A Messy, Beautiful Life

by Sara Jade Alan

  If only all of life were that simple—a morphine-drip for the soul. The drugs oozed into my veins, knocking me out again.

  The next time I woke up, Mom was there. She smiled. I tried to smile. Out again.

  In and out of consciousness for I don’t know how long. Amid the fog of nurses, machines, beeping, the first inkling of pain in my leg, a scratchy throat, moans that didn’t belong to me, maybe some that did, I picked up a few bits of information. The biopsy had gone well, I shouldn’t get my leg wet for three days, and I could go home. I didn’t have to spend the night at the hospital.

  Eventually I was disconnected from my IV and morphine drip, cumbersomely helped into a wheelchair, and pushed to the juice-and-graham-cracker room. Another hour-long wait. You could track the movement of the minute hand on the clock by Mom’s repetitive sighing.

  Then my leg woke up. It was cranky, demanding morphine. The chair I sat in became its own little torture device, where the slightest shift was like an icepick to my thigh.

  Pain. I’d been asked my level of pain—a scale from one to ten, like that meant anything to me—a bunch since this thing started. What’s the point of rating things that can’t really be rated? The stabby-throbbing didn’t have a number—it just hurt a lot—so I’d answer: I don’t know, between five and six? Not knowing if this made me a drama queen or someone to ignore.

  I chewed on the cuticle of my thumb.

  Why is this happening? Did I do something wrong?

  “Is it my fault this thing is inside me?” I hadn’t meant it to, but the last thought came out as a whisper. Crap.

  “Oh sweetie, no, no, of course not.” Mom took my hand and squeezed it, giving me a sad smile and pensive eyes. “I never told you this part of your birth story, but…”

  Okay, random. “Um, are you saying being pregnant is like having a tumor inside you?”

  She screwed up her face into shock, and let out one big belly laugh. “What? For goodness’ sake, no. What I was going to say is that I worked to do everything right for your birth. I ate healthy, drank lots of water, took us on walks, and told us peaceful, encouraging thoughts.”

  I smiled. I’d heard this, but I liked the thought of her taking her belly—with me inside—on walks.

  “You know the part where I tried so hard to not have any medication during your birth.”

  “But then you needed an emergency C-section.”

  “That’s right. You kept springing back up every time I pushed, and they were worried about your heart. But the part I left out is that I screamed and wailed down that hall into surgery, like a wild animal torn out of her nest.”

  Whoa. This surprised me.

  She put her other hand on top of our clasped hands.

  “I felt like a failure, like my first act as a mom had failed you. The nurse came back and put you on my chest and said to me, ‘you did great, you did your best. All that matters in all of this is that little peanut in your arms.’ And she was right.”

  She kissed my forehead. “I’m so grateful for you, baby girl. The point of my story is that I know a little of what it feels like to have your body not cooperate with your hopes. That we have to keep focused on what’s important, which is to make sure you’re healthy. Right? Mostly I’m saying, it’s not your fault.”

  My lips trembled.

  Nurse Darlene came to check on me and examined my chart. “It looks like you’ll need some crutches, so I’ve scheduled you a session with a physical therapist for training.”

  “What? What do you mean she’ll need crutches? No one told us that,” Mom said.

  Darlene’s chin squished into her neck. She had no idea and bustled off to find someone who did. Didn’t they know I had improv and sketch rehearsals? Our second show at the Comedy Mash-Up a week from today?

  Mom clutched my hand, saying, “It’ll be okay, sweetie, it’ll be okay.”

  The nurse came back after a while and explained that I could be on crutches anywhere from two weeks to a month.

  “A month?” Mom stood up, outraged for both of us. “And no one considered this important information? We were told this was a simple procedure.”

  “I’m sorry no one mentioned it to you, Mrs. Hartwood. The procedure was relatively simple but the incision went through her muscles and into the bone right above her knee. This will cause weakness, and she’ll need support.”

  Mom’s jaw set in the way it does when she’s furious. Her hand gripped mine tighter.

  I went still and silent.

