by Lucy Frank
And the stories you tell nothing
but stories.
“And you’ll jump out of that bed
like you always do,
“Hold your baby
like I’m holding you now,
“And get on with your life,
the same pain in my butt
“You always were
and always will be.
“I promise you.
These days will fade away.”
“And I promise you, too, Chess.”
Shannon’s grandma’s shoes squeak
as she walks around to my side,
the light just bright enough
for me to read
East Greenbush Wrestling
in peeling letters on her hoodie.
“Now let me just tuck you in
and say sleep tight.
Good night to you too, Mrs. Murch,”
she calls through the curtain.
“Hmmph!” snorts Mrs. Murch.
“I can tell you’re a nurse
by the way you wake me up
to say good night.”
I think
about calling Mom
to say good night,
another sorry.
Find Bri’s text waiting
on Mom’s cell in the drawer.
Why r u so mad???
We barely talked to D
just told him ur up in Albany
in the hospital really sick.
That’s all we said besides
how r the razberries today
He looked a little weird/not glad
to see us. Then he rushed off so we
couldn’t ask anything even if
we wanted. R u ever
gonna tell us wassup?
Someone in the hall guffaws.
Farts like a fourth-grade
farting contest echo
through the wall.
Not even a whimper
breaks Shannon’s silence.
How can I be so mad when
my little drama, my little life
feels a zillion miles away?
“Why is she so quiet?” I ask the nurse
who hangs another IV bag for Shannon.
“She had a tough day.”
“But it’s a good sign, right?
That she’s stopped moaning?”
He puts a finger to his lips.
“It’s past midnight, lovey.
Go to sleep.”
“I thought the thing
about being young is that—
except for, like, can I run
a half marathon,
am I as cute as so-and-so,
is my butt too big for these jeans—
you don’t have to think
about your body.
“You’re not supposed
to have to worry if
it’s gonna make it
through the day.
“That’s one of the things
making me so mad.
Not just for me.
For you.
“Sometimes it feels like
mad’s the only thing we’ve got
to get us through.
“Shannon?
You’re still mad, right?”
I listen for her breath.
Hear nothing
but the puff of her machines,
Mrs. Murch’s gargley snores.
“Shannon?
Now you’re scaring me.”
“That she’s not answering
doesn’t mean she’s not hearing, right?”
I ask the nurse when he tiptoes in again
to check our vitals.
“Why are you still up?” he asks.
“It’s four a.m.”
I count my breaths,
her breaths,
Mrs. Murch’s snores.
The night beetles
swarm.
When I pull back
the curtain, I see
covers tight as
her grandma tucked her.
Melting ice chips
in her cup.
Face turned
to the wall.
To the hum of her machines
I sing us choir songs,
list favorite movies of all time,
Baskin-Robbins flavors,
brands of cereal,
Boys I liked, loved,
wished I dated, hated;
books, games, dog names
if we had a dog;
Crayola colors.
And I know
if I keep talking
I can keep her going:
“Inch worm,
Bittersweet,
Tumbleweed,
Fern.
Cerulean,
Cerise,
Sepia,
Mango Tango.
“Atomic Tangerine,
Wild Watermelon,
Dandelion,
Neon Carrot,
Timberwolf,
Mauvelous …”
“Shannon?
“You’re not like in a coma or something,
are you?
“Cuz my theory is
you’re not talking cuz
you’re like, ‘What’d I do
to deserve this shit?
I’m sick of it.
Wake me when it’s over.’
“That’s how I feel, too.
“Shannon, if I tell you what happened
to me on the island
will you promise not to tell?
“Shannon?
Did you hear
what I just told you?
“Blink once
for Yes
“Twice
for Fuck You.
“Shannon.
Talk to me.”
SIXTH DAY
Early as yesterday,
brisk and chipper,
the surgeons whip closed
her curtain.
“How we doing today, Ms. Williams?
Mind if we take a look at the incision?
“Good. I see your fever’s down.”
“Excuse me. I’m a little worried
about her,” I call out, same
as I’ve told the nurse each time
he checks our vitals.
“We’ve got your infection under
control. How’s the pain,
Ms. Williams?
Passed any gas?”
“I’m worried about Shannon.”
I catch the eye of Dr. Nguyen
as the duck brigade arrives,
Listen to the head duck tell
Mrs. Murch, “Great news!
You’re going home!”
Listen to her complain she’s still
a very sick woman,
Listen as they reel off
Shannon’s numbers,
Listen to the head duck
asking if by any chance
she’s passed gas from below.
“It’s not something to be shy about,
Ms. Williams.
Passing gas is a good thing.
Passing gas means your guts
are waking up, so we can start
you on some food, begin—”
“Doctor!
Forget the gas!
I’m worried she’s not talking!”
I wait to be shushed,
soothed, scolded.
Instead, I hear a croak
rusty as Mrs. Klein:
“You better hope you’re not here
when I pass gas, Doc.
“If you are, get ready to run.
“When I pass gas
this whole fuckin’ hospital’s
gonna go up in flames.”
Dr. Nguyen takes a quick detour
past my bed.
“I think your friend’s gonna be okay.”
He’s trying not to smile.
“She’s back!”
I tell Astro, the blood man,
Bobby, t
he vitals guy.
“Watch out, Shannon’s back!”
I warn Dr. R. Schmidt, the doc she advised
to be a coroner, Joyce, the nurse
who calls us cookie.
A croak, a cough, a rough clearing
of her throat:
“Yo. Cookie! That you?
What day of the week is it?
And if you tell me the first day
of the rest of my life, I might have to—”
“She’s back, all right.”
Joyce shakes her head,
smiles, handing me my pills.
“It’s Tuesday, Shannon.
Good to hear your cheery voice again.”
“What’s good is having that damn
tube outta my nose.
