Drummer Girl

by Karen Bass

  To feel something besides numbness or pain, Sid went to the maternity ward and peered through the glass of the nursery at the few babies not in their mothers’ rooms. She’d never been one to coo over babies so she returned to Taylor’s room. It was empty.

  Panic slammed into her. She had to grab the door frame to stay on her feet. Air huffed out in rapid bursts. A hand clamped onto her shoulder and she jumped.

  “Hey, Sid,” Miles said. “We thought you had gone home.”

  “N-no. Where’s...” A feeling of doom lingered as Sid watched Miles cross the room and open the night table’s drawer. He removed a watch. Taylor’s watch. Sid eyed it with a detached kind of horror.

  Miles retraced his steps. “They’ve moved Tay to the surgical ward. Said he’s stable now.”

  Air hissed out. She gave him a wobbly smile. “Yeah. Sure. Where else would he be?”

  Miles paused. “Are you okay? You look really pale.”

  Sid swallowed. She pointed at the ceiling. “Fluorescent lights do that to me.”

  They walked from the room. “Come on. He was awake but only for a minute or two. Maybe he’ll wake up for you.”

  “Is he...” Sid wanted to say, going to be okay. “Is he in a lot of pain?”

  “Nah. He’s so drugged up he doesn’t know where he is. But he’ll hurt when it wears off.”

  Miles poked the elevator’s up button and crossed his arms. Sid copied the pose. She hadn’t realized she was shivering. What was it about hospitals that they kept the temperature so low? Were they saving money, or killing germs by freezing them?

  When they stepped into the elevator, Sid said, “How’re your folks doing?”

  “Pretty shook up. Hell, I am, too.” He scowled at the digital floor indicator above the door. “Taylor’s a klutz. What was Dad thinking, letting him get a bike?”

  The door opened. Sid stepped out behind Miles and grabbed his wrist to turn him around. “It wasn’t like that, Miles. Tay’s different when he’s on his bike. Smooth. He’s a good driver.”

  “You rode with him?”

  She nodded. That first ride came to mind, how they’d soared around the curves on Jackson Drive – the place he’d had his accident. That drive had taught her why he loved riding. How free it felt. Miles looked at her in a sad and thoughtful way. Unexpected venom shot through his voice. “I hope he’s never stupid enough to get on one of those death machines again.”

  Sid flinched. That was like saying he hoped a wounded eagle never flew again. She whispered, “You never saw him ride. It was beautiful.”

  “So is a bonfire. That doesn’t mean you stick your hand in it.” Miles strode down the hallway.

  Sid followed, wondering if Taylor would ride again. Maybe this would change his mind about bikes. Would he still want to become a motorcycle mechanic? Miles was waiting by the third door past the nurses’ station. He waved for her to go in.

  Mr. and Mrs. Janzen were sitting on either side of Taylor’s bed. They both looked when she walked in. Mr. Janzen stood. “Sid, I was wondering if you were still around. Would you like to sit with Taylor while we go to the cafeteria for a bite to eat?”

  She nodded, then blurted, “Will he be okay?”

  “Yes. But it will be a long road to recovery. Even getting out of the hospital will take some time. We’re just glad he’s still with us.”

  Mrs. Janzen rose. Her eyes were bloodshot, her face blotchy. “Taylor’s lucky to have such a good friend.” She gave Sid a squishy hug and sniffled like she was going to start crying. Sid tensed, no longer used to hugs. Mrs. Janzen released her and patted her cheek. As he passed her, Mr. Janzen ruffled her hair like he used to do when she was younger.

  They left her alone with Taylor. The pale yellow room should have been cheerful but somehow managed to be dreary. Maybe it was the tinted windows. Or the machines on either side of the bed that were hooked to her best friend, monitoring him, feeding him, medicating him and whatever else.

  Sid edged around the bed and perched on a chair by the window. Taylor’s face was turned toward her. It was dark with bruises. Except for fingertips and toes, his whole right side seemed to be either casted or bandaged. His left arm, closer to Sid, had needles and tubes attached like transparent, parasitic snakes. She reached out in slow motion and touched his left fingers.

