one was watching. I loved her something fierce.

  “Hi, stranger,” I said.

  Her eyes flitted up. “Isa! It’s about time!”

  I rushed over to her.

  “Wait! Stop!” She held up a hand, halting me in my tracks. “Did you get the squirts?” she asked seriously.

  “Eww. What?”

  “The squirts! You can’t touch me until you get ’em.”

  “Junie, what on earth are you talking about?”

  “You know, the germ-busting squirty-squirts!” She pointed to a wall-mounted dispenser of hand sanitizer.

  “Ohhh. Yes, I’m clean as a whistle. Don’t worry. I know the drill.”

  “Phew! I love you, but not your cooties.” She scooched over in bed, and patted the space next to her. I sat down. She seemed smaller than I remembered. Like I had grown and she had shrunk in the few days since we’d been apart. I found her knobby knees under the covers and gave them a little pinch.

  “What are you, a crab?” She snorted. “I don’t want a pinch.”

  “No?” I laughed. “What, then? A squirt?”

  “A squg!”

  “Of course!” A squg was a hug so full of love that it nearly squeezed the breath out of you. The kind of hug that would make a boa constrictor jealous. Thankfully, Junie didn’t have any tubes attached to her this afternoon. Some days she was positively tangled in them, like a cyborg robot or something. I wrapped my arms around her. I knew she was strong, but she felt so fragile, delicate, and brittle. I loosened my grip and rocked her, like a baby, just for a moment. Before she got a case of the wiggles.

  “We have work to do,” she said.

  “We do?”

  “Yes, and I need your help. Look.” She held up a sheet of paper. Wobbly intersecting lines formed a grid with seven squares. “I’m making a calendar.”

  “To count the days until you come home?” Maybe she had inherited some of my time-counting habits.

  “No. It’s for the nurses.” She lowered her voice to a conspiring whisper. “They don’t even know the days of the week.”

  “I’m pretty sure they do.”

  “Nope. And they’re lazy. They never even get dressed. They wear pajamas to work. Like it’s a slumber party.” She rolled her eyes, something I’d never seen her do before. “Look.” She pointed to the doorway. A nurse walked by pushing a cart of supplies; she stopped to wave and smile at us. “See?” Junie rasped. “Pajamas!”

  “Ja-hooonie,” I pulled her name out long, like a horn. She giggled. Mission accomplished. “Those are called scrubs. That’s what the nurses are supposed to wear. You know that! It’s like their uniform.”

  She clicked her tongue. “Uniform, shmuniform.”

  What would she think of our own mother, who held it together during the day, only to collapse into a sea of bedsheets and sadness (and that ratty bathrobe) the second she came home each afternoon?

  Junie shook her head. “Lazy. And clueless.”

  A half-empty bag of clear liquid hung from a tall metal contraption on wheels near her bed. It was no longer attached to Junie, but I wondered what was inside the bag. Probably a strong dose of feisty juice, because my little sister was sure full of something today.

  “It’s true,” she said, scowling. “Don’t you think so?”

  I didn’t. Everyone on Junie’s floor had been nothing but kind and helpful since her diagnosis.

  “They’re only trying to take care of you,” I said.

  She grumbled. “They’re nincompoops.”

  I tried not to laugh. “That’s not nice, Junie.”

  Another uncharacteristic eye roll. “Isa, are true things always nice?” Her voice sounded older than it should. Her chest rattled when she breathed. My own chest tightened with worry.

  “Are true things always nice?” she asked again, though it wasn’t really a question.

  I stared at her, just a little kid in a hospital bed. Nope, true things were not always nice.

  True things were sometimes unfair. And confusing.

  Then I saw the sneakers on my feet and remembered the mysterious buds on the tree. True things could also be good. Wonderful, even.

  “Junie, I have to tell you something!”

  “First we make the calendar. It’s important. Days of the week. Seven days. See?” She pointed at the wobbly squares.

