My Life Undecided (27 page)

I swal ow. It hurts. Like a chicken bone pushing its way down my throat.

“They are?”

She sticks her tongue out in deep concentration and final y, with one swift jerk of the plastic, water-fil ed container, she gets the little orange

basketbal to sail through the red hoop. She throws her arms up in victory. “Score!”

“Izzie,” I start, trying to sound as conversational as possible. “If you met BB, I mean, if she was your friend or something. What would you tel

her to do?”

She places the game down on my desk and bounces back over to the DVDs. “I’d tel her to put her stupid blog back up so I’d have

something to read during study breaks.”

“No. I mean, about Heimlich and—”

“Oh my God!” she exclaims, yanking a DVD from the stack, causing the rest of them to topple over onto the floor. “I haven’t seen this movie

in ages! Remember how we used to watch it over and over again?”

“Yeah,” I mutter. “I remember. But—”

“I’m going to go watch it now!” she resolves, hugging the case to her chest and waltzing out the door, leaving me with nothing…except a

mess of DVDs to clean up.

Thanksgiving dinner in our house hasn’t changed much over the years. It’s always the same motley assortment. Me, my parents, my sister, my

senile grandparents on my dad’s side, and my crazy, middle-aged, and bitterly divorced aunt Linda.

By four o’clock, everyone is assembled around the table and the familiar sounds of a holiday meal fil the room. Silverware clanking against

the good china. Slurping of wine. Bad jokes being told. Polite laughter.

It isn’t until my plate is nearly empty that I notice that Izzie hasn’t touched hers. And she hasn’t said a word since she sat down either. She’s

been too busy fidgeting with her napkin holder. Sliding it on and off her fingers like a giant wooden ring.

“Izzie?” I ask, watching her questioningly. “Are you al right? You seem kind of restless.”

“Of course I’m al right,” she snaps, causing everyone at the table to halt their conversations and look up. This seems to piss my sister off

even more. She groans and gives me an evil look. As though it’s completely my fault that everyone is now staring at her. “Jeez. Chil out, everybody.

I’m just stressed. Harvard is real y hard, okay? Finals are starting as soon I get back to school and you have no idea how much pressure is on me

right now.”

“Izzie?” my mom begins tentatively.

“What?” she roars back. “What is everyone’s problem?” Then, out of nowhere, she starts rubbing obsessively at her hands, as though she’s

trying to scrape dirt off. “And what’s with al the bugs in this house? They’re crawling al over me.”

If the room wasn’t silent enough before, now it’s deadly stil . My dad scoots his chair out and starts to come over to our end of the table.

“Izzie,” he says tenderly. “Maybe we should go get some fresh air.”

But she’s too quick for him. She violently pushes her chair back with a loud scrape against the hardwood floor and leaps to her feet. “I don’t

need fresh air,” she insists. “I need everyone to stop nagging me.”

I’m assuming from the way she throws her napkin down on the table that her plan is to make a dramatic exit from the dining room, but she

doesn’t get very far. She takes one step and col apses onto the floor.

Then I hear my mother scream.

The Price of Perfection

Since having children
, my mom has had to endure three ambulance rides to the hospital. The first was when I was rescued from the abandoned

mine shaft after having been stuck down there for two days. The second was when I was eight years old and a neighborhood kid dared me to take

a swig from a bottle of 409 cleaner. And the third was two years ago when I stopped eating for three days so I could fit into a pair of size zero

designer jeans that Shayne had handed down to me because she’d decided they were “too big” for her.

The common denominator in al of these tragic events, of course, is me.

I’ve always been the one lying on the stretcher. I’ve always been the one making the near fatal mistake. I’ve never once been in the car

behind the ambulance.

Not until today.

My dad drives in silence, fol owing the flashing lights in front of us. The large red and white van that holds my mom and my unconscious

sister.