  “I’d do anything to take it back, Tay. All of it. Starting with going to that party.”

  One of the machines beeped, then resumed ticking.

  “Well...except meeting Brad. I think I would’ve met him anyway because of the wedding. I never got the chance to tell you about him. He’s a bit of a geek, but I’m kind of weird, too, so...” She sighed, laid her forearm along the bed’s guardrail and rested her chin on her hand. She hated not having Taylor to talk to, and talking to an unconscious Taylor wasn’t much of an improvement. She closed her eyes for a few moments. James would be getting off work soon and would be arriving to take her home. She wasn’t doing anything useful here but didn’t want to go. Even the thought of letting loose on the drums didn’t appeal much right now.

  She looked up to see Taylor watching her. But his eyes were unfocused, almost crossed, and were looking more through her than at her. She licked dry lips. “Hey, Tay.”

  A blink. “Shid. Gonna roasht pigtails wit me? Run wit da bananas in da ice tea.”

  Sid’s mouth opened. Nothing came out. She tried again. “Sounds like a great party, Tay.”

  “Pardy. Wit brads an’ giant shkunks.” His eyelids drooped. “Dancshing. Bikesh flyin.’”

  He was gone again. Not that he’d been here. Roast pigtails? Running bananas? Flying bikes was the only thing that made sense. Some part of him must remember the accident. What had it felt like? Hitting the ground and crumpling the way a tin can does when you step on it.

  The pressure of tears started to build. Sid clenched her jaw, refusing to cry. The feeling subsided and Sid settled in to watching, hoping to look into Taylor’s eyes when they were clear and focused. She needed him to release her. To forgive her. She scanned his broken form and knew she wasn’t going to forgive herself any time soon. If ever.

  When James picked her up and took her home, she played her drums until she was dripping sweat and her wrists and forearms were screaming in pain. She knew she was being stupid, but she only stopped when a cramp snapped into her kick drum leg like a bear trap. She fell off the throne and writhed on the floor.

  “Ow, ow, ow, ow!” The chant of agony changed into a drawn out wail.

  James thundered down the stairs. When he figured out what was wrong, he massaged Sid’s calf until the cramp eased a little. He helped her up. “Let’s get you to bed. You need to get a good sleep. You’ll have lots of homework to catch up on at school.”

  Sid tried to put weight on her leg. It recoiled in pain. She hissed and let James help her up the stairs. “Not going to school.”

  “Oh? Where are you going?”

  “Hospital.”

  “There’s nothing you can do there, Sid.”

  James released her and she hobbled toward the hallway. She leaned against the wall. “You can give me permission to miss school or I can skip.”

  “You’ve gotten a little too used to getting your own way all the time.”

  She shrugged. “Devin’s at college. Thanks to that promotion, you’re always working. Who’s been around to tell me different?”

  He sighed. “You’re right, of course. Time like this I wish you had a mother...”

  “Well I don’t. Just drop that, Dad. Please. And it wouldn’t make any difference if I did. I’m still spending tomorrow with Taylor.”

  23 | buzz roll

  Like the previous morning, Mr. Brock found Sid in the hospital’s cafeteria, at the same table attempting to wake up with coffee. She hadn’t slept very well. Va
riations of motorcycle crashes kept waking her up. Except in her dreams she’d been driving, Taylor hanging onto her and shouting instructions. “Watch out for that semi!” “Stay away from that broken guardrail!” But whatever he’d told her to avoid was the very thing she’d swerved toward.

  Brock looked disgustingly wide awake and almost cheerful. He dropped a thick plastic bag on the chair beside her. “I thought you might come here again today so I took the liberty of collecting your homework from your teachers yesterday afternoon, just in case.” He set his Greenpeace travel mug on the table and unbuttoned his casual navy jacket. His patterned shirt looked vaguely Hawaiian, blurred flowery shapes matching his tan cargo pants. He settled his left ankle on his right knee and waited, as if expecting her to thank him.

