Authors: Marthe Jocelyn
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'sroomthrowing
shit
allovertheplaceasifnothing 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.
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.
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!
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.
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.”
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.
Flabby.
Dr. Hazel is the big star around here. He's more like a TV doctor than geeky Dr. Cooper: dark hair with silver threads, brown eyes that pay attention. The nurses flurry
when he's expected or when he's in the corridor, with other doctors trailing.
So when Dad steps into his path today and says, “Hey, I'd like a word with you,” I can see the flank guards ready to drag him down. Mom went to pick up Aunt Jeanie, so she's not here to interfere.
But Dr. Hazel looks at Dad and he stops his sailing doctor-walk and puts on that special face for families. He ushers us quickly away from the nurses' station, into a little office with only one chair. So we stand, too close together. I'm sweating and I keep my arms pressed down, hoping I don't stink.
“Mr. Johnson,” he says. “And?”
“Natalie.”
“Yes, Natalie. I know this is a difficult time for you.”
“What can you tell us, Dr. Hazel?” Dad is fidgety, abrupt.
“We've been watching Claire very carefully,” he says. “And performing ongoing physical examinations. What we'd like to see is a response to any one of several tests that would indicate some cognitive function.”
“And?” says Dad.
It's way too hot in here.
“So far there's nothing.”
Nothing. He said “Nothing.”
“Nothing?
But, that doesn't necessarily mean … You can't just say that's it, right? That she's a … a
vegetable?”
says Dad. “I've been doing some reading about this….”
Dr. Hazel sighs. Not out loud, but his eyes sort of click out of focus, like
they're
sighing.
“There are plenty of cases,” Dad goes on, “where the medical guys say there's no chance, but the patient somehow wakes up after a prolonged period of time and turns out to be okay. There was this one case I found on the Internet, about a man in Jacksonville, Florida, and he—”
“Dad,” I say.
“His family never gave up,” says Dad. “They talked to him and they prayed and they—”
Dr. Hazel pulls a pen out of the chest pocket of his white coat. He makes a note on his clipboard and then just taps the pen a few times till Dad pauses.
“None of us can discount what seem like miracles,” the doctor says. “But they are very,
very
rare. The more time that goes by without reaction, the more … the likelihood of recovery diminishes.”
“If she gets transferred to a bigger hospital?” says Dad. “Where they have more equipment?”
“Claire is getting the best possible care right where she is, Mr. Johnson. I promise you that. After surgery there's often a waiting period before we can assess how the body adjusts. We let the sedative subside and keep watching for… some sort of response to stimulation. At this point, we're about, oh, roughly thirty-six hours after surgery?”
“You would know,” says Dad in a voice tight with, I'd say tight with
agony.
“Yes,” says Dr. Hazel, glancing at his gold watch. “We'll take a look at Claire again tomorrow morning, and likely schedule an EEG first thing Wednesday. Until then, get rest if you can.”
I step backward out of his way, opening the door, knowing he's done. He nods to me, flashing some brown-eyed pity, and goes away. Dad's head is bowed, and he just stands there.
“Come on, Dad.” I slide my hand into his and give him a tug.
“I need a minute.”
“Okay,” I say. “I'll go find Mom. I'll be right back.”
Okay, Claire, I'm going to tell you the saddest thing.
Dad and I talked to Dr. Hazel and then I went to find Mom. She wasn't in your room and I checked the lobby. Aunt Jeanie's train was late, maybe. I went back up to the fifth floor and I could see Dad in the lounge reserved for freaked-out families. It's separate from the regular place; the sofas are fabric instead of vinyl, and there are table lamps with cheesy maroon shades instead of fluorescent lighting.