  “But, Junie—”

  “Isa!” She wiggled impatiently.

  “Fine.”

  “Good. Now tell me, what day is today?”

  “Friday.”

  “Here, write it down. Please.” She handed me the pencil. “Fryday. F-r-y-d-a-y. The day Junie gets to eat french fries.”

  I could see where this was going. “Let me guess, Mom wouldn’t let you have any?”

  A scowl. “No french fries. Not a single one. Know what I got instead?” Her hands curled into tiny fists. “A bath!”

  “Oh, the horror.” This time I rolled my eyes. Baths, a worstible in Junie’s opinion, could only be tolerated once a week. Unfortunately for her, hospital rules stated she needed to stay extra clean, to minimize risk of infection.

  “It’s not funny, Isa!” She jabbed the paper. “Write it down. Right here. Baths only allowed on Wetsdays.”

  “You know that’s not possible.”

  She ignored me. “After Wetsday comes Thirstday. The day Junie gets to drink chocolate milkshakes. Or pink lemonade. If I’m thirsty. Mom keeps trying to make me drink green juice that tastes like vegetable water. Blech! The only green drink I want on Thirstday is lime soda. Did you write it?” She peered over my shoulder. “Good. Then comes Fryday. You already wrote that one. Next is Saturnday, when I get to play on the swings.”

  “What do the swings have to do with Saturn?”

  “You know. I like to swing high, high, high!”

  “Junie-to-the-moonie high?”

  She was all seriousness. “Higher. All the way to Saturn high.”

  “Got it. Okay, then Sunday.”

  “Obvious one. Junie gets to eat an ice-cream sundae. Banana split. With extra whipped cream. And don’t forget the sprinkles! Sprinkles make everything better. Yummy.” She rubbed her stomach. She might’ve only had one kidney left, but her dessert belly was still intact, even if the chemo often wiped out her appetite.

  I wrote it all down. “Next comes Monday,” I said.

  “Momday. When Mom visits me.”

  “I thought she visits you every day.”

  “She does. But on Momdays she has to bring you. And we have to have a tea party. All the girls together. Plus Daddy. He’s the only boy allowed. Just like we used to.” She smiled. “With cookies and milk. And tea, of course.”

  “Junie, speaking of cookies, I have something to tell you.”

  “We have to finish, Isa! There’s only one day left.”

  “I know, but this is really important!”

  “So is Tuesday,” she said earnestly.

  “All right.” I sighed. “Tuesday . . . how about Shoesday?” I was desperate to tell her about the tree.

  “Nope. Chooseday,” she corrected. “Junie gets to choose anything she wants.”

  “That sounds nice.”

  “Did you write it? All of it?”

  “Yup. It’s all here. Seven days of Junie. Nice and clear.”

  “Good. Now those nurses won’t get confused.” She growled angrily, “A bath on a Fryday . . . the nerve.” She tugged
the strings of her knit cap. She started wearing it back in December, around the time I began finding hair on my clothes, in my food, in my bed. Everywhere but Junie’s head. I’d seen her without the hat plenty of times at home, but she always wore it at the hospital, even though there were several other bald kids on her floor and it was nothing to be embarrassed about.

  A nurse named Paulette stepped into the room. “Ladies, it’s almost time for one of Junie’s tests. Another five minutes or so, and then it’s time to say your good-byes. Okay?”

  Good-byes. A thousand bee stings, prickling.

  “But my sister just got here,” Junie protested.

  “I know, honey. But the doctor ordered a follow-up, and it needs to be done this afternoon.”

  “Follow-up to what?” I asked, but Paulette didn’t seem to hear me. Either that or she chose not to answer.

  “And you really need some rest,” she said to Junie.

  Paulette crossed the room and filled some paper cups with an assortment of pills. I was always shocked by how many different medicines Junie had to take. When Mom went to the pharmacy, the bag she returned home with was so full it looked like it contained a belly-buster special from the local burger joint. “Don’t worry,” she said to me after Junie swallowed the pills with some big gulps of water. “You’re welcome to come back with your dad later tonight.”

