Skinny (8 page)

“Who?”

“Your mom.”

I look over at him, surprised. I know he misses her, but he’s never said anything like this before.

“We used to talk about every thing. The good. The bad.”

Now my eyes fill with tears.

“I just need to talk to her.”

I think of my stepmom. “You can talk to Charlotte.” I pat his hand awkwardly.

“Charlotte’s great. I’m really lucky she came along. . . .” His voice trails off. “But it’s not the same.”

“I know, Dad.”

“She’d know exactly what to say to you right now. She was so good at that.” He pats my hand carefully so he doesn’t mess up the tubes in my arm. “Remember when you were a kid and were afraid of the dark? I thought you’d never sleep all night in that room by yourself.”

“Yes.” I smile at the memory. “She always asked me what exactly I was afraid of.”

“And you said?”

“One time I was afraid all the door hinges would turn into snakes. One time I was afraid of the seven dwarfs marching down the hall with shovels. One time I said I was afraid of fear itself. I think I heard that one on TV. She never laughed. She never said I was crazy. She would just sigh and lead me back to my room and she’d wait there, on the side of my bed, until my eyes were simply too heavy to keep open anymore.”

“Then I’d yell for you to go to sleep,” Dad says, “and for your mother to come back to bed and turn out the light.”

“But do you know what she’d always tell me before she left?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

“ ‘Your dad’s not mad at you. He’s just tired.’ ”

“As usual, she was right.”

We sit there for a while in quiet. Waiting. I’ve never been that great at waiting. Like when I was a kid, and sometimes even now, I could never wait for Christmas. When my mom would leave for the grocery store, I would go under the Christmas tree and carefully unwrap the end of each of my presents just far enough to figure out what was inside. Then I’d wrap them back up again before Mom got back. It actually kind of ruined Christmas, but it took away the whole waiting thing.

The hard thing about waiting is the not knowing how it’s >going to go. That’s what makes me really crazy. It could be great — like the doctor saying the test results are back and all the cancer is gone. Or it could be really bad — like the doctor saying something terrible, something you can’t even imagine — but you’re just supposed to go about your life like that waiting thing is not hanging over your head every single minute of every single day.

The sound of laughter and murmuring voices drift in from the hallway. Rat comes back and stands beside my dad because there is only one chair in the tiny pre-op room.

“Anything happen while I was gone?” he asks.

“Not really,” I say. “We’re just waiting.”

The curtain is flung open, and the nurse with the smiley-face scrubs is back. This time she is with a tall man with blue baggies on his feet that make a swishing sound when he walks. I wonder if the baggies are to keep the blood off his shoes. That kind of freaks me out. Baggie Man introduces himself as Dr. Boyett, the anesthesiologist, and shakes my dad’s hand. He has >a big syringe with him and he grins down at me like he has brought me a piece of chocolate birthday cake.

“How you feeling?”

“A little nervous,” I say.

“Nervous is normal.”

“You’ll never be normal.”

“Time for the good stuff.” Dr. Boyett sticks the big syringe into the tube snaking out of my arm and pushes the plunger.

“That should take the edge off.”

“How long before I start to feel something?” I ask, but before I can even finish the question, my head starts to feel lighter, like it just floated off my body. “Oh, there it is.”

My dad laughs nervously. “That didn’t take long.”

“Say your good-byes,” Smiley Face says. “They’ll be here for you any minute.”

Rat’s face is serious, but he gives me a fake smile and a little wave, then steps back out of the way so my dad can move closer. A shadow moves behind my father’s shoulder. With the fuzziness seeping into my body, I can’t see clearly, but I know who it is. My constant companion. I should introduce them.

“There’s something I’ve always wanted to say, Dad.”

He leans in and pats the top of my plastic-covered head.

“What, peanut?”

I should be worried about something, but I’m not. I feel fine. Better than fine.

“Dad,” I say. My mouth is dry. I lick my lips and try again louder. “Dad.”

“I’m right here.”

“There’s this fairy thing that sits on my shoulder and whispers in my ear. Bad things.”

“He thinks you’re crazy-talking.”