  It didn’t sound like I’d be in any condition to dance disco.

  The physical therapist arrived. I hated the sight of the silver metal in her arms.

  She slipped the padded tops under my armpits, and I gripped the two rubbery handles, having to round my shoulders slightly. Standing firmly on my right leg, I swung both crutches forward until the stoppers hit the linoleum floor. Ka-clunk.

  “Good,” she said, so upbeat. “That’s it, Ellie. You got it.”

  Ka-clunk. Ka-clunk. The Transformers theme song started playing in my head. Great. It would be Una Paloma Blanca versus Transformers battling it out for worst sticky song in my brain for the next month.

  As I practiced, I could hear Mom and Dr. Nichols talking.

  “When will we learn the results of the biopsy?” Mom was in don’t-mess-with-me mode.

  “The labs often take longer with bone tissue,” Dr. Nichols said. “We can expect to know in seven to ten days. We’ll call to schedule an appointment when we have the results.”

  My lungs squeezed. My grip tightened. Why didn’t the doctor say something reassuring?

  Swallowing hard, I glared at her, even though she couldn’t see me. Please tell me she is just being dramatic. Please.

  Mom returned, and we were released with a bag of drugs, two crutches, one swollen leg (and a partridge in a pear tree).

  Chapter Eight

  The Vicodin didn’t like me. I spent the entire night and morning after surgery throwing up every hour. Nothing like having your mom wipe vomit off your face and dress you to make you feel mature and ready to be an adult.

  College, here I come.

  The slightest movement caused a deep ache in my thigh. Who knew an inch slice from skin to bone could cause so much trouble? As soon as the doctor’s office opened on Saturday, Mom ran out to get a different painkiller prescription and medicine to ease my nausea, plus she promised to bring back ginger ale and animal crackers. Before she left, she set me up on the floor with cushions, a stack of books, and the remote at the ready. Moms are the best.

  Jason called one of the times I was in the bathroom. Even in my hideous state, his voicemail caused a brief moment of excitement. “Hey, Ellie. You’re probably resting. How’d it go? Hope you’re healing up.”

  He was so sweet, and I missed his voice. But what if I called him and had to throw up mid-sentence? That would not be romantic.

  I texted.

  Everything is fine. Except on crutches for a few weeks. Tragic. Pain meds making me feel kinda ick. But let’s talk soon.

  And then I immediately threw up again. Sexxxxy.

  At six p.m. on the Monday after my biopsy, I woke from a second nap to my phone vibrating. It was hard to believe it had only been nine days since Jason’s party. I carefully shifted to sitting up on my raft of cushions on the living room floor, where’d I’d spent the day elevating my still-swollen leg, doing homework and watching romantic comedies.

  There was a text from Quinn:

  Finished Spontaneous Combustion practice. Wasn’t right without you. XOXO.

  I’d missed a text from Hana a couple hours ago, too.

  How am I supposed to co-captain without my co? This is a bucket of turds, I tell you.

  I laughed, and then cried. Hana was kidding, but I should be there, helping the newbies, supporting my team. And what about our sketch for the contest? How would I rehearse? I prayed that it would be benign. It had to be.

  I’m healthy and seventeen.r />
  “Aw hell, no, sis. Don’t start crying on me when I’m on babysitting duty.”

  “Craig? Jesus.” I practically jumped off the cushions, which caused a huge jolt of pain in my leg, telling me it was time for another dose of the new painkillers. I wiped at my eyes and pulled my blanket higher, wishing I could hide under it completely. Craig stood there in sweatpants and no shirt.

  “I get that comparison a lot, but you’re too kind.” Craig shrugged.

  “What?”

  “How much I’m like Jesus. Is it the hair? Time for a cut?” He swished his longish hair back and forth.

  “When did you get here? And why don’t you have a shirt on?”

  “Because it’s hotter than Satan’s balls in here.”

  “I was cold. Bring me another blanket and you can crack the slider. Where’s Mom?”

