Ms. Bixby's Last Day

by John David Anderson

  But there are no such things as dragons. It’s never that clear-cut. Sometimes, the thing you’re fighting against is hiding from you. It’s tucked away, buried deep where you can’t see it. In fact, for a long time, you might not even know it’s there. Maybe when it starts, it’s just this tiny thing you don’t even notice. Maybe you mistake it for something else or you ignore it. But then it starts to grow, and before you know it, it’s stalking you. Before you know it, it has you cornered.

  Maybe it’s a secret that you’re afraid to share because you don’t know what other people will think of you, especially your friends. Or maybe it’s a sister that you’re constantly compared to, who seems better than you in every way, even though she has pretty much the same problems you do.

  Or maybe it’s just a feeling. A nagging hole. A sense that nobody really understands or appreciates you. A sense that you don’t really matter. That is, until you find your teacher digging through the bin one day and see the treasures buried in her bottom drawer.

  Of course, sometimes it really is a dragon, or at least it’s a monster, determined to destroy you or someone you care about from the inside out. And you know it’s there. You just have no idea how to stop it.

  I know what I’m going to say when we open the door. I figured it out on the walk over. I mean, there were a lot of options, but what I’ve got is killer.

  We stand outside room 428 and Brand knocks softly. I think about the sketch still stashed in my backpack. I should have folded it up and put in my pocket, made it easier to get to. But today’s one of those shoulda kind of days. There will still be time to give it to her.

  A voice tells us to come in, and Brand opens the door. Someone looks over at me from the bed.

  It’s not Ms. Bixby.

  Ms. Bixby has light-brown hair with a stripe of pink in her bangs like strawberry syrup. Ms. Bixby has bright-green eyes that make you think she is half cat. Ms. Bixby wears bright sweaters and boots that reach up to her knees and dangly earrings that look like she made them herself. The woman in the bed has no hair. The woman in the bed, just staring at us with her mouth hanging open, sallow cheeked and pale, is not Ms. Bixby. And for a moment, I think we’ve got the wrong room. That for the first time in his life, Steve actually remembered something wrong. But then the woman props herself up on her elbows and gives me an inquisitive smile, a don’t-I-know-you-from-somewhere smile.

  I take a step into the room, clear my throat, and deliver my line.

  “I’m Luke Skywalker,” I say. “I’m here to rescue you.” Beside me, Brand’s mouth opens and closes silently.

  And the woman in the bed answers, “Aren’t you a little short for a stormtrooper?”

  That’s when I know it’s her.

  “I brought some friends,” I say, stepping aside so Brand and Steve can squeeze by. Steve waves sheepishly. Brand doesn’t say anything, but he and Ms. B. exchange a look. It doesn’t last long, half a second maybe. Ms. B. scoots up even farther in her bed.

  “Wow,” she says, which is what she says both when she’s impressed with your work and when you’ve done something all wrong. I guess this could go either way. Her voice is raspy, faltering. “What are you three doing here?” She looks up at the clock by the television. “It’s one thirty in the afternoon. On a school day.”

  She punctuates the school, but she’s not really mad. You can see it in her dark-rimmed eyes. It’s not an accusation. More of a curiosity. But I can tell she really didn’t see this coming. We have the element of surprise.

  “We heard you were leaving,” Brand says finally. “Like, skipping town. And we didn’t get a chance to say good-bye.”

  “Today’s your last day,” Steve adds.

  Ms. Bixby makes a little sound, like she’s got something caught in her throat.

  “At school, he means,” I add, giving Steve a kick in the shin.

  “Right,” Ms. Bixby whispers. “The party. So sorry about that.” She looks past us down the hall. “You didn’t all come, did you?” she asks nervously, leaning up on her elbows, looking for her other twenty or so students.

  “Just the three of us,” I say. “We got you these.” I hand her the bag of french fries that I was forbidden by Nurse Georgia to share. But on the list of things I’ve already done today, feeding greasy french fries to a cancer patient seems like a mild offense.

  Ms. Bixby questions us with her eyes, then reaches for the bag and opens it cautiously, as if she expects a trick, a dead mouse or a springing-coil snake. I’ve fallen for those same tricks before—when Brand first became friends with us, before I learned his tricks. She looks confused at first. Then she puts a trembling hand to her mouth. There are bandages all over her arms.