Another giant, blue-robed figure comes around the curtain.

“You ready to go?” he asks.

“I have to tell my dad something.”

“Tell him quick. The operating room is waiting.” He unlocks the brakes on the hospital bed.

My dad clears his throat. “I love you, Ever,” he says, and kisses me on the cheek.

“I can hear her, Dad. In my ear.”

He nods and smiles down at me.

“He thinks it’s the drugs.”

More people come into the room. I try to focus on my dad, but they start to roll the bed out from behind the curtains and down the hall.

“I’ll be here when you get back.” He waves at me until the big doors swing shut behind my rolling feet, and he’s gone.

“I need to tell him,” I mumble.

The operating room is freezing. I know it, but I don’t really feel it. People move all around me. Some talk to me. Others don’t. They count to three and pull me over onto a flat table. Lying on my back, I squint up at the big lights. Someone behind my head says, “I’m going to put this mask over your face now, okay?” I guess I say okay because the mask comes down over my nose and mouth.

“Now count backward from one hundred,” the voice behind my head continues. Obediently I start to count. One hundred . . . ninety-nine . . . ninety-eight . . .

“Her name is Skinny,” I say. Then every thing goes black.

I am aware of noises around me. I’m moving . . . rolling . . . somewhere. I need to throw up. I try to tell someone, but I can’t speak.

“It’s okay. You’re all right,” a woman’s voice says in my ear.

I open my eyes to see doors flying open in front of me. I’m alive but forever changed. I close my eyes again. The next time I open them, Dad and Charlotte are peering down at me. Rat is there, too, hanging around in the background. His face pops in and out of my line of vision every once in a while.

“How are you feeling, peanut?” The furrowed line between my dad’s eyes seems deeper than I remember.

“Not sure,” I mumble. “Am I skinny yet?”

They laugh like I’ve made a very funny joke.

A nurse leans into my line of sight and pushes something into my hand. I can’t look down at it because my head is not connected to my body.

“Don’t be a hero,” she says. “Push the button to get the pain medicine.”

I push the button in my hand. It doesn’t hurt anywhere yet, but I don’t want to feel any pain. My eyes feel heavy, and I close them again. When I open them again, Rat is sitting in a chair over by a window. It’s dark outside, and he is reading a book by lamplight.

“What time is it?” I croak out.

He startles. “Hey, you’re awake.”

He gets out of the chair and comes over to smooth my hair back from my forehead. Even with the fuzziness in my brain, I know that doesn’t seem right. Rat’s never touched me like that before. It confuses me. I move away from his touch and punch the button in my hand.

“It’s about eight. You’ve been sleeping for a while now.” His voice trails off as his eyes meet mine. I blink once — twice — trying to clear my vision. He looks worried, which is a strange look for Rat. “Your dad and Charlotte just went to get something to eat in the cafeteria. They won’t be gone long. Are you in any pain?”

“I don’t think so.” His question reminds me to push the button in my hand again. Probably way too soon, but time is hazy right now and I’m scared.

“The doctor came by earlier. He said every thing went great.”

“Good,” I say. “When can I go home?”

“Probably tomorrow.”

“Are you okay?” I ask, because I’ve never seen that look on his face before. Something between unsure and scared.

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess I was just a little worried. It all seemed so rational, until it actually happened. And it was you.”

My forehead creases in bewilderment. “But I’m going to be all right.” I can’t believe I’m trying to make him feel better. Aren’t I supposed to be the patient here?

“I made something for you while I was waiting for you to come back to Recovery.” He unfolds a piece of paper and holds it over the bed rail so I can see. I lick my cracked lips and try to focus on what he’s holding out to me. It’s an intricate pencil drawing of a tiny pumpkin. The vine and leaves twist and turn across the page with incredible, almost scientific, detail.

“You did this?” My mouth feels dry, my throat raw. I blink the blurry from my eyes once more and stare down at the tiny picture. I’m amazed. “I never knew you could draw like this.”

“It’s a pumpkin,” he says.

“I can see that,” I say, trying to smile. I try to concentrate and understand. Rat did this. For me. Even in my current state, I can see it’s remarkable. “Why didn’t you ever show me your drawings before?”

