Kasey & Ivy

by Alison Hughes

Hey, we’ll go make bird nests when I get out, right, Nina? We’ll sit in the school field with the sun and the grass and do nothing but pluck up the grass and make it into bird nests. Maybe with little stone eggs?

  You know when you get sick and miss a day of school? Kind of fun, right? But then, if you’re sick for more than a few days, it gets less fun. You get bored. And then you start imagining that everyone at school, everyone in the world really, is having the best time of their lives. You think they’re all having a huge party, even though they’re probably just doing the usual school and work stuff. But somehow the usual things—going to class, running at recess, soccer practice—become more special because you can’t be a part of them. It’s a sad and lonely feeling, like being outside in the cold and looking through a window into a cozy, warm house.

  That’s the feeling I have here. It feels like everyone in the world is at a party except for me. Only here the party is outside, and I’m inside looking out. I watch the hospital workers heaving those bags of hospital filth into the dumpsters, and I actually envy them. What fun that would be, slinging waste into a dumpster, breathing fresh air, feeling the sun warm your face…I’m sounding pathetic, and I didn’t mean to.

  I know it’s been a few days since I’ve written. I decided to have pity on you. You can only read so many freaked-out, depressing letters from a friend written at 0200 hours. And honestly, how often can you read about me taking little dancing Missy Wong for a slow walk up and down the halls?

  My new policy is to write only when there is some actual news.

  And there is some today! Brace yourself—it’s ghastly. Is there any other kind of news in a hospital?

  When I woke up this morning, I got out of bed and started to push Ivy to the washroom. But when I looked down, I noticed that my hand that was pushing her (the hand with the needle in it) looked nothing like a hand anymore! It was swollen so much that it looked like a pillow with a fringe of fingers. Or like a balloon. Or like a hand kids draw when they’re two years old—just a big circle with five short stick fingers. To tell you the truth, it looked more like a foot. A fat baby’s foot.

  I gasped and looked up at Ivy. She swung her bag head apologetically. I skittered her over to the nurse call button and laid on that thing for dear life. When nobody came immediately, I panicked, and I pushed Ivy over to the door. I actually lifted her, because her wheels were sticking and this was an emergency.

  We were just in time to collide with the Fussbudget.

  Have I told you about her, Nina? Okay, quick summary here, and then we’ll get back to the emergency. The Fussbudget is one of the nurses. A worrier. A ditherer. She’s always dropping things, papers flutter out of the charts she carries, she takes ages to do things other nurses do in seconds, and her frizzy hair is always in her eyes. Worse, she talks about how bad she is at things, which, from a patient’s perspective, is really terrible. You can be bad at your job. Fine. But telling everybody about it—specifically, people who are affected by it—is way, way worse.

  So the Fussbudget is exactly, precisely, not the nurse you want in a crisis, definitely not the nurse you want around when your hand looks like it’s going to blow up any second.

  “The hand, the hand,” I panted, pointing at my hand. I already seemed to be refusing ownership of it. Could that giant, mutant thing actually be mine?

  “Holy cow!” she cried, her mouth dropping open. “That thing is huge!”

  You see what I mean, Nina? She’s hopeless.

  The Fussbudget looked around wildly, as if she was hoping somebody competent would arrive to help both of us out. I half thought of running back to the call button to get somebody else. But the Fussbudget dumped the stuff she was carrying on a chair (where some of it slid to the germy floor) and said, “You should…back…bed!” She made vague shooing motions with her arms.

  “What’s wrong?” I wailed, scuttling back into bed. “Is it my bones? Am I going to die??” Not proud of that part, Nina, but if you saw that hand, you’d understand.

  “No, no, no.” The Fussbudget pushed her hair out of her face and prodded the hand with one tentative finger, like it was an experiment. Like she was testing to see if a cake in the oven was done. Her finger left little white circle indents on the puffy, reddish surface of my hand. It did not seem a very medical or scientific test.

  “Needle’s slipped…must’ve happened…”

  That’s how the Fussbudget talks. She starts a sentence, then trails off. This is usually just annoying. But when you fear for your life and the safety of your actual hand, it is infuriating. White-hot rage galloped through me.