  Sid sipped her coffee and winced. “Does your wife help you dress?”

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know. You always blend so well. A lot of guy teachers don’t dress so carefully. A lot of the time they’re very...wrinkled.” Like she was this morning. Before Heather’s makeover she wouldn’t have noticed a few wrinkles. Proof that girl was a bad influence.

  “I’m not a teacher.”

  “Yeah. Forgot. You’re a fetcher of homework.”

  “Among other things.”

  Sid had decided to try toast this morning. It was already cold and she hadn’t taken one bite. She opened a grape jelly packet and spread it so thin that one square was enough for all four halves. She took a bite and watched Brock watch her. It was starting to bug her how he always did that. She forced cheerfulness into her voice as she said, “Lose any sleep last night?”

  “Not really.”

  She muttered, “That makes one of us.”

  He reached for his coffee. “It’s tough to sleep when someone you care about is hurt.”

  “How would you know?”

  “My dad died a few years ago. Cancer. I lost a lot of sleep for six months or so.”

  “Oh.” Sid frowned into her coffee. “I wish you wouldn’t keep coming here.”

  “We have things we need to talk about.”

  “No.”

  “You can’t avoid...”

  “No.” Sid raised her eyes and met Brock’s earnest gaze. “I don’t care about anything right now except Taylor. Not homework. Nothing.” She formed a circle with her thumb and forefinger. “Not what I look like. Not what anyone is saying about me. Not what you think of me. Nothing.”

  “Fair enough. But problems don’t go away because you avoid them. Sometimes the opposite happens and they get bigger, harder to deal with.”

  Sid didn’t see how things could get much worse, especially at school. “I’ll take my chances.”

  Brock stood and drank down some coffee. “You might be interested to know that members of a certain band were suspended over a video incident that apparently happened on school grounds.”

  Sid had been reaching for her Styrofoam coffee cup. Horror bubbled up as Brock spoke and she snatched her hand back. It brushed the cup. Coffee splashed across Sid’s toast. She jumped up and back, avoiding most of the mess.

  “You think that’s going to help?” Her voice, shrill and louder than she’d realized, drew the attention of people around them. She dropped into a harsh whisper. “They are the coolest guys in school. I won’t be able to show my face there again.”

  “Were we talking about something that involves you? Are you feeling like talking now?”

  “You know, I was starting to like you. But now you sound like a teacher. Or a cop.” Sid grabbed the bag of homework. “Stay away from me.” She left the cafeteria without looking back.

  The waiting area on the surgical ward was empty. Sid curled into a chair beside a bank of windows and watched puffball clouds scud across the sky. She needed a plan. Drum roll. No sudden insights came to mind. Just a big mess. Taylor had asked her how much she was willing to give up to get what she wanted. It seemed to her she’d given up everything and had nothing to show for it. How had that happened, when she’d supposedly had it all under control?

  All she wanted to be was a drummer girl. Well, maybe she wouldn’t mind being a certain math geek’s girlfriend. Sid sat up with a gasp. Brad. What if he found out about the video? She sank back, trying to not consider the possibility. But between that and wanting – needing – to talk to Taylor, her stomach was a churning, foaming pit of acid.

  Don’t ever think things can’t get worse, she chastised herself. Things could always get worse.

  24 | paradiddle in the fourth beat

  Sid got to see Taylor twice on Saturday. The first time, he had woken up but was really groggy. His parents had told her that his hallucinations on Thursday had caused the doctor to change his medication. Regardless, there were some serious drugs flowing in his bloodstream. The second time, she’d sat with him for over an hour, but he hadn’t once cracked open an eyelid.

  Sunday morning was more of the same. In the afternoon, James dragged her home to spend a few hours doing the homework from the previous week. Brock had phoned both days, to check in, he’d said, but had missed her so had just left bland “hang in there” messages. And Monday, James was adamant: she was going to school. He was actually going into work late so he could drive her there. It felt like having a police escort.

