The Seventh Wish (10 page)

Abby always seems to get Mom's and Dad's attention, whether she's scoring a soccer goal or complaining about stomach cramps. I swallow hard because I hate feeling this way. It's awful and selfish and babyish, but I can't help it. I know Abby's sick and needs to have tests now. I know that's important.

But my feis was important too.

And nobody offered to cancel their plans for me.

Chapter 9

Hospital Secrets

When you're in English class reading stories about wishes, it's easy to see things coming. I remember sitting at my desk, doodling stars in the margins of my notebook, thinking about how stupid all the story-wishers were. Our class had a whole discussion about what we would have done differently if we were the characters, and we were all kinds of smug about it. We would have wished so much smarter than those dumb story-people. Our wishes would have worked out a lot better.

But it's a totally different deal when you're out on the ice with a talking fish flopping between your mittens. When you really, really need something, you forget about using specific language and speaking clearly and not being too greedy and all the other unspoken laws for wishing. You blurt things without thinking. Things like “Let Abby come
home from college this weekend,” instead of “Let Abby come home from college this weekend. Let there not be anything wrong, and let her be available and happy to take me to the feis.” If I were in a story, readers would be rolling their eyes at how dumb my wish was.

But I'm not in a story. And I'm not on my way to the feis. I'm in an emergency room exam room with Abby and Dad, waiting for Abby's nurse to come back.

“I'm thinking of a word,” Dad says.

I sigh and look around. “Stethoscope?”

“Nope.” Dad looks at Abby. “Your turn.”

“This is stupid,” Abby says, crossing her arms tight over her chest. She's wearing a bulky UVM sweatshirt over her hospital gown, scowling out from under its green hood. “I need to go home and sleep and I'll be fine.”

Dad shakes his head. “The doctor says you're dehydrated and need IV fluids.”

Abby shakes her head. “So stupid.”

Dad sighs. “The word was tiramisu. It's an Italian dessert. In case anyone was wondering.”

The nurse comes back pushing a metal stand with two bags of liquid hanging from it. “I'm going to need you to take off your sweatshirt,” she tells Abby.

“It's freezing in here.” Abby hugs the thick fabric to her chest and looks at Dad. “Can't I try drinking some water instead? I bet I can keep it down now.”

“You can certainly try,” the nurse says, “but you need the IV too.”

“Seriously? Dad, come on . . .”

Abby can almost always get what she wants from Dad, but this time, he shakes his head. “Doc's orders. But I'll go get you a bottle of water and you can have that too, okay?”

“Thanks.” Abby waits until Dad leaves to take off her sweatshirt. The nurse is turned the other way, getting the needle ready so she can start Abby's IV. When she turns back, she takes Abby's hand. Then she stops and stares at the inside of Abby's elbow.

I look there too. Abby has an ugly purple and yellowish bruise. “Geez, Ab. What'd you do to your arm?” I ask.

The nurse glances my way, then looks back at Abby. “It's nothing,” Abby says. She pulls her arm back from the nurse and looks down at her hands in her lap. “I was messing around with some weights in the gym at school and dropped one on my arm.”

“I need to start your IV now,” the nurse says quietly. She looks at Abby, waiting, until Abby gives back her arm. The bruise looks awful, but the nurse finds Abby's vein and gets the IV started. She looks at Abby again. “Do you want to talk with me privately?”

Abby shakes her head. “I want to go home and sleep. Under a blanket.” She pulls her sweatshirt over her arms.

The nurse hesitates, then turns toward me. “Would you step outside a minute? I think—”

“She's fine,” Abby interrupts. “I don't want to talk. I want to finish and go home.”

The nurse sighs. She looks upset that Abby doesn't want to talk about her IV, which is weird. What else is there really to say? The nurse taps the first bag of liquid twice with her fingernail, then leaves and pulls the curtain closed behind her.

Abby turns right to me. “Don't tell Dad about my arm. He'll get on me for being careless.”

“He'd be right. You're lucky you only hurt your arm, Ab.”

“I know. I usually lift with Olivia and we spot for one another, but she had a sorority thing.” She shrugs. “Help me out, okay? I'm not in the mood for a lecture.”

Before I can answer, Dad hurries back in with two bottles of water, an orange Gatorade, and a blue energy drink. “What looks good?”

“Just the water, thanks.” Abby takes it, unscrews the top, and takes a tiny sip. She looks at me, and her eyes are question marks. I know she's waiting to see if I'll tell Dad about her bruise from weight lifting, but I can't understand why she's so worried. I've always kept Abby's secrets. I'm still the only person who knows she had a crush on Tim Hackett sophomore year of high school. She might not live here anymore now that she's in college, and maybe she's been lame about answering texts lately, but she's still my sister.

