The Shells Of Chanticleer (3 page)

They rolled me up to the ICU and settled me in, hooking up the monitors and talking in serious tones about my case to the shift nurses.

I heard the doctor diagnose me in a flat monotone: “Sepsis, and fast-moving” but when he told my parents to prepare themselves for the worst, that was the moment when I realized that I might actually die in that ugly electronic room. There was no one word, no perfect combination of vowels and consonants, which could aptly describe how I felt right then. Panicked and terrified came close, but still fell short.

I was only sixteen. I had spent my whole life waiting for the day to come when I could break free from the rigidity of the school year, when I could be somewhere else in September besides a classroom. If it were all to end there, and now I understood that it was more than a remote possibility, then I would never know the thrill of traveling to distant cities, dressing up for the ball, falling in love. I had had my last Christmas. Never would I have the chance to grow or change, to become someone new. I would be frozen in time as this sixteen-year old klutz who had tripped, fallen, and then died. I was on the endangered species list, I was going to be as dead as Balthazar.

Trying to quell my panic, I looked for any kind of distraction. There was a large black bruise on my hand where the intravenous lines went in. I noticed a little bluish pink coloring underneath the black, and it reminded me of that kindergarten art project where you scribbled pink, then blue, then purple crayon onto a blank paper, and then covered all of that with black crayon. Then you took a popsicle stick and scraped off a smiley face, letting the pink and purple and blue shine through from underneath.

I took the closest thing to a popsicle stick I could find from the tray in front of me and started scraping and then digging at the black crayon, carving a smiley face in my soft skin as I went. It was pretty. A little bloody, perhaps, but really pretty.

And then they were all over me, strong, muscular arms holding me down, pulling the plastic knife I was using to dig into my hand out of my grasp. I felt the pressure where they reinserted the intravenous line back into my hand, and felt the sticky white tape being lapped over and over, locking in the clear plastic tubing. They weren’t happy with me.

“I didn’t mean it,” I said. “I’m sorry.” But I wanted to know why they wouldn’t give me the stick back and let me finish the picture. I just wanted to add one little curly strand of hair on the top of the head. The doctor, two nurses, and my dad, stood at the end of the bed, watching me. I felt on display, like I had been captured and stuffed in a case in the natural history museum.

“Millennium Girl. Species: Humanoid. Situation: Critical,” my plaque would read.

The black-haired doctor who had my case was not pleased with me. He had been the strongest of them all; his white jacket had practically smothered me as he had reached across the bed to hold down my wriggling arm as I fought with them. There couldn’t be more episodes like that, he scolded me. I rolled my eyes. I hadn’t meant to screw things up. He talked to my parents as if I wasn’t there.

It was typical for patients in my state to be slightly confused, delirious even. At the same time it was imperative that I conserved my energy. My body had a lot of work to do; it was in a race against time. I needed to kick this doozy of an infection before my organs were permanently damaged. The infection could kill me.

They said they had to consider all their options. Heavy sedation, possibly an induced coma, would stop my restlessness and increase my odds of survival.

“She’s far from being out of the woods. Putting her under will give her more of a fighting chance. It won’t hurt her, she won’t even know it’s happening,” the doctor persuaded.

My frightened parents nodded their consent.

I heard the nurse ask for their signatures, here, there, at the X, and to date it, please. The doctor was hovering over me, summoning his best bedside manner as he spoke to me.

“Macy,” he said. “We are going to give you a sedative to make you go to sleep, okay? It will help your brain activity relax; your body can use the energy it has to fight this infection, okay? You might have some strong dreams, but it is not going to hurt. You won’t even know it’s happening. So you just sleep tight and before you know it we’ll be waking you up. Okay, dear?”

I nodded or maybe just stared blankly back into his face. Honestly, I was so scared that I welcomed the idea of a drug-induced oblivion.
What I don’t know can’t hurt me,
I figured. In a few minutes a new clear bag was brought in and hooked up to my IV line. I saw the clear liquid start to flow toward my arm and wondered if it would feel icy cold or burning hot when it entered my bloodstream. I braced myself for either.

Everyone stood frozen and stiff, watching me, their eyes darting from my face to the monitor and then back to me again. I looked at the monitor where my numbers were steadily dropping, but inside I wasn’t slowing down. Well, I’m not under yet, I thought.