It’s an entirely different experience sitting in this seat. The regret has been replaced with paralyzing fear. The shame for once again having

disappointed my parents has been replaced with a mind-numbing panic. And the uncertainty of whether I’l be forgiven has been replaced with

whether I’l ever see my sister alive again.

I’m not sure which side of the equation is worse.

The EMTs weren’t able to tel us much. Except that her heart was beating abnormal y fast and somewhat erratical y. She has a fever of one

hundred and two and her pupils are heavily dilated. We’ve been promised more information once we arrive at the hospital.

It feels like we’ve been driving for hours and I don’t understand why they’re taking her so far away. It isn’t until I see the signs for Parker

Adventist Hospital up ahead that I realize it’s only been a few minutes. Time slows down in the shadow of sirens. I guess that’s something I should

know by now.

My sister is wheeled in through the emergency entrance and I fol ow her stretcher with my eyes until it disappears through a set of double

swinging doors. My parents fol ow behind her while I wait in the lobby with my grandparents and my aunt. They try to talk to me, to keep me

distracted, but I don’t hear anything. They’re like characters in a silent movie. I stand very stil and watch the doors for signs of life.

I wonder if this is how Mrs. Moody went. If her last moments on earth were frenzied and chaotic like this. Doctors fighting to save her. Nurses

running to and fro. Or if she just drifted away peaceful y in her sleep.

I hope, for her sake, it was the latter.

My dad emerges a half hour later and I search his face for a hint of my sister’s condition. For some reason I can’t wait for him to speak. I

need some indication of what to expect before the words start flowing. I have to have that extra split second to prepare myself.

“She’s okay,” he says, and I hear the sighs of relief from the rest of my family envelop me like a warm blanket. “She’s going to be just fine.”

But I can’t exhale yet. I need more than that. “What happened to her?”

My dad col apses into one of the waiting room chairs and motions for me to sit down next to him.

“Your sister has been under a lot of stress at school,” he explains. “Harvard is a lot harder than she expected—definitely harder than high

school—and the pressure ended up being too much for her to handle. She started using a drug cal ed Adderal .”

My forehead crinkles. “The one they prescribe for ADD kids?”

He nods.

“I didn’t know she had a prescription for that,” I say.

My dad sighs. “She didn’t. But according to the doctor, it’s a very sought-after drug on Ivy League campuses. People manage to get

prescriptions and then sel it to other students. They use it as a study aid. It helps you focus. And with the competitive landscape at Harvard, Izzie

just found it too hard to resist.”

“So what? She overdosed?”

My dad lowers his head. “Yes. Adderal does help you focus but it also speeds up your heart rate. And if you take too much of it, it can be

very dangerous. It can also make you act erratical y.”

“But she’s going to be okay?” I confirm.

My dad drapes an arm over my shoulder and squeezes. “She’s going to be fine.”

“Can I see her?”

He pushes himself back to his feet. “Of course. Come on, I’l take you.”

I fol ow tentatively behind my father as he leads me through a series of long corridors. The smel of disinfectant is overwhelming and I’m

reminded of the Centennial Nursing Home where I’ve spent so many of my weekends over the past couple of months.

My dad enters a patient room but I choose to linger in the doorway. My sister is awake and talking, but she looks so strange in her blue

hospital gown with tubes hooked up to various parts of her body that I have trouble approaching her. Her skin is pale and her arms lie like limp

strands of spaghetti by her sides.

One word flashes to mind as I watch her. And it’s a word I’ve never used to describe my sister in al my life.

Defeated.

Suddenly I feel like the wind has been knocked out of me. Like the world has been turned upside down.

This can’t be right. This has to be a dream.

Izzie doesn’t make mistakes. She doesn’t do things that land her in hospital beds or police stations or on the eleven o’clock evening news.

That’s my area of expertise. Izzie is the smart one. The one who makes good decisions. The perfect one.

But the beeping heart monitors are screaming otherwise. The scribblings on the chart that hangs on the outside of the door are spel ing

another story. The pink curtain that divides the room in two is pul ed back to reveal a very different truth.