  “What? Ivy’s slipped how? It must’ve happened when?” I snapped.

  “Have to pull…redo the thingy…be right back…” The Fussbudget trotted away, murmuring to herself. I sat, glaring straight in front of me. I glanced up at Ivy. She seemed tense too. Finally, the Fussbudget clattered back, pushing a little trolley. She spilled cotton balls onto the bed as she set up shop. A roll of tape fell off the bed and wheeled in a curving arc under one of the other beds.

  “So this will someday look like a hand again?” I asked, trying to keep my voice level. “Right? Just a normal hand?”

  She fumbled with her supplies, pawing through them uncertainly.

  “Oh, yes. Where is…oh, there. Hmm? Um-hum. A hand…” She reached for Ivy.

  Honestly, Nina, I could have screamed. In fact, I was very, very close to screaming. You know when you make that kind of high-pitched mmm, mmmm sound deep in your throat, which is the sound of a scream being stifled? Maybe you don’t know it. I do. I was making that sound. I was also shaking.

  Finally, when I wouldn’t hold out my hand, the Fussbudget glanced up at my face. She seemed surprised there was a person attached to the hand.

  “Will…my…hand…go…back…to…normal?” I spoke slowly and quietly through clenched teeth.

  The Fussbudget looked at me blankly. “Of course. Don’t worry about that! Now where is…”

  After ripping off the tape holding the useless needle in, she yanked it out. I will spare you her four excruciating, fumbling attempts to shove Ivy’s needle back into a vein, any vein. She kept sighing, pushing back her hair and muttering confidence-inspiring things like “Shoot!” and “Nope, missed it again!” and “Why can’t I do this?” I gasped, flinched and clenched with each jab, especially the one where she winced and said, “Ooh, sorry, that one must’ve hurt!” Yes, yes, it did, as a matter of fact. My arm was a searing lump of pain. I actually felt sick with pain.

  Finally, mercifully, on the fifth attempt she muttered, “Oh, I give up!” and started packing up her instruments of torture. On the one hand, I was relieved, because there didn’t seem to be any way she could get that needle in. All of my veins were literally shrinking away from her. But on the other hand, I was worried. The needle in my hand was my link to the medicine I need so my leg gets better and doesn’t have to be amputated. I rubbed my pillow-hand and couldn’t even enjoy the momentary sensation of freedom from Ivy before I panicked about what on earth we were going to do.

  In the end, the Fussbudget called in a specialized, professional needle putter-inner (hospitals have those magical people, apparently) who in a matter of seconds calmly and painlessly slipped that needle right in, just a little farther up. Honestly, Nina, I barely felt it!

  “Could you put a ton of tape on it? Like, wrap that sucker up good and solid? Just use as much tape as you need—more, even—so that it doesn’t slip out again,” I pleaded, chatting too much, not wanting the needle lady to leave, wanting her, in fact, to camp out in one of the visiting chairs in case the needle slipped out again.

  “There,” she said, after taping me up like a linebacker in a football game. “Solid. It’s not going anywhere. And your hand will just absorb the extra liquid. Swelling’ll probably be gone by tomorrow.” She patted my shoulder and left.

  So casual. So simple. So easy.

  I’d like to say the Fussbudget was watch
ing and taking notes, but she wasn’t. She was fussing around, dropping things out of her pocket while gathering up the mess of bloody cotton balls and wads of tape that littered the bed and floor.

  I didn’t even care. My hand, and my bones, are feeling all of them just FINE.

  Your calmer and much-less-puffy friend,

  Kasey

  Fourteen

  Dear Nina,

  Louise and the snack trolley came around again this evening. I asked Louise about the schedule—she comes Tuesdays, Thursdays and sometimes Friday or Saturday. I tried to be casual and cool about it, but I wasn’t fooling her. She probably knows I live for these snacks, that this trolley is, sadly and pathetically, the highlight of my whole, entire life. She seems to understand.

  “Saved you a couple bags of pretzels,” Louise said, rummaging in the cart. “Got some decent-looking sandwiches too.” Louise held up a triangular package and squinted at it. “Mystery meat.”

  “So bring me news of the outside world,” I said to her like I always do and usually with my mouth full.