You could get that pain pump thing
outta here, too.”
“You sure?
You’re a brave little girl, Shannon.
You don’t need to be a hero.”
I follow Joyce around
to Shannon’s side,
throat full
with words
that even in my ears
sound puny, lame.
Arms tight around her pillow,
pain button in her hand
Shannon is sleeping.
Crisp in her lab coat,
curls tamed with pins,
Dr. Hochstein—who in my mind
will always be the Orange Croc Doc—
pulls up a plastic chair
across from Mom and me.
“So, Chess? Ready
to go home tomorrow?”
I’m grateful we’re in the lounge
so Shannon can’t see my joy.
“Excellent. Because …”
But if I’m so happy,
why do I hear myself add
“I guess?”
Why am I watching
branches bang
against the windows,
people shaking out umbrellas,
When I should be listening
to her tell us how many books,
blogs, sites, support groups
are available
for teens like me;
How many drugs
to put me in remission,
and with luck keep me there,
with new ones all the time;
While Mom, with the same careful smile
on her face I feel on mine,
takes notes,
talks prescriptions,
doctor appointments,
food restrictions.
“Any questions, Chess?”
Besides: Will Shannon
ever be okay?
Besides: How do I know when I look at Shannon
I’m not seeing Future Me?
Besides: How do you not hate your friends
for being well?
Your mom for not making it all
just go away?
Besides: How do you know who you are
when you can’t trust your own body?
How do you act when you’re so mad,
so scared of what’s inside?
“Chess.” The Orange Croc Doc
takes her glasses off,
leans closer.
“You’ve been pretty sick
Probably for a long time.”
I watch a leaf
shaped like a mitten
stick to the window glass.
“And this is a lot for you
to swallow.”
Watch the parking-lot gate
swing open for a car,
drop down.
Remember the brain-frying tiredness,
the pain endured
to get through a day,
The terrifying pains
that night …
I look at Mom,
look away.
“Sometimes
I thought
I might be
dying.
“But I didn’t
say anything
because …”
An ache
worse than tears
cinches my throat.
“I thought it was something I did,
or didn’t do, or should have done better,
something I ate, or my period,
or stress.
“Thinking I could fix it
with, like, vitamins, or coffee, or cardio,
or cutting out carbs, or running so fast
I could outrun it …
which sounds pretty stupid now,
“But it just feels like all these folks—
at school, at colleges
I haven’t even applied to yet,
not to mention you, Mom …”
I count squares on the floor.
“Are counting on me
to be perfect.”
Mom fumbles for a tissue.
A raindrop slides down
the windowpane.
“Plus, I’m like you, Mom.
I thought if I didn’t say anything,
it would go away.
“Even now.
After all this,
I just want to believe …
make believe
it’s not there.”
“You know what, Chess?”
The Orange Croc Doc leans closer still.
“When you’re in remission,
you may not have to make believe.
You may not notice
any symptoms at all.
“And, Chess, we may not know for certain
what triggers this disease,
but one thing’s for sure:
It’s nothing
you did
or didn’t do.”
Mom blows her nose.
“And another thing,”
my Orange Croc Doc says
as we all stand to go.
“The upside
of these autoimmune diseases?
Most of the time, you look just fine.
“Which can be a drag
if you’re looking for sympathy,
but it means you can decide
how much you want to say.
To whom. And when.”
“And can I run again?”
“Why not?
You may have to take it easy
for now. Start out slow.
But yes. Go for it!
Go back to your life.
Do everything
you can sensibly do.”
“But how will I know?”
“Chess.
You’re not in this alone.”
Mom’s nodding,
nodding.
Nodding.
Slower than the doc
texting as he walks,
Slower than the squashed-hair lady
in her bunny slippers,
Slower than the guy trying to keeping his gown
from flapping open while he trudges with his pole,
Silently, holding hands,
Mom and I tromp the hall.
“Oh, my goodness!
Mom drops my hand,
stops walking.
“I totally forgot …”
Digs from her purse
a padded envelope.
“This was left for you
at the nurses’ station
this morning.”
Inside, with a note
rubber-banded around it,
is my phone.
For an instant I’m back
on the island,
in his arms,
in a swoon
of such
deliciousness …
“Excuse me, sugar.”
A cart piled high with dishes
pulls up beside us.
“You didn’t fill out your menu
for tomorrow,” says the meal lady.
Till the spasms,
the stink,
the …
And yet
he drove
an
hour
to Albany
to bring me this.
She hands me a stubby pencil.
“I won’t be here tomorrow.”
“But you’ll be here for breakfast.
And by the time they get your discharge
sent up, you might be wanting lunch.”
cold cereal
hot meat loaf sandwich
cream of broccoli
cream of wheat
Words dance before my eyes.
“No dessert, hon?
We’ve got apple pie.”
And now why is Mrs. Murch here,
asking if she can get some breakfast.
Anything will do. Her son-in-law
was supposed to be here hours ago.
He’s never late, and by the way,
wasn’t Mom in her English class?
She never forgets a face. Oh, and …
“I don’t think so,” Mom says.
“I went to school in Colonie.
We were just headed to the bathroom.
So if you’ll excuse us, Mrs. Murch …”
She gives me her Nana eyebrow,
whispers: “Meet you
back in the room.
Go read your note.”
so lucky still on the rock
crevicey thing
even so
battery
vacuum cleaner noodle
dessicant
bag of rice rotate
to you sooner if
My eyes race
past the words
to his P.S.:
Anyway. It seems to be OK now.
Hope you’re OK too.
David
To his P.P.S.:
Did I ever thank you for
remembering the guitar?? The
way it rained
that night it would have been deader
than the phone.
To the wings
he’s drawn
around his number.
Heart galloping,
I boot up the phone.