Gravity Brings Me Down (14 page)

“Yeah, totally.”

Flipping through the pages, I find a haiku I like and read it out loud. It’s about gleaming bones and fading flowers. When I’m finished reading, Sharon and I look at each other, nodding our heads in appreciation. I read another. It’s about writing and erasing and poppies blooming. I close the book and admire the cover.

“I can’t believe you scored this,” I say. “I can so use this for my CPP.”

“Cool.”

“Definite brownie points from Miss B.”

We read a couple more poems before embarking on a discussion of suicide as poetry for the next hour and a half. I feel it should be a solitary act, but Sharon thinks it’s the ultimate expression of communion. She says she wants to find her true love, then, when they’re bored of each other, blow themselves up together onto a blank canvas while playing their favourite music (as yet to be determined).

After copious amounts of sludge and several equally riveting conversations, we agree to check out the boxcar at the train station for possible photo ops. Then we dip into monkey culture for a bit.

“I saw Darin’ with Michelle last night,” Sharon says.

“Ugh … who cares. He’s such a loser.”

“And she is such a slut. She was wearing these red disco yard-sale pumps. What is the attraction?”

“I can name two.”

“She’s such a Barbie.”

I take a sip of coffee. “You know what I read once? If you enlarged Barbie to life-size scale, her boobs would be so big and her feet so small she’d have to spend all her time on her back.”

“Sounds like Michelle.”

“Can those melons possibly be real?”

“Is silicone real?”

“Good point.”

“Points.”

“Right.”

We laugh. I want to tell her about Steve Ryan, but decide against it. It would just confuse things more than they already are. I mean, I’m confused enough about it myself. How can I condemn one jock and like another? It’s enough to make your head implode.

Sharon and I decide to wait for dusk before going to the station. She has to grab her camera anyway, so we agree to meet at the tracks by seven. This will give me time to change and eat supper (or at least poke at it for a while to satisfy my parents).

When I get home, I find Peggy sitting at my desk, reading one of my journals.

“What the hell are you doing?”

She spins around, her tinsel teeth flashing. “You bitch! I am not stupid!”

She hurls the journal, narrowly missing my head. Ripping the drawer from my desk, she trashes my papers and pens before attacking my inspiration, tearing out the feathers in big clumps. “I hate you, I hate you!” she screams.

“Stop it, you psycho!”

Dad runs into my room. “What the hell is going on here?”

“She’s a lying bitch!” Peggy shrieks.

“Watch your mouth, young lady!”

Peggy bolts from the room, crying at the top of her lungs.

Dad turns to me. “What did you do?”

“Nothing! I swear to God. She was going through my things.” I raise my hands incredulously at the disaster on my floor.

Dad gives me a look, as if it’s all my fault.

Okay, so maybe I have been a little harsh on Peggy in my journals. But she’s not supposed to read my private thoughts. They’re mine. It’s none of her business. She’s such a little mental case.

I survey the damage. My inspiration is completely destroyed. It lies at the foot of my bed, lifeless and broken, a heap of black feathers and bone. And I have to clean up this mess. I wonder if it’s possible to write a Japanese death poem for someone else …

Replacing the drawer in my desk, I find a hippie postcard my flower-child aunt sent me years ago. It’s a picture of some yogi guy with his finger in the air, spouting words of enlightenment.

Is that even grammatically correct? Tearing the postcard in half, I slam-dunk it into my wastebasket, then drop kick the basket across the room.
Stupid Peggy!

A half-eaten apple rolls from the garbage, spinning to a stop by the leg of my chair. That’s when I notice it: a photograph wedged between my desk and the wall. It’s one of Mabel’s. I guess it must have fallen behind the desk when Morta spilled my glass of milk. Picking it up, I hesitate to look at it. The morality lesson isn’t lost on me: I just went crazy on Peggy for reading my journals and here I am nosing into Mabel’s private life. But I can’t help myself.

The picture is of Mabel with her mystery man. She’s holding a tiny baby in her arms and they’re beaming at each other. They seem so in love. I flip the photo over and there, in thin blue ink, are these words: “
Our Marie
.”

So, the puzzle is finally complete. Mabel
did
have an affair. And I’m the illegitimate offspring of her passion— or at least, the real Marie is.

Holding the photo, I feel myself getting drawn in again. If I had any brains, I’d throw it away, along with Mabel’s keys, and forget about her altogether. But for some reason, I can’t. I just can’t pretend that Mabel isn’t in my life. I just can’t walk away and not care. An image of her enters my mind, sitting in her apartment, all alone. No food to eat. No one to talk to. If nothing else, I’m obligated to return her photo. If I hurry, I can drop it off and still have time to meet Sharon at the train station for our own photo session.

T
here’s a gaggle of blue-hairs in the lobby when I arrive at Mabel’s building. They crane their necks, murmuring warily as I ring the buzzer and wait.

No answer.

I ring again.

Still nothing. Where’s Mabel?

I think to leave, then remember the keys.

The blue-hairs huddle nervously as I unlock the door. One even covers the rings on her hand. I smile nicely, galvanizing their suspicion.

“Nice evening,” the one with the rings says.