  Louise has a nice, unexpected smile. “Don’t worry. You’re not missing anything. The outside world sucks, kid,” she said.

  “So does the inside hospital world,” I said.

  Louise gnawed on a hangnail. “You’ll be out in a few weeks. Into the outside, sucky world. But without a gimpy leg. Well, not without it. Hey, leave one of those applesauces for Missy Wong—she likes those. And a pudding for Sadie. She’s got, like, three teeth.”

  These are the kinds of conversations we have, Nina. But I love it when Louise comes around and sits and talks. Most people who come talk while they’re doing things—changing Ivy’s fluids, sweeping the floor, bringing a tray. Even visitors like my parents and grandparents don’t just sit and talk about anything. They want to talk about me and my leg. And I want to talk about anything else.

  Louise speaks like she’s in a hurry. She blurts. She told me she used to stutter, which must have been awful as a kid. Imagine the frustration of knowing what you’re going to say but not being able to get your mouth to cooperate in saying it. As a champion talker myself, I would hate that.

  When we talk, I find out interesting things about high school, and about Louise’s life. She loves animals and volunteers at a dog-rescue place, she wants to paint her room a very, very dark, almost-black blue, she writes “garbage” poetry and likes a smart guy named Devon. She’ll say things like “he’s so lame,” but I know she likes him. She and her mom fight all the time, and she says it’s a relief to come to her hospital job sometimes, even though the pay isn’t great, just to stay out of the house. She doesn’t talk about her dad.

  We also talk about the hospital and the people who work here, which I find interesting. For example, I did not know that Rosie has a little daughter with a disability. I didn’t know that one of the night nurses has a son who goes to high school with Louise and is, in her words, “not a bad guy but a total druggie.” I always thought total druggies were bad guys. And the Bouncer once reported Louise for her attitude, which she admits is not good at all around the Bouncer.

  “How is Missy Wong?” I asked. I hadn’t seen her for a few days.

  “Sick,” Louise said. “They got her drugged up so she can’t wander around. Caught her the other night trying to go upstairs.” She gnawed on her thumbnail. “These old folks. Sure, they’re taken care of. But some of them have no family. Nobody visits them. Like, ever. Which, when you think about it, really sucks.”

  We sat thinking about this.

  “You visit them,” I pointed out.

  “Yeah. I try to talk a bit with each of them. Hey, you should help me. Want to?”

  I jumped at that offer, Nina! I told Louise we could pretend to be relatives going to visit our great-grandparents. She could be my big sister (I always wanted a big sister), and I could be her little one. I do talk a lot, don’t I?

  Louise gave me a funny look. I think she would have liked to have a sister too. She didn’t say that, but I got that feeling.

  Louise let me push the snack cart down the hall while she pushed Ivy. I felt kind of important, having a semiofficial role. Being visitors as well, we sat and talked with anyone who was awake and seemed lonely.

  Sometimes the conversations weren’t what I was expecting. One of the old guys who used to be a farmer wanted to know how high the wheat was this year. The wheat, Nina. Louise said that was a good question and she’d make a point of finding out for him. One woman with watery blue eyes told us in detail about her wedding, which was probably sixty years ago but sounded very fancy. Another woman spoke a bit of Arabic for us, because she used to live in Egypt.

  Of course, some of the old people whose memories weren’t so good thought we actually were their relatives, some mistook us for nurses, some were just happy to chat a little about things in their room—some flowers by their bed, a photo, the food on the cart. Some of them didn’t want us to leave.

  I knew how they felt. I wished Louise worked there every day.

  Maybe I’ll get to go around with the cart again on Thursday, if my big sister doesn’t mind.

  Your friend who is getting way better at talking with old people,

  Kasey

  Fifteen

  Dear Nina,

  Last night I was woken up in the worst way ever possible in the history of waking up. And trust me, I’ve woken to Molly screaming, and Lizzy muttering in her deep, scary sleep voice, and Squeakers jumping on my back, and once Kyle threw up in my ear. That was years ago, but I don’t believe I ever told you about that one. Mom was holding him and leaning over me to get to Molly in the dark. You know what? Let’s just leave it there. I think I’ve said enough.