When we get home from the hospital Friday night, it's past dinnertime. Abby goes straight to bed. Dad and I order pizza. I'm almost asleep when Mom calls from her conference later, but I can hear Dad telling her Abby's okay, that she seemed much better after they got some fluid in her, that the doctor said she should be able to go back to school in a few days if all goes well. I wait for him to tell Mom what a good sport I was about missing my feis, how I got dragged around the hospital all afternoon and never even complained, but that doesn't come up.

On Saturday morning, I wake up with a treble jig in my head and an angry pit in my stomach. It's 8:50. I should have been up early, on my way to Montreal for the feis, but instead, I slept in.

I should be in my new solo dress by now, camped out on a blanket with Dasha with our dance bags and donuts, maybe practicing a few steps while the Beginners finish their dances. Feiseanna start with lower-level dancers and work their way up to the championship rounds after lunch. So we'd be dancing pretty soon if we were at the feis. Instead, Dasha's running work errands with her father, Dad's out picking up groceries, and I'm staying home “just in case Abby needs anything.”

Dasha was nice about it when I told her my parents couldn't take us, but I could tell she was just as disappointed as I was. Now, our next chance to dance at a feis is at the beginning of April. I know it's just two months—sixty boxes on the refrigerator calendar—but it feels forever away.

I pick up my room and read for a while, but even Harry Potter can't keep my attention. I put away the clean clothes Mom left on my dresser, tucking my Irish dance socks into the top drawer. When I clear away the laundry, I see that Mom's left a book of science fair ideas on my dresser. I pick it up, flop down on my bed, and flip through the pages.

Examining the motion of a pendulum.

Boring.

How algae reacts to variations in sunlight.

Who cares?

If we had a more energetic dog, we could do the experiment on the best way to train a pet, with treats or praise. But Denver doesn't perform for treats. He gets all he needs hanging out under the kitchen table.

I close the book and try to think of something else to fill up this crummy Saturday morning, but I can't help looking at the clock.

9:20—Dasha and I would be getting ready to dance now, lining up in front of the stage with our numbers pinned to our dresses. My new dress would be sparkling so much the judges would have to squint.

9:35—We'd be dancing in our soft shoes now—first the slip jig and then the reel.

10:00—We'd be in a break now. They usually have hot chocolate and donuts at the food stands. Dasha and I would be kneeling, leaning over chairs to eat our donuts, keeping the crumbs off our dresses.

10:20—Dasha and I would be waiting by the results wall to see how we did. In Irish dancing, it's all about where you rank compared to the other dancers. I bet we'd each have one first by now.

11:00—We'd be dancing either the hornpipe or the treble jig. I can't remember which, and looking at the schedule on the website would just make the pit in my stomach grow.

12:20—We'd be done dancing now, having what Mom calls “Pricey Feis Food” for lunch. Pizza, probably. The pizza is never good, but we end up laughing and talking our way through lunch, so even crummy pizza tastes okay.

1:15—Dasha and I would have our medals by now. Maybe enough so they'd clink together when we walk. I remember the first time I went to a feis. This girl—she must have been a Novice or Prizewinner—came in first in every one of her dances. She was walking around with all her gold medals clinking together, and I remember thinking, “That's going to be me someday. Someday I'm going to clink too.”

But I am not clinking today. I am not tapping or jigging or kicking either. Because Mom is off learning to be a better
nurse and Dad's watching some football game and I'm supposed to check in once in a while to see if Abby needs anything. Because Abby matters way more than I possibly could.

My Sunday is even worse than my Saturday. Everybody shows up for dance class wearing their medals and clinking all over the place.
Everybody
includes Catherine's flour baby, which has a silver medal draped over its onesie. It does not include Dasha and me, who are medal-less and quiet.

We're not practicing in hard shoes today, so I can't even stomp out my frustrations.

Stomping in soft shoes is impossible. It's like shouting into a pillow. No one hears you at all.

Chapter 10

All the Wrong Wishes

“So what's the big deal?” Drew says as we pull the sled out to the ice after his basketball practice on Monday. “There's feces all over the place on winter weekends.”

I give him a shove. “It's
feiseanna
. And that's true, but most are far away. I can't go to another feis until April now.”

“Whatever,” Drew says.

“Why are you so grouchy?”

“Because I was
supposed
to be done with basketball. I was
supposed
to get cut and not have to do this anymore. But my fancy sneakers worked some kind of weirdo magic and I ended up acing tryouts. Only now they don't work anymore, and I stink again.”

Oh no. Didn't I wish for Drew to be amazing at basketball? Or did I just ask the fish to make him good at tryouts?
Crud. Please don't let this be my fault. “Drew, you probably just had a bad day or something. I bet—”

“Not a bad day. A bad week. A bad
everything
, except for that one stupid hour at tryouts. I started our first game and didn't make a single shot. Coach took me out after ten minutes.”