Amazing how old people can pretend that everything is okay even though they think it’s not. And they say young people are deceptive …

I cross the lobby to the elevators. Mario appears like a poltergeist, intercepting me at the button.

“Whadryou doin’ here?”

“Visiting.”

“Who?”

“None of your business.”

Mario scowls. The blue-hairs shift uncomfortably.

“I’m a-watching you,” he says, just as the elevator arrives and I step in.

When I reach Mabel’s, I give a little knock on the door. No answer. I turn the key in the lock and peek inside.

“Mabel….? Are you here …?”

“She’s gone,” a soft voice behind me says.

It’s a woman, thirty-something, cotton pants, conservative hair and glasses. Definite tree-hugger.

“Are you a friend of Mabel’s?” she asks.

“Um, yeah, kind of…”

“Are you Marie? Mabel has told me all about you.”

“Uh, yeah, sure. Do you know where Mabel is?”

“They took her away this morning. I found her wandering the halls. She said she didn’t feel well so I called an ambulance.”

“They took her to the hospital?”

“Yes. St. Joe’s.”

“Did they say what was wrong with her?”

“They couldn’t say at the time.”

“Do you know when she’ll be back?”

The woman shakes her head. “I live across the hall. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

I thank her, then lock Mabel’s door behind me. For some reason I don’t return the photo, but keep it in my jacket pocket instead.

“I hope your mom will be okay,” the woman says as I leave.

Sharon’s going to kill me if I’m late but I have to see if Mabel’s okay. St. Joe’s is across town, which means I have to ride the dreaded bus so I won’t be too late for my photo session. I hate the bus. It’s for losers and weirdos. But it’s better than walking at this point. Thankfully, they come every fifteen minutes. It’s one of the few things our crappy town did right.

I check with the driver to be sure I’m on the right bus before taking a seat at the back. The gravitation is fierce, draining my life source in seconds.

After minutes of idling in the square, we finally leave. We spend the next half hour weaving through the streets, criss-crossing back and forth, until I’m convinced we’re just going around in elaborate circles.

I start to panic, thinking the gravity machine is controlling the bus, when the hospital comes into view. Jumping up, I ring the bell. The driver brakes a little too hard, causing a very large woman to crush me
against the pole by the door. She gives me the dirtiest look, then nearly squashes me as I try to escape down the stairs. I’ll
never
ride the bus again.

The hospital is just as bad. It’s jammed with people, all desperate to see the doctor. You’d think there was a war on. I approach a woman behind the admission desk and ask for directions. She sends me across the building, through some doors to another desk with another woman who asks for a name.

“Mabel… Mabel Wilson.”

The woman searches her list. “Room 417 East,” she says.

Back on the elevator. I get off at the fourth floor, just like the woman told me. But for some reason I don’t think I’m in the right place. Wandering down the hall, I check the numbers until I find 417. When I peek in the room, there’s a little kid in the bed, crowded with stuffed animals. He’s hooked up to all these machines and he looks terrible. I turn to leave, but he starts talking in a whispery voice.

“Are you from Make-A-Wish?”

I take a tentative step into the room. “Pardon?”

“You’re supposed to wear a mask in here,” he tells me.

“Oh.” I find a mask on the bedside table and put it on.

“Are you from the Make-A-Wish foundation?” he asks again.

I stare at him from behind the mask. I don’t know what to say.

“Because I have a wish,” he continues, completely unfazed. But then he starts to cough, so violently I think he’s going to die right in front of me.

I’m about to buzz the nurse when he stops. I wait for him to catch his breath.

“Okay… what’s your wish?” I ask.

“You have to give it to me, right?”

“Yeah… I guess.”

“No matter what?”

“What is it?”

“I wanna kill my grade 3 teacher.”

He says this so seriously, I have to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. Believe me, if anyone knows how the kid feels, it’s me, but I have to pretend to be an adult and disapprove.

“Uhh … I’m not sure we can do that.”

“But you’re supposed to give me anything I want.”

“How about a kitten or a puppy?” I say, sounding just like my mom.

The kid pouts, shaking his head slowly against the pillow. He purses his lips, giving me these big sad eyes. “I’m going to die, you know.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes I do.”

“Did the doctor say so?”

“No. But I can tell by the way he talks to me.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. Doctors are terrible at talking to kids—it’s a well-known fact. Kids freak them out.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know … because they pick their noses and
stuff.” I say this to make him laugh but he just keeps staring at me with sorrowful eyes. And then he starts to cough again. It gets so bad I finally do buzz the nurse. She appears, glowers at me, and starts chewing out the kid.

“You know you’re not supposed to overtax yourself, Jimmy.” She gives him some medicine, tucking him firmly into bed before turning to me.

“Can I help you? Are you a relative?”

“Uh … no … I was actually looking for Room 417.”

“East or West?” she says, “because this is West.”

“East.”

“Through the hall and down the corridor. Keep making left-hand turns until you reach the double doors.”

I leave Jimmy, making my way down the corridor. As soon as I step through the double doors, I know I’m in the right place. The air is stuffy and old, stagnant with fumes from the machine. It’s spun some kind of invisible web, trapping dozens of fossilized patients who have no choice but to stay. It has Mabel, too, ensnared in Room 417.