  Anyway, Nina, don’t go thinking, There goes Kasey, being all dramatic again. I’m really not. This horrible thing that happened in the night makes my bloated hand seem like a funny little joke.

  Here’s how it went.

  So I was lying in my bed, actually asleep—which is quite an achievement for me here. Usually I’m wandering around, reading or writing to you in the dark, creepy zerosomethingsomething hours.

  CRASH! A violent, smashing sound snapped me instantly, heart-attackingly awake. It was like a whole cart of glass had been pushed over. There was thudding, and the sound of voices. Something terrible and violent was going on in the hall just outside my door. A man’s voice was yelling and swearing. Swearing like you wouldn’t believe, Nina. Not just one or two swears. A whole list of them.

  Scuffling, banging noises, other voices, something smacked against the wall…

  At this point I was sitting straight up in my bed, so wide awake I couldn’t imagine ever sleeping again. I had goose bumps everywhere I can goose-bump, one hand was locked around Ivy’s pole body, and the other had pulled the covers up to my eyes. I considered hiding in the closet or running into the bathroom, but I remembered what a struggle it is to get Ivy in there, and I didn’t want to be caught out in the open when there was some kind of midnight brawl happening. So I lay there staring at the open door (because of course it’s open) of my room, my heart thumping and my imagination going wild. Was there an escaped convict out there? A criminal? A murderer? I’m not proud of it, Nina, but red-eyed clown puppet attack also flitted through my brain. That stupid movie has a lot to answer for.

  The muffled thudding and shouting continued, as if people (or puppets) were in some desperate wrestling match out there. I was whimpering, I was that scared.

  Crack! My door was thrown open by a huge man in a hospital gown. His robe was swinging open, and his hospital gown was wrenched off one shoulder. His face was red and sweaty, his grizzled gray hair was standing on end, and he was roaring, “HERE, KITTY, KITTY, KITTY!” He stomped wildly, frantically around the room, his cowboy boots making a heck of a racket on the hospital floors.

  I swear I’m not making this up. Also, it was definitely not a dream. It’s actually very annoying when people say, “Oh, that must have been a dream!”
when it wasn’t. Not that you’d say that, Nina. I meant other people.

  Anyway, I sank under my blankets as the man swung over to the closet by my bed and flung both doors open. Thank goodness I didn’t hide in there!

  “KITTY! KITTY!”

  Two nurses surged into the room seconds later (which felt like hours), followed by a couple of porters. They tried to grab the man’s arms, but he shrugged them off like they were flies and stomped into the middle of the room. He turned to my bed, and even though he looked straight at me, he looked through me, if you know what I mean. Like, if his brain could talk, it would just be noting “beds, things, table, NOT KITTY,” rather than “terrified girl.”

  One of the night nurses, the one who competes in triathlons and who is my new superhero, ran between me and the scary man. She raised her voice. “KEN! KEN! MR. BOYCHUK! You’re scaring Kasey! You’re scaring this little girl.”

  The other night nurse said soothingly, “Let’s get you back to your own room, buddy.”

  He didn’t seem to hear them, just kept looking around frantically, calling for his kitty, kitty, kitty.

  Sometimes my brain blanks out in a crisis, Nina, but sometimes it goes into hyper idea mode. I was thinking, Run, hide, be quiet, stay still, all those things. But then I thought, It’s all about some cat. Find this man a kitty! No real kitties around, obviously, but maybe a fake one would help. I reached under my blankets for the pile of stuffies that Molly had hauled in for me in that germy green garbage bag.

  As Ken and the nurses yelled back and forth, not really at each other but just generally, I found what I was looking for. It was a mangy cat stuffie I’ve had for years. You know how you have things for years, Nina, and sometimes you look at them and wonder why? We’ve talked about this before because of that orange stuffie you have that neither of us knows what it is.

  Anyway, I’d named this stuffed cat Whiskers when I was probably, like, three, and it had always sat with all my other stuffies on my shelf (or in the hospital, under the covers, near the foot of the bed.) Its black fur is matted. It has a little miserable, frowning face, which probably is what prevented it from becoming one of my A-list stuffies. Strangely, it has no whiskers, which makes you wonder about the name.