  He threw a blanket at me, and walked over to open the sliding-glass door. “Fresh air. I thought I’d never breathe you again.” He stuck his head out the window and inhaled exaggeratedly. “Your mom’s picking up Thai food, should be home in a minute. I’m your knight in zero armor.”

  My stomach growled in response, knowing she was getting my favorite post-sick meal of coconut lemongrass soup.

  Craig slid the door closed all but a sliver and walked over to adjust the thermostat. “Want to watch some Ranma? I witnessed your collection of movies, and I have to tell you, that line of DumbCom is not going to continue while I’m here.”

  “Okaaay—maybe, what’s a ‘Ranma?’”

  “Ridiculous Japanese Anime from the nineties.”

  “Oddly, I do want to watch that. Must be the drugs messing with my mind. But you have to put on a shirt.”

  “There’s a reason God gifted me with great muscles, babe. You don’t want to cover up God’s gift.” He gave me a flex show.

  And with that, the pity-fest faded into the background of my mind. “Yes. Yes, I do. Now, go put on some clothes.”

  He nodded, grabbing his T-shirt. It was weird how in the last three years we’d orbited around the same giant school, in the same grade with six hundred other students, but never been in the same classes. Craig, perpetually huddled in the music hall being all musicy, and me, always backstage or onstage doing my theater thing, our lives never intertwining, until—bam—our parents fell in love and got married, pairing us up as brother and sister.

  At first, I blamed him for all that was wrong with my parents. But it was my dad who screwed up. I’d never wanted a brother before, but right now I felt lucky.

  By the time Mom got home, Craig had laid out a second sea of pillows and blankets for himself next to mine. Ranma was paused and ready to play.

  “What’s this?” Mom asked.

  “Japanese anime. Want to join us, Mom?”

  Mom glanced at the image of a cartoon boy and panda on the screen, flared her nostrils and bugged her eyes. “Too bizarre for me. I’m glad to see a smile back on your face, so I think I’ll go watch some normal TV in my room. Love you, sweetie. Thank you for coming over and helping out, Craig.” She kissed us both on our heads, took her meal out of the bag and left us the rest.

  Craig pressed play.

  “Whoa. Giant karate-chopping pandas? I think I’m going to love this.”

  Craig nodded, his cheeks full of pad thai.

  I gulped down the soup and rice as we watched the magic of Ranma unfold before us. At the end of the first episode, I announced with a pout, “I’m still hungry.”

  “Well, as it turns out, I’m competing for best stepbrother of the year, and knowing the pathetic state of your snack cabinet, I came prepared.”

  Craig headed to the kitchen. When he returned, he threw me a bag of cereal labeled Marshmallow Mateys, which were exactly like Lucky Charms, but more generic and with treasure-themed marshmallows instead of charms. Also, packaged in a gigantic bag. Score.

  “Hey.” I held up the bag of cereal dramatically. “Is this what you mean when you always say ‘eat a bag’?”

  “Yes, yes, Ellie, that is exactly what I mean. Also, you’re hilarious.”

  “I know. Right? It’s my special skill.” I gave a toothy grin as he handed me two cereal bowls. “Yeah, those aren’t going to cut it. Could you grab the green and orange mixing bowls, pleeease?”

  He made a face like he was impressed. “I truly appreciate a woman who isn’t going to pretend we’re not about to stuff our faces.”

  “Yep.”

  When he settled back in, I poured cereal and milk into the two gigantic mixing bowls he’d grabbed for us, and he pressed play.

  Between drippy mouthfuls, I asked questions. “So, like, what’s with the water changing them? Why does Ranma turn into a girl, and the father into a Panda?”

  “Because of the cursed springs.”

  I raised an eyebrow. He pressed pause and turned to look at me seriously.

  “See, when someone falls into a cursed spring, they take the physical form of whatever drowned there years ago. So, Ranma fell into the Spring of the Drowned Girl, so he turns into a girl. And his dad fell into the Spring of the Drowned Panda.”

  “Sure, of course.”

  He pressed play.

  By the end of the third episode, my body fought with itself: the sugar crash making my eyelids droopy, but everything else in me wanting to keep watching and laughing.