  Easier said than done, I thought.

  Paulette picked up a chart and looked it over. “Is your mother in the waiting area?” she asked.

  I froze. “Umm, she dropped me off. She had some errands to run.” I hadn’t planned on lying. It just sort of happened. “She’ll be back soon, I think.”

  Paulette nodded. She didn’t seem to question my story. “No problem. I’ll get Junie prepped. We’re used to busy schedules around here.”

  “Hmph. Speaking of schedules . . .” Junie waved her calendar.

  “Right! You better not be coming back to give her another bath!” I said, jumping to my sister’s defense.

  Paulette looked confused. “No, she needs some bloodwork, not a bath.” She double-checked the chart. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “I agree,” I whispered to Junie once we were alone again. “About the nurses. I used to think they were so nice. But now I don’t like them either. Not one bit.”

  “See? Nincompoops, all of them! I told you so!” Junie clutched the calendar. “That’s why we had to make this.”

  She pushed her stuffed animals aside. She was wearing a striped pajama top, and as she eased out of bed I noticed she was also sporting a purple tutu and rainbow leggings. It was quite the ensemble, but who was I to give fashion advice? And besides, unless she was in the ICU for some reason, the team at the hospital had encouraged Junie to wear whatever she felt most comfortable in, even if it was a little unconventional.

  Junie stretched her thin arms and legs. She whimpered. I wondered if the treatments were making her feel achy again. The drugs had all sorts of side effects, ranging from inconvenient to downright dreadful. Aside from bath frequency and lack of fried food, Junie rarely complained, so sometimes it was hard to tell how bad things really were. The doctors often said a good attitude was almost as important as medicine in the healing process.

  Today Junie was slower and stiffer and crankier than usual. It scared me.

  “Do you want help?” I said as she shuffled across the room. I moved to her side, ready to catch her if she fell.

  “Nope. I can do it.” She snatched a roll of medical tape from a drawer and stood on her tippy-toes. “There. Perfecterrific.” She stuck the calendar to the wall, just below a photograph of us at the beach a few summers ago. Mom had buried us up to our waists, then sculpted the sand around our legs to look like mermaid tales. Junie and I were squinting and grinning, our noses slathered with a coating of sunscreen as thick as cream cheese. We looked like part-girl part-fish unfittians. Next to that photo was one of Mom and Dad dancing at Uncle Lewis and Aunt Sheila’s wedding. They looked relaxed and happy. I missed that version of them.

  Junie climbed back into bed. As soon as I joined her, she cuddled close to me. “See?” she said, admiring the calendar on the wall. My eyes drifted toward a drawing of a blue house nestled into a green hill. Four stick figures held hands on the front porch, next to a bushel of red apples. The letters H-O-M-E were scribbled across the top of the page in Junie’s handwriting. A whole bunch of emotions stabbed me at once. I winced.

  “What’s wrong?” Junie asked.

  “Nothing,” I said, shaking away the feeling.

  Junie pointed to the calendar. “That wasn’t so hard to make. Easy peasy, right?” The words whistled through the gap between her front teeth. If she still had eyebrows, they would’ve danced a jig across her forehead.

  “I see what you’re up to. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy,” I said. “Game on.”

  “Popsicle freezy.”

  “Nacho cheesy.”

  “Honey beesy.” She pinched my knee.

  “Flying trapezey. Ha!” I nudged her playfully, but also extra gently. “Bet you can’t beat that!”

  Junie’s face turned green. She reached for the package of blue barf bags that usually sat on the bedside table, but it was empty. Eyes wide, she scrambled out of bed, surprisingly fast for someone who’d been wobbling around minutes earlier. The bathroom door slammed shut.

  “Junie! Junie!” I jumped up after her.