That no one is perfect.

That anyone can suffer from a momentary lapse of judgment.

Even Isabel e Pierce.

“Brooks.” My mom beckons to me. “It’s okay. You can come in.”

Upon hearing my name, Izzie struggles to turn her head toward the door. A smile fights its way to the surface.

“I’m going to get some coffee,” my mom tel s us. “Dan, wil you come with me?”

As my parents disappear out the door, I step hesitantly toward Izzie and reach for her hand.

“How you feeling?”

“Pretty stupid,” she replies with a weak laugh.

I laugh, too. But only because I feel like I’m supposed to. Not because there’s anything funny about this. “You scared me,” I tel her in a

scratchy voice.

“I know,” she admits softly. “I’m sorry.”

I squeeze my fingers around her hand and force out a smile. “It’s okay. I’m just glad you’re al right.”

Izzie sighs and turns her head out the window. The sun is setting, leaving the sky a beautiful shade of coral pink. “No, I mean, I’m sorry I failed

you.”

My grasp automatical y loosens and I shake my head at her, baffled.

“When we were little,” she explains, “Mom and Dad told me that you looked up to me. I didn’t believe them. But I always thought, you know,

just in case, I should probably set a good example. So I’ve always tried to be this perfect role model for you. The perfect older sister. But tonight, I

wasn’t. And I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” I assure her, glancing up at the IV bag hanging over our heads and reaching out to catch one of her tears on the tip of my finger. “I

never liked you very much when you were perfect. You’re much cooler now that you’re human.”

The Other Side of Moody

After Mrs. Moody’s death
, my mom offered to cal Lawyer Bob and have him request a transfer so I could complete the rest of my community

service requirement elsewhere but I refused, insisting that al I needed was one weekend off and then I would be fine to go back.

My sister was released from the hospital yesterday and is now enjoying a relaxing day in front of the TV while I find myself walking back

through the front doors of Centennial Nursing Home.

Gail keeps me extremely busy for the first half of the day. I think she feels obligated to distract me. And she’s been doing a pretty good job at

it. She jam-packed the schedule with games and special events and even a field trip to the park where we play croquet with some of the more

active residents.

But now things are starting to die down around here and people are getting tired and retiring to their rooms for extended naps. I’ve set

myself up in the activity room with Rummikub, but so far no one has wandered over to play. Jane, my regular Rummikub partner, is staying at her

daughter’s house for the Thanksgiving holiday and I’ve learned rather quickly that playing Rummikub by yourself is not only boring but nearly

impossible.

After winning three games of solitaire, I final y decide to take a strol down the corridor to see if the nurses need help with anything but I find

the station empty. So I keep walking. I know exactly where I’m going, I’m just not sure if I real y want to go there. But my feet seem to have a mind of

their own, and before I can convince them to turn around, I’m standing in the middle of room 4A.

It’s empty. Uninhabited. Apparently they’ve yet to admit any new residents.

I pul the orange plastic chair into the middle of the room and plop down into it. Then I wait. Except after five minutes, I realize I don’t know

what I’m waiting for. It’s strange. How someone can be here one minute and then gone the next.

I’ve never known anyone who’s died before. Al of my grandparents are stil alive. My mom is al ergic to dogs and cats so we’ve never real y

had any pets. My sister and I got a turtle when we were younger but he died a few days later so I don’t think that counts since I never real y got to

know him very wel .

When I close my eyes, I can almost stil feel her in the room. I picture her in the bed, her bony, vein-covered hands grasping tightly at the

covers. I wonder where they took her. After she died. Was she buried? Cremated? Is it bad that I never thought to ask?

“Excuse me?” A voice startles me and I leap out of the chair.

I look up to see a middle-aged man standing in the doorway dressed in a pair of jeans and a sport coat. The kind with leather patches on

the elbows. He’s carrying a large box and a manila envelope.

“Sorry,” I say, pushing the chair back into the corner. “I was just leaving.”