Ms. Bixby's Last Day (19 page)

I splurged and bought Popsicles that day. They don't have
time to melt when your teacher drives you home and drops you off, and your father never asks how you managed to get them home. He only wants to know if you are making something for dinner and what it is. Ms. Bixby bought five quarts of blueberries that day, I remember. I counted them as she loaded them on the conveyor belt. I said she was going to be berry busy. She said, thank you berry much. As we left, we were stopped by a group of teenagers dressed in pink, collecting money to fight breast cancer. Ms. Bixby dug through her purse and gave them a five. I chipped in a dollar.

I didn't know, of course. She hadn't told us yet.

We loaded the car and she drove slowly back to my neighborhood, tapping gently on the wheel to some golden oldie on the radio. I said something about summer not being far away and asked her if she had any plans, any vacations or grand adventures. I was building to something. A bigger question. A question that concerned both of us. She might be around, she said, hard to tell at this point. I was about to ask her what she meant by that when she turned the corner onto my street and stopped the car.

There, in the amber glow of the afternoon sun, I saw him, sprawled out across the front porch. His walker tipped over at the bottom of the steps leading to the walkway, one arm hanging off the step. He wasn't moving.

“Is that . . . ?” she asked. I just sat there and nodded dumbly. I couldn't move or speak.

Ms. Bixby took out her cell phone and called 911 as the Popsicles in the trunk began to melt.

The head nurse, who is sitting at the station directly facing the elevators, watches us spill out, her hands poised above her keyboard, head twisted around, like Alexander's owl. She is dressed in mint-green scrubs. A collection of badges hangs around her neck.

“The gatekeeper,” Topher whispers. I really can't imagine what goes on in his head.

“Maybe you should let me do the talking,” I say. After all, I'm not sure how many fake grandmothers Topher can nearly kill off in a day. To my surprise, he nods.

The name on the front tag says she is Georgia Bonner, RN. I'm sure she's friendly. She's a nurse. You don't go into nursing if you hate people. But then I think about teachers, and not all of them are what you'd expect. They can't all be Good Ones.

“Can I help you boys?” she says curtly as we approach.

“We are here to see Maggie Bixby,” I respond coolly. When all else fails, tell the truth. Just not the whole truth.

“I'm sorry, but Ms. Bixby is not seeing visitors right now. Only family.”

“Oh, we're family,” Topher chirps up from behind me.

I turn to glare at him. He shuts his mouth, but it's too late. I look back at Georgia and smile. “We're her nephews,” I say, running with it.

“I'm adopted,” Steve adds helpfully. “From Japan.”

Nurse Georgia's eyes are powder blue and narrow, inspecting us with a frown. “Are you here with your parents?” She's clearly not buying it. Maybe she knows more about Ms. Bixby's family than we do. After all, I only know that she got divorced before she had kids and that she has an older brother in the army; I'm not even sure he's married. Maybe she has no nephews.

“They're down in the gift shop,” I say. “They couldn't agree on a card. Dad likes the ones that sing when you open them, but Mom thinks they're annoying. They said we could go ahead and come up. Aunt Maggie's in 428, right?” It really is all in the details.

The nurse consults her computer, then looks back at us. I think she knows I'm BS-ing her.

“What happened to your lip?” she asks, noticing Steve, who is sort of hiding behind Topher and me.

“I got punched,” he says, then points at me. “His fault.”

“You punched him?” she asks.

“I ducked,” I say.

Nurse Georgia nods slowly. “Right. And what's in the bags? Homework?”

“Homework,” I confirm quickly, before Topher can think of something outlandish to say—in this case, the truth. This isn't going well either. I glance down the hall, looking at the numbers printed on the doors. There's no way she's going to let us pass. I'm about to just let loose, tell her everything like I did back at Michelle's, when Nurse Georgia sighs and sort of deflates like a popped tire.

“All right,” she says at last. “You boys have ten minutes. No more. Your
aunt
,” she adds, with way too much emphasis, “needs her rest.” We all nod, no doubt looking like a pack of eager puppies waiting to go for a walk. “And be quiet, please. There are some very sick patients on this floor and they need their rest too.”

“Yes, ma'am,” we all chirp in unison.

Nurse Georgia smiles—finally—and points around the corner. I tell her thanks and give Steve a nudge, hoping that we get out of here before she changes her mind. We are almost to the turn when she calls out to us. “And boys . . . ?”

We stop and turn. She points to the grease-spotted sack of fries in Topher's hand.

“Ms. Bixby's on a strict diet, just so you know.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I say again. “We understand.” No fries.

Can't imagine what she'd say about whiskey and cheesecake.

I didn't eat that night, the night she drove us to the emergency room, doing sixty miles an hour to keep up with the ambulance. We were there all night, but I wasn't at all hungry. Ms. Bixby bought me a muffin from the cafeteria—apple cinnamon. Most of it ended up in the trash, the parts she didn't end up eating herself.

She stayed with me until the end. While the ER physicians and the neurologist on call ran their tests and performed their procedures, X-rays and blood tests and brain scans and more tests I couldn't even pronounce. They said my father probably slipped trying to navigate through the door with the walker. That was their word: navigate. Like he was a ship's captain lost at sea. He knocked himself unconscious when he fell and suffered a concussion—that much was clear, but they wanted to make sure he hadn't done any more damage to his spine, which meant more tests. And hours of waiting.