  “Do you want to sleep, or are you up for another?” Craig asked, holding up the remote.

  “Press play, and we’ll see what happens.”

  “Can we take bets?”

  “Absolutely not.” Episode four began, and I gave in to the sleepiness, sinking lower onto the floor, adjusting the pillow under my head and pulling the blankets up to my chin. When my eyes fluttered open again, Craig was still awake. He was sitting upright and laughing.

  “Craig?” I was trying so hard to get my eyelids to open all the way.

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you ever think about your dad?”

  “My dad? Dude, go for the jugular much?”

  “Sorry, never mind.”

  “No, it’s okay. I used to. I asked Mom about him when I was younger. But now I don’t. There’s no point. He was a one-night stand, and she never even knew his last name. Only that he was, in her words, ‘A tall, dark, handsome, guitar-playing heartbreaker.’”

  I shuddered. “Bet you were sorry you even asked.”

  “Big time.”

  “Are you mad at Barb and my dad for leaving you here all alone?”

  Craig didn’t answer.

  “Tell me.”

  “Shh, go to sleep, Ellie.”

  I tried to rally myself and sat up a bit more. “You can tell me. Is it lonely?”

  “Nah. I can stay up as late as I want and eat Marshmallow Mateys for every meal.” He held up his empty bowl and grinned too big.

  “Yeah, right.” I don’t know if it was the sleepiness factor or what, but I snuggled up against him, and he put his arm gently around me.

  “It must be lonely,” I said as I fell asleep, thankful that while we were both down a parent, we at least had each other.

  After I’d spent another painkiller-hazy day at home, Craig came over again in the evening with more Marshmallow Mateys and Ranma.

  Hero.

  A few episodes in, the throbbing in my leg kicked back in so I took another pill and fell asleep on our raft of cushions. A little after eight p.m., Craig stirred, and I opened my eyes to see him getting up.

  “Where’re you going?”

  “If you must know, I’m going to drop a deuce.”

  “Gross.”

  “You asked.” He strutted away and a minute later our intercom buzzed.

  Mom shuffled to the buzzer, confirmed it was Hana and Quinn, and pressed the button to let in my friends.

  I brushed back my hair, hoping I didn’t look like a murder of crows had attacked me.

  Mom opened the door to our apartment, and Quinn and Hana came in, followed by Jason.

  I
’d have to kill my best friends for not warning me.

  “Hey, Ellie,” they chirped.

  “Hi,” I said with my best cheery grin.

  Mom said her hellos and went back to her room.

  “I can’t shower, and I’m on drugs. Fair warning. How was sketch rehearsal?”

  They formed a semi-circle around me in our cramped living room.

  “It was…okay,” Quinn said, clearly not wanting me to feel like I’d missed too much, but too bad, I already did.

  “We were definitely missing a backup dove,” Jason said. “These are for you.” He handed me a mason jar with three paperboard flowers painted with bright swirls of color.

  “These are so beautiful. Did you make them?” He nodded shyly. “Wow, improv, singing, and painting? A real Renaissance man.”

  He gave me a somber smile. “My mom used to say that.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I—”

  “No,” he stopped me. “It’s okay, I like hearing it.”

  Talking to someone who’d lost a parent was like a word minefield. It had to be hard for him—there must be something every day that reminded him of her. Not that he’d want to forget her, it just seemed that kind of grief must always be in reach, a constant shadow.

  Quinn ran to where they had dropped their stuff by the front door, and then walked backward toward me until she got to my sea of cushions and turned around to reveal a fishbowl in her hands. “Ta da!”

  “Aw, thanks, you guys.” I could’ve hugged the bowl. I don’t know why seeing Harold comforted me, but it did.

  Hana handed me a small box. “This is from Quinn and me.”

  “Open it,” Quinn demanded.

  I unwrapped the box and lifted off the lid. Inside was a silver necklace with a pendant shaped like a bull’s head, its eyes made of tiny green jewels. “I love it, thank you. You two really shouldn’t have. Why a bull’s head?”