  “Oh my God,” she says. “Because of what I said that time? About . . .” She doesn’t finish the thought.

  “Are they all right?” Steve asks. “They’re McDonald’s.”

  Ms. Bixby grins. “Are you kidding? I haven’t had these in months.” She presses her face into the bag and takes three giant whiffs, like she’s hyperventilating. Maybe she is. French fries are truly one of mankind’s greatest inventions.

  “There’s more,” I say. “We got everything. Or almost everything. Or some version of everything. But we can’t do it here.”

  “Everything?” Ms. Bixby closes the bag and stares at me. I try to look straight at her, but it’s hard. She looks so different, especially without the hair. I expected her to look different; at least I knew there was the possibility. But I wasn’t prepared for how fragile she would be. She barely moves. At school, she can’t keep still. I’m not used to seeing her just lie there. “Can’t do what here? What are you talking about?”

  “You just have to trust us,” I tell her. “There’s a place we can go. It’s just outside. Maybe a block away. But we have to get you out of here.”

  I look over to Brand for confirmation, but he is busy staring out Ms. Bixby’s window, as if he can’t look at her either. Steve nods at least, backing me up. “There’s not enough square feet to even lay out the blanket in here,” he says. Steve’s idea of an explanation.

  From her bed, Ms. Bixby starts shaking her head; her eyes are swollen like Steve’s bottom lip. I’m not sure if she totally gets it or not, but I can tell she is catching on. “Oh my . . . boys . . . this is so . . . it’s really very sweet,” she says. “But I can’t just leave. I’m sorry. They won’t . . . I’m not . . . see, I’m scheduled for a treatment, and just look at how I’m dressed.” She points to the blue hospital gown that peeks out from the covers. “I’m really supposed to stay here. . . .”

  She looks at us pleadingly, but I’m not about to give up. I’m about to tell her all about the cheesecake when Brand turns from the window.

  “Atticus Finch,” he says.

  “What?” I say, looking at him strangely. The words are completely meaningless to me, but they seem to spark something in Ms. Bixby. Brand is looking right at her now. He looks almost a little angry, as if he’s challenging her.

  “You read it?” she asks.

  Brand nods. Ms. Bixby turns to Steve and me. “And you three skipped school and came out all this way just to tell me good-bye?”

  “It was Brand’s idea,” Steve says, almost defensively, probably thinking he’s about to get in trouble.

  “That’s not even the half of it,” I tell her. “But we can’t do it here. Not the way we’re supposed to. At least let us get this part right.”

  Ms. Bixby looks down at her bag of fries. Then she cranes her neck to see past the three of us and out the door again. I can see the sparkle come back into her eyes, just for a moment.

  “All right,” she says. “Meet me by the elevators in five.”

  We stand outside the elevators, backs pressed against our packs, packs pressed against the wall. Steve is probably crushing what’s left of white-chocolate raspberry heaven, but I’m guessing it really can’t look any worse at this point. I’m staring at a poster urging me to eat healthy wit
h a stupid picture of a kid smiling over a plate of broccoli like it’s a bowl of Lucky Charms. Behind the desk, Nurse Georgia is occupied with her phone and computer, frantically switching from one to the other, which is good, because it means she’s ignoring us. She doesn’t look like a Georgia. She looks more like a Helga or a Svetlana, like something out of Norse mythology, broad shouldered and brick chinned with plaited blond hair, like she should be guarding the bridge to Valhalla. Thor would completely dig her.

  “Atticus Finch. Is that some kind of bird?” Steve whispers. He doesn’t want to draw any of Nurse Georgia’s attention.

  “It’s a character,” Brand whispers back. “From a book written, like, fifty years ago.”

  “Is he a superhero or something?” I ask. It sounds like the name of a superhero. Or his secret identity, anyways. Mild-mannered reporter, Atticus Finch. Obviously it’s a decent book or Ms. Bixby wouldn’t have told Brand to read it, but having superheroes would be a bonus.