  I pressed my ear to the door. She was throwing up. I’d heard the sound many times before, but I never got used to it. It was terrible and always made me feel helpless. I knew Junie preferred to be alone when she was sick like that, but I couldn’t resist calling out to her. “Please let me in. Are you all right? Should I call Paulette?”

  “No! I’m awesomesauce, Isa. Really.”

  “You don’t sound awesomesauce,” I said.

  “Fine. I’m more like . . . barftastic.”

  “Lovely,” I said, relieved to hear her make a joke.

  The toilet flushed, water rushed. I heard her shuffle around, then brush her teeth, spitting loudly. “Junie?”

  Finally, the door opened. I resisted the urge to give her a bone-crushing hug. Instead, when she stretched her arms wide, I carefully picked her up and carried her to bed. I tucked her in and handed her a stuffed animal. She stroked the rabbit’s gray fur. It was matted and well-loved. The left ear was tattered, just like the squirrel in the orchard.

  I would have to save that story for another day. Junie needed to rest. I kissed her forehead, then squeezed my eyes shut. I wished with all my might that our life would go back to looking like the drawing on the wall with the smiley stick figures. I needed my sister to get better and come home, for good. Enough was enough.

  “Isa?” Her voice was gravelly.

  “Yeah?” I touched the floppy pom-pom on her hat.

  “Easy peasy . . . chemo queasy,” she said, peering up at me. A minuscule smirk darted across her pale, tired face. “I win.”

  ***

  Good-byes were always awful, but leaving the hospital without Junie definitely topped my worstible list. I flopped down on a bench at the bus stop outside and sulked. I wondered how Dad might react if he found me there. Would he be mad that I’d taken the bus by myself? That I’d skipped softball practice? I wanted his attention, but not in the form of an angry lecture. It was probably for the best that he didn’t know what I was up to.

  The sun ambled toward the horizon, a late afternoon stroll in the sky. The bus was nowhere in sight. I swung my feet in my new sneakers. I waited, just like those magical buds on my tree waiting to bloom. I tried to pass the time watching people.

  A lady with a very large belly and a very nervous husband made her way toward the hospital entrance. The lady paused every few steps to huff and puff. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought the man was the one about to give birth, the way he was practically hyperventilating and yelling, “Baby! Baby on the way!” It was kind of funny and sweet how much
he cared. Sometimes caring makes people do strange things.

  A few more steps, and they disappeared through the doors to become a family. A thought popped into my brain. Maybe hospitals weren’t just for sickness and endings. They were for beginnings too.

  A man in a suit came out next, looking flusterated. He wrung his hands. His jacket drooped from his shoulders. He kicked a nearby lamppost and scuffed one of his shiny shoes.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Was he talking to me? The lamppost? His shoe?

  Then he looked at me. “Waiting for a ride?” he said gently.

  “Uh. Yeah. 83. The bus.” For some reason I wasn’t able to string together a full sentence.

  “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but that route ends at four o’clock.”

  I blinked. “What? It can’t.”

  “Unfortunately, it does. Four o’clock on the dot.”

  “It can’t!” If only I’d paid attention to that stupid schedule! But no, I was making changes for the better. Better? Ha! Old me would not be stuck in this situation. Old me would’ve paid attention to important things, like numbers instead of people.

  “Tell me about it. Everything seems to end at four today. Especially good luck. I’m waiting for some lab results, but the tech says they won’t be ready until tomorrow.” He kicked the lamppost again. Now both shoes were scuffed. He could really use a new pair from my tree.

  I don’t know why, but I started to cry. In front of a total stranger. I knew it wouldn’t solve anything, but I couldn’t help it. I bawled like a newborn baby.

  “It’s all right. Here.” A tissue, a kind face. “This place will do that to you.”

  “The bus stop?” I sniffled.

  “The hospital,” the man with the scuffed shoes said. “Believe me. It happens to me sometimes too.”

  “You?” The thought of a full-grown man crying was unsettling.

  “Yup. Everyone does from time to time.” He handed me an extra tissue. “I’m James, by the way.”