“Drawing is different than science or math. It’s not measurable.” There’s a long pause. I give him a weak smile and then he adds, “You might not like it.”

“But it’s wonderful,” I say, taking the paper from him with a shaky hand.

“I was just thinking while you were in surgery. I know how you like fairy tales, but I can’t draw fairy godmothers and carriages and stuff like that very well. Not like your mom.”

I feel the tears well up in my eyes and one slides slowly down the side of my face onto the hospital pillow. How did he know I was thinking of her?

“What did she say to you that day in the hospital?” I ask. He knew what I was talking about. She’d asked us all to leave that day except for Rat. I watched through the window as she talked and he took notes carefully, his face too serious for a ten-year-old.

“She told me to take good care of you.”

“And that’s what has made you stick it . . . me . . . out?”

“I promised,” he says, solemnly. “Besides I’m really good at it.”

“Yes, you are.”

“You know she would be proud of you,” he says, brushing my tear away with the tip of his finger. “And she would really want to be here now if she could. So I drew this pumpkin to remind you of that.”

“It’s an amazing pumpkin,” I say, sniffling just a little bit.

“Much better than fancy carriages and fairy godmothers.”

“Cinderella needed that pumpkin for everything else to happen. Everybody has to start somewhere.” Rat folds the drawing up and tucks it under the cup of ice chips on the tray in front of me. “Now you’re ready for the magic to happen.”

“She needed a Rat, too,” I say.

“Doesn’t everybody?” he asks with a laugh.

Someone enters the room. I turn my head slowly to see Briella with a backpack and some school books. Quickly, I wipe away the traces of tears from my face with the hand that doesn’t have tubes coming out of it. Briella glances at me, but quickly looks away like she’s not sure if she wants to see me or not.

“Charlotte dropped me off. She said for me to stay here because Rat needs a break.”

Rat steps back from the bed and stretches with a long groan.

“I probably should walk around for a bit.”

I didn’t realize he’d been here all this time. I feel a little guilty.

“You’ll be all right for a few minutes without me?” he asks.

“Sure. I brought my English homework,” Briella says.

“I think he means me,” I say.

“Oh, yeah. Right,” she mumbles, slouching down into the chair with her books in her lap.

“I’ll be okay,” I say to Rat. “Go get something to eat.”

He waves to both of us and leaves. Briella looks at me nervously and then down at her books, opening one randomly to a page near the middle.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to die while you’re here,” I say.

“Good,” she says, “ ’cause you look really bad.”

“Thanks.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Not too much. Just feels weird with all these tubes.”

“I didn’t know,” she says, standing up and walking over to the side of my bed.

“Know what?”

“That it would be so . . . hard.”

I give a short laugh, but abruptly stop, clutching my stomach at the quick stabbing pain it caused.

“Did you think it would be like going to the dentist or something?” I say. I don’t tell her the hard part is only just now starting. Let her try spending her days eating three tablespoons of food for each meal.

“Why do you always act like I’m so stupid?” Briella asks.

Of course, now it’s all about her. Even with me lying in a hospital room stuck full of tubes every where. I don’t have the energy to argue with her. I punch the button in my hand and lean back on the pillow, closing my eyes.

“You’re not stupid,” I say in a monotone. Eventually, I hear her move away from the bed and go back to the chair.

“You’re lucky you don’t have to take finals,” Briella says from the chair. “I wish I could miss the last five weeks of school.”

“Good grades make a lot of things possible. You should try it,” I say, with my eyes still closed. “Besides I think finals would have been a lot easier than this.”

“For you, maybe.”

I open my eyes and look over at Briella. She has her English book open now, and she is staring down at a blank notebook page, twirling a pencil around in one hand.

“What’s your grade?” I ask.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“It can’t be that bad. You’ve paid me to write almost every essay.”

“It wasn’t all essays. There were some stupid in-class tests over the readings. You couldn’t take those for me,” she mumbles. “Summer school’s bad. Mom is going to kill me.”

“Can you save it with your final?” It feels good to talk about something besides the surgery. Something normal outside these hospital walls.