  “He’s a lawyer,” Brand says. “But the book’s not really about him.”

  “Then what is it about?”

  “It’s about standing up for what’s right, I guess.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Is there any sword fighting in it?”

  Brand shakes his head. He’s not doing a great job selling it, but I’ll make it a point to read it someday anyways, even without the sword fighting. Behind the desk Nurse Georgia groans and taps frantically on her mouse. I wonder how many books Ms. Bixby has recommended to Brand. Wonder if they talked about what they read as they steered their carts up and down the aisles of the Kroger, shopping for salsa and shredded wheat. Did he know what brand of shampoo she used? Or what she fed her cat? If she drank 2 percent or skim or some of that nasty organic almond stuff? Did he know if Ms. Bixby ate frosted or unfrosted Pop-Tarts? These are things I kind of wish I knew. Things I suddenly wish I had time to find out like he did.

  Brand hisses and points down the hall.

  Here she comes, out of her gown but still in her slippers. Wearing a pair of navy blue sweatpants, a sweatshirt that says Hofstra on it, and a sly smile that stretches near to her eyeballs. She’s sliding across the tiles, much more ninja-like than me, even in her condition. In one hand is the bag of fries. The other holds a giant purse. Brand presses the elevator button. Normally we’d place bets on which one would come up first, but sneaking a cancer patient out of a hospital calls for our full attention. I look over to make sure Nurse Georgia is still staring at her computer screen and jabbering on the phone. The elevator tings and the doors slide open. Ms. Bixby starts pushing us inside, telling us to hurry.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she says.

  “Believe it, toots,” I say, which is a line from a movie, though I’m not sure what the movie is and I have no idea what toots means. Judging by the severe look on Ms. Bixby’s face, it’s probably not a word I will use again. Brand presses the L button at least ten times.

  “Come on, come on,” he says.

  Behind the desk, Nurse Georgia hears his coaxing and frantic pressing and glances up from her computer. She pulls the phone from her ear and cups it, speaking through a frown. “Ms. Bixby? Is that you?”

  Ms. Bixby steps behind Steve, even though he is the shortest of us and can’t possibly conceal her. Brand jams his thumb into the close door button this time, just holding it there. I think about the scene from Aliens where they wait for an eternity for the elevator doors to close and the one guy gets sprayed with acid. Elevators are the worst.

  “Ms. Bixby, where are you going?”

  Ms. Bixby shrugs.

  Nurse Georgia stands up, looks like maybe she is going to leap right over that desk and come after us. A Valkyrie charge. I suddenly wonder if she has the power to call down lightning from the sky. The elevator doors start to close.

  “Ms. Bixby,” she calls again, voice growing steadily louder, “you have a treatment scheduled—”

  And then Nurse Georgia is gone. The elevator drops. The numbers start flashing down. Four to three to two. I start whispering to myself, holding one hand to my ear.

  “Special Agent Renn reporting in. The egg is in the basket. I repeat, the egg is in the basket.”

  “You’re talking to yourself again,” Brand warns me.

  Behind us, Ms. Bixby is studying her reflection in the shiny smooth wall of the elevator. She runs a bandaged hand along her smooth head.

  “It looks good,” Steve tells her.

  You can tell he’s lying. You can always tell when Steve’s lying because his eyes wander. Still, I offer him a proud smile. I was the one who taught him that if a girl gets a haircut you’re not crazy about, you tell her it looks good anyways. At least I know he listens to me.

  “Preemptive strike,” Ms. Bixby says. “I shaved it before it could fall out on its own. I was getting tired of the pink anyway.”

  “I liked the pink,” Steve says.

  I liked it too. But it doesn’t feel right saying it. Not now, anyway.

  The doors open again with a ding and we are back in the lobby. I pop my head out and continue whispering: “No sign of the first guard. Second guard still in position. Proceed with caution.” I look toward the information desk. “Anybody have a tranquilizer pistol?” It would be so easy. Just stick him right behind the ear and watch him face-plant on that desk.

  Ms. Bixby rolls her eyes and then squeezes past us, reaching behind and pulling me along by the front of my shirt as she heads for the front door. “Come on, boys,” she says, “Let’s blow this Popsicle stand.”