The nurses asked me a lot of questions, and I told them the truth. (Maybe not the whole truth, but pretty close.) I told them that it was just him and me at home. That I wasn't sure what he did while I was at school all day, but that he mostly stayed in his chair and watched TV when I was home. I told them that we didn't get much help and mostly made do on our own. One
of the nurses asked if Ms. Bixby was Dad's girlfriend. I felt like hitting the guy for some reason, but Ms. Bixby just laughed it off and said she was a family friend.

They brought us both coffees from the lobby, and Ms. Bixby doctored mine, loading it with enough milk and sugar to make it sippable. She did everything she could to distract me while we waited for updates. We played tic-tac-toe on the back of a pamphlet for diabetes. We paced laps around the waiting room. Mostly we just sat and talked, or I talked. I told her things I never had before, things that would have ruined our Friday afternoons. Like about how much I wish I had a mother. And the hard time my dad had when I was growing up. And what it had been like for the past year and a half, watching him just fading away, sort of blending in to the background of the living room, taking less and less interest in the world around him. She listened, like she always did, patiently, intently, nodding until I finished.

And I waited for it: the Bixbyism. The one quote from Lao Tzu or Benjamin Franklin or Mick Jagger that would put it all into perspective and make it all better. But it never came. Maybe she didn't have one. Maybe she'd run out of inspirational sayings. Instead she just told me she was sorry. That life just sucked sometimes. Then she put her arm around me the way I imagined my mother probably would have.

That's how the doctor found me, sitting on one of the waiting room couches with Ms. Bixby holding me. He smiled when he delivered the good news: no further damage to my father's spine. Only the concussion and a sprained wrist, probably from trying to catch himself. He was also dehydrated, apparently, and his blood report showed that he was taking more of some medications and not enough of others, which they would need to talk about. Then the doctor said Dad was awake and was asking for me.

Ms. Bixby lifted her arm. We both stood up and I started walking toward the hall, but she didn't follow. She stood by the couch.

“Aren't you coming?”

Ms. Bixby shook her head. “He's your dad,” she said. “He needs you.
Just
you.”

I didn't move. “No,” I told her. “I'm not going in there by myself. I can't.” The doctor standing next to me put a hand on my arm, but I sloughed it right back off. Ms. Bixby took a few steps so that she was standing in front of me.

“I can't keep doing it all by myself,” I said, my voice catching.

When she spoke, her voice was almost a whisper, as if she didn't want the doctor or anyone else to hear. “Do you remember when you said to me that you didn't know what you were good at? You told me it seemed like everyone else around you had
some special gift and you didn't have anything.”

I nodded. Took deep, shuddering breaths.

“Do you know why I would always show up at that corner every Friday afternoon?”

I shook my head.

“Because I knew you'd be there waiting for me. Not because you were counting on me, but because your dad was counting on you. Because even if I didn't show up, you'd still go, don't you see? You would go whether I was there to help you or not.”

She bent down so that our foreheads were almost touching. “You don't give up, Brand Walker. That's what makes you special. You need to show him that. Show him what it means to be strong.
Teach
him how to not give up.”

Then she gave it to me. The Bixbyism. The one she'd been saving. Whispered it in my ear. It was from one of her favorite books, she said. She whispered it to me and then she made me repeat it back to her. And even though I'm not Steve, I memorized it on the first try.

Then she gave me a quick hug and turned and left without saying another word.

And even though I tried not to, choking and pushing and biting it back as hard as I could, I cried. Not for Dad, who was waiting for me in yet another hospital bed. Or for Ms. Bixby, who, I later found out, would be right back in this same hospital
the next day suffering through her own series of tests. But for me. Hot, selfish tears, smeared across my cheeks. Because this was it, and I knew it.

I'm not sure how, but I knew that it was the last day I would have her all to myself.

I know what I'm going to say. The moment we walk into the room. I've had it planned for a while now. Ever since I came up with the idea to visit her in the first place, the idea of the one perfect day. And even though just about everything has gone wrong and it won't even be close to perfect, as long as I say what I came to say, it will be all right.

I recite it over and over again in my head as we shuffle through the automatic doors and down the hall.

The place is graveyard quiet. The rooms are almost all dark. A few have televisions on, but the volumes are turned way down. In room 408 a nurse or an orderly is staring at an empty bed, slowly unfolding a crisp white sheet, getting things ready for a new patient or cleaning up after an old one. We move slowly down the hall, careful not to touch anything. The door to room 417 is open, but the old lady inside is fast asleep. There is a big bouquet of flowers on the table by her bed. Carnations. Letting Topher and Steve walk ahead, I slip in and out in a matter of seconds, then hurry to catch up. They don't seem to notice. The
woman in 417 won't either, I'm guessing. She had enough to share.

The door to room 428 is shut, but the lights shine through the curtained window. Hopefully that means she's awake. This is already going to be enough of a surprise without waking her up in the process. I stand in front of the door for a minute, at least it feels like a minute, then turn and look at Steve and Topher. “Thanks for coming with,” I say.

Steve nods. Topher says, “The fries are getting cold,” which I take as
you're welcome
and
hurry up
all in one.

I take a deep breath and knock three times, reciting the line one more time in my head.

A voice says we can come in. The voice doesn't sound familiar. I give the door a little push and it swings in casually.

From her bed, Ms. Bixby turns and looks at the three of us crowded in her doorway.

And I'm suddenly speechless.

YOU HAVE TO SLAY THE DRAGON TO BE THE
hero. Not easy to do, but at least you know what you're dealing with. Dragons are easy to spot. They live in caves and have large, leathery wings and smoke seeping out of their nostrils. They cool their hot bellies on rolling waves of hoarded gold. They might as well have a sign that says
Slay me
dangling from their necks.

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 with 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.