A doctor stands at the end of the bed, glancing through some charts.

I approach cautiously. Mabel looks right through me. She seems totally out of it, like she has no idea where she is. The doctor ignores me.

“Excuse me …” I say, trying to get his attention.

He doesn’t answer, absorbed in his charts. He reminds me of Principal Ricketts. I give a little cough to let him know I’m there.

Still nothing.

“I’m here to see Mabel,” I say, a little more forcefully.

“Are you next of kin?”

“I’m, um, her daughter … Marie.”

He peers at me over his bifocals, frowning skeptically. “You look a little young to be her daughter.”

“I’m the baby.”

“Right.” The doctor clicks his pen dismissively, then launches in like a tired mechanic evaluating an old wreck. “She’s had a significant stroke. We aren’t sure what the extent of the damage is yet, but it doesn’t look hopeful.”

I look over at Mabel, speaking in a low voice. “Should we be talking in front of her like this?”

The doctor blinks at me and continues.

“She won’t be able to live on her own any more. She’s going to need round-the-clock care. I’d suggest you start looking for an appropriate facility.”

“You can tell that from those charts?”

He sighs, like he’s had to deal with this way too many times. “Each stroke is different, and each person that
experiences a stroke is affected differently. Some stroke survivors experience mild symptoms. Some more severe. She may look okay—she may even seem to have recovered somewhat in a few days—but I wouldn’t get my hopes up. I’ve seen enough of these cases over the years to know about outcomes. In your mother’s case, it’s more than likely that she’s going to have another stroke.”

“What, right now?”

“At any time.”

I turn to Mabel. She’s muttering to herself in the bed. I don’t like what the doctor is saying but I have to confess, it doesn’t look good from where I’m standing either.

“So what happens next?”

“We keep her for observation … a few more tests … then go from there.”

“And that’s it?”

The doctor rubs the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “It’s best not to expect too much. Oftentimes these patients have moments of apparent lucidity, but they rarely last. You’d better notify the rest of the family.”

He walks out, leaving me alone with Mabel. I move to the edge of the bed.

“Hey, Mabel… it’s me … Marie.”

Mabel turns her unfocused gaze in my direction. Reaching for my arm, she grips it with surprising strength.

“I want to go home,” she says, her words kind of muted and slurred. She’s squeezing my arm so hard it hurts.

“You have to stay.” I try to reassure her. “They’re doing some tests and stuff.”

But it’s as if she can’t even hear me. She starts to beg.

“Please … you have to help me … I just want to go home. I don’t know how I got here … please … won’t you help me …?”

I can feel the tendrils of the invisible web curling around my brain. It’s all so horrible, so completely awful, I want to scream and run. The forces swirl around me, the machine roaring louder and louder, belching black clouds into the room. Mabel squeezes even harder.

“Please…”

The dark clouds surround me and I can feel myself going under. Prying Mabel’s fingers loose, I bolt from the room.

I burst from the hospital, gasping for air. If things seemed bad before, this is undeniably worse. What’s more, I’m late meeting Sharon.

There’s no way I’m riding the bus, so I take it to the heel and toe. It actually feels good to exert myself after being in the hospital. Sharon will be furious—but I just don’t care.

Walking as quickly as I can, I hear the distinct sound of Tod’s moped, sputtering behind me. He pulls up, wearing a black leather jacket, his ears pierced with gold hoops.

“Wanna ride?”

“What?”

“Do you want a ride or not?”

Is Tod giving me attitude? I check my watch. Sharon will be foaming at the mouth by now. Tod revs the engine impatiently. I roll my eyes and climb onto
the back. What the hell. Things couldn’t possibly get worse. He unstraps the extra bowling ball helmet and hands it to me. I push it back.

“No way.”

“Suit yourself,” he says, strapping it back on the moped. “Where do you want to go?”

“The train station.”

We buzz through the streets. I keep my head ducked down, hoping no one will recognize me on the back of Tod’s beast. We’re nearly to the bridge that crosses the tracks when Tod shouts over his shoulder.

“You know that poem you found in your locker? The one on the popcorn bag?”

“Uh…yeah…”

“I wrote it.”

“…What?”

“It was me. I wrote it… I love you, Sioux.”

Oh my God! I nearly flip off the back of the moped. This is NOT happening to me. How can one person’s life be so terminally twisted? Maybe Tod took my underwear, too. The thought makes me instantly sick.

“Tod … please …”

“Just listen to me. You don’t have to make a commitment right away, or anything. I just want to know if I have a chance.”

A chance? I can’t believe this. “Tod … I can’t… I just don’t feel the same way…”

“I want you to think about it.”

“But, I
have
thought about it, Tod. I… I love somebody else.”

Just as I say this, we pass Steve Ryan, coming out of the Black and White Variety. He catches my eye, and there’s no mistaking the recognition on his face. I try to save whatever shred of dignity I have left by doing a kamikaze off the back of Tod’s moped. But it’s moving faster than I realize. Hitting the ground, my knees buckle and I roll like a stunt double of myself, the contents of my purse exploding over the street.