  Sid slipped on a pair of her old baggy jeans and discovered she actually preferred her new ones. Snug, yes, but they had something in them that made them a bit stretchy. So she changed jeans, but decided on an album t-shirt. Metallica’s Ride the Lightning, with its electrocuted skeleton on the back, seemed graphically appropriate this morning. She did the ultra-light version from Heather’s makeup instructions, ran a comb through her hair and met James by the front door.

  He had the car out of the garage and ready to go. He glanced at his watch, motioned Sid to move, and ate up the distance to the car with long strides. Sid got into the back seat. James gave her an odd look but said nothing. At the school, he twisted and gave her a lukewarm parental frown. “Well?”

  Didn’t he understand how much she wanted to be at the hospital? How much she dreaded school? How could he when she hadn’t told him anything? Sid settled deeper into the seat and, with a flick of her wrist, said, “Home, James.”

  “Sidney...”

  She sighed dramatically. “Sorry. I’ve always wanted to say that.”

  “School. Now.”

  “You have no idea what a den of horrors you’re sending me into. Have you been in a high school recently?” Sid hoped for a quirk of lips. She got a blank stare. Flippancy was not working.

  “Out.”

  “Yeah. Whatever. See you around, James.” She slammed the door behind her.

  Mr. Franklin was on supervision in the front entrance. She ignored him when he greeted her and speed-walked to her locker. She stowed her gear and headed for the library wing. Just before it she changed course and took the nearest exit.

  With a sickening lurch in her gut, she realized she was standing beside the spot where the video had been made. Had Clem been the one with a camera? Like she could’ve noticed anything with Rock almost smothering her. Gurgling sounds rose from her stomach. She pulled a roll of antacid tablets out of her pocket that she’d snatched from beside the phone. James had them scattered all over the house; he’d never miss one. Was she getting an ulcer now?

  “Hey,” said a male voice from right behind her.

  Sid spun and backed away. A guy who looked familiar followed her. Then she remembered: carpentry class, the guy who was in love with using the lathe. “Simon. What’s up?”

  “I thought it was you. Saw your vid.” He scratched at a pair of zits on his cheek. Nice cheekbones; bad skin. “Thought we could have some fun.”

  Worse attitude. Sid shook her head for emphasis. “You thought wrong.”

 
“What? You only go for musicians?”

  “Didn’t your mother ever teach you to not believe everything you see on the Internet?” Sid’s heel bumped a ridge of grass. She almost tripped.

  Simon used the opportunity to grab her. Without thinking, Sid brought her knee up hard and fast. She felt it sink into soft flesh. Simon dropped like a hammer knocked off a roof. He clutched his groin and groaned; his eye balls almost rolled up into their sockets. Sid had never seen that before. Part of her mind was instantly curious. But the rest of her was already moving, across the field, off school grounds and to a bus stop two blocks away.

  It took her forty minutes to get to the hospital. As she was walking down the sidewalk from the bus stop toward the main entrance, she saw Mr. Brock approaching from the parking lot. She slipped behind the nearest pedestrian, a heavy-set, grey-haired woman in a flowered dress, with tensor bandages winding around her legs and a cane that looked to be wrapped in leather. Brock let someone go through the hospital’s automatic doors ahead of him and glanced around. Sid was sure he was looking for her. He disappeared inside.

  The woman she was shadowing had a bag of groceries. Sid stepped up and offered to carry the brown paper sack for her. The woman looked immediately suspicious, but Sid gave her best smile and explained how her friend had been in a motorcycle accident but visiting hours hadn’t started yet so it would be a huge favour to give her something to do until she could go up to his room.

  “I suppose,” the woman finally said. “But if you try to run, I’ll use this cane. I’ve tripped up would-be thieves before and I’ll do it again.”

  “I believe you. That’s one tough-looking cane.”

  The woman snorted, pointed with the cane to the high-rise a block away and said that was their destination. “I’m delivering a few items to a friend who can’t get out very well.”

  What Sid could have walked in three minutes took them almost ten. The woman didn’t seem frail, just slow. She wasn’t talkative. When they reached the apartment building, the woman held her hand out for the bag.