  We fall in line like ducklings, eyes straight, like we are filing through the halls at Fox Ridge Elementary. I try not to limp; I don’t want to call any unnecessary attention to us. A few of the hospital’s visitors look our direction but just as quickly look away. I assume it’s Ms. Bixby’s new hairdo that does it. It’s impolite to stare.

  We walk past the front desk and the one man standing between us and the exit. I’m positive we are home free when I hear a voice call out.

  “Hey,” the guard says. He is holding a phone in one hand. I know who is on the other end of the line. It’s Nurse Georgia, ratting us out. I’m sure of it.

  Ms. Bixby freezes and we all nearly tumble into her, and I’m reminded of that one day on the playground when she told us there was no such thing as cooties, the day Rebecca Roudabush almost caught me. Behind me, Steve is dancing in place. Whatever happens, don’t search the backpacks, I think.

  The guard makes a gun with his free fingers and shoots Ms. Bixby in the chest.

  “Go Pride,” he says.

  Ms. B. looks down at her Hofstra sweatshirt and the two fierce lions charging across it. Apparently that’s what people who go to Hofstra are called. The Pride.

  “Go Pride,” she echoes, pumping the fist holding the french fries. I turn and give two thumbs-up, then grab the tail of Ms. B’s sweatshirt as she leads us out the door.

  You know how, in movies, everything comes around full circle and you’re back where you started? Like in The Lion King, where it kicks off with a monkey on a giant rock holding a baby lion and ends with the same monkey on the same giant rock holding another baby lion, and they sing a song that is literally about circles, in case you’re a total idiot and missed the point? Or in The Wizard of Oz, where Dorothy wakes up right back on the farm and realizes it’s all been a dream. Or in High School Cheer Team Massacre 7, when the killer passes on his evil ways to his daughter by entrusting her with the family machete after she’s cut from the team?

  Turns out real life isn’t like the movies. Life doesn’t come all the way back around again. It’s not a straight line either. It angles and curves, shoots off a little, twists and turns, but it never gets right back to the place it started. Not that you would want it to. Then you wouldn’t feel like you had gotten anywhere.

  There are spots I’d like to come back to, though. Moments I wish I could capture, like in a snow globe, and when I’m feeling down I could shake it or even
smash it open and there I am, in that time and place. Not a do-over, exactly. Just a do-again, like in the movies.

  Where everything usually turns out okay.

  It’s a real park this time, not the little Band-Aid-sized patch of grass that we crowded into after snatching the whiskey from George Hazel Flopsucker Nelson. A real park with a swath of trees and a three-tiered fountain and at least one decent-sized hill. Not sled-worthy, but certainly big enough to spread a blanket on.

  Ms. Bixby is standing at the foot of the hill, bathed in sunlight, looking a little like a mermaid who’s just bargained for a pair of legs and is seeing the surface for the first time, and I wonder how many days she’s been in the hospital. She has the empty McDonald’s bag scrunched in one hand, having scarfed down the fries on the walk over. She tried to share them, offering them to us through potato-stuffed cheeks, but we insisted they were all for her. “My lucky day,” she said finally, then licked the salt from the tips of her fingers. I remarked that I’d never seen anyone eat a large fries so fast. “Some things have a short shelf life,” Ms. Bixby said, and that made us all quiet for a while.

  When we get to the park, we ask her to give us a moment, just so we can get everything set up. We beg her not to look. She says she needs to catch her breath anyway, that the two blocks from the hospital are the most she’s walked in three days. She puts a hand on my shoulder to steady herself, and I puff out my chest like that guy in Greek mythology who’s got to hold up the whole world. I don’t know why. Having her lean against me just made me feel stronger.

  Halfway up the hill Brand unzips his pack and sets the bottle of Jack Daniel’s in the grass. He pulls the blanket free and starts to unfold it. Then he shakes his head.

  “Figures,” he says.

  I look at what he’s frowning at. There in the center of the blanket looks to be a fistful of diamonds. Somehow or another Brand has managed to shatter the wineglass that he had folded inside, probably when he whopped George Nelson over the head with his pack. The glass stem is intact, but the cup part is smashed to pieces.