I looked out the window framed by the thick vinyl curtains, waiting to be overcome. Outside the sky was still a rosy pink, not quite night yet. I saw the parking lot lights switch on all at the same time. They burned white and bright, obedient sentinels spaced perfectly in the sky.

I glanced back at my audience and wanted to give them all a brief wave good night – so long, farewell,
auf wiederesehen
, goodbye – like the VonTrapp family singers, but my hands were all tangled in wires and I was too tired to move them anyway. I felt a lot of pressure being stared at nonstop, so I turned back to watch my light bulb friends out in the sky. It had really been a weird day. Not one of my best.

There was an errant light bulb amongst the group; I noticed it clearly. It began to gorge and ooze, its voltage surging then dwindling, light seeping out from its metal casing and dripping down the steel of the pole. More giddy streams of light escaped and went shooting out across the pink sky in comet-like swirls until they hit an invisible glass wall and dripped down in white streaky blobs that pooled on the pot-holed pavement.

How odd,
I thought.

I tried to shout out, “Maintenance man needed in the parking lot, STAT!” But I couldn’t find the words. Oh shoot, there was another light bulb bursting, oozing and goo-ing just like the other naughty one. Then they all went haywire in the next second, exploding and popping, foaming and drooling, some fizzling like fireworks, creating a terrible blinding beauty, pop, pop, pop.

Wherever I looked the light bulbs were exploding until eventually the entire sky was obscured by a wave of maddeningly pure light. I had to shut my eyes to keep my retinas from being blinded; it was a total eclipse of the sun. Or was it the heart? One of those. Anyway, I knew I shouldn’t stare into an eclipse; I just had to keep my eyes shut for as long as possible until it went away. I didn’t want to die without my eyeballs; I definitely wanted to see what heaven looked like. So I hid behind the black of my eyelids for what seemed like a very long time but may have only been for a split second. I couldn’t tell, and I had no way of knowing.

After what seemed like a decent interval I sensed it was safe to open my eyes. With relief, I saw that they had moved me from the ICU. I was lying in the middle of a large four-poster bed constructed from real tree trunks. Their branches met over my head in a gentle canopy. Yellow leaves on rubbery stems dangled down here and there. The peeling bark of the branches was transparent white, exactly like the twig that had famously jabbed me.

I sat up in the bed. A double-sided white fur blanket covered me. Plump, downy pillows lined the headboard. The bed was stuffed into a miniature room, the tips of the bedposts nearly skimming the ceiling; there was room for nothing else. The walls were newly-sawn yellow wood. Through two small windows I saw more white trees and the pink sky of the setting sun. Heat was pumping into the room from somewhere; it smelled like the first cold morning of autumn, fresh and heavenly. Time must have stopped for me. Even the sunset I was watching from my hospital bed had yet to happen.

I barely had a chance to take in my surroundings when there was an insistent pounding at my door. I jumped, realizing suddenly that I was free from the tubes and wires that had been both holding me down and keeping me going. The big black bruise on my hand was gone. My hair was dry, the hospital gown gone. I felt whole and energetic, ready to go.

“Well, I’m glad that’s over,” I said to myself.

I went to the window and looked outside. Two girls were standing at the door, staring at me. Impatiently, they motioned for me to open it. I did what they wanted.

As I inched the door open and stuck my head out, they announced, “Greetings, Macy!”

I answered tentatively, “Hello.”

How do they know my name?

I looked at the girls. One was tall with masses of blonde curls that fell to her shoulders. The other was shorter with straight black hair cut short, with bangs skimming her big brown eyes. I noticed they were dressed alike in navy blazers—like proper schoolgirls in uniforms.

“We’ve come to collect you. Come on, let’s get going!”

I stared at them, not knowing what to think. “Are you nurses?”

“Don’t be silly. We’re not old enough,” said the black-haired girl.

No. That was dumb of me.

“Go where?”

“Why, to the girls’ home, silly! Believe me, you don’t want to live with the boys,” the tall blonde said, laughing at the idea. “By the way, I’m Violet, and this is Zooey.” She grabbed my hand and pumped it enthusiastically. “We are going to be great friends.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I replied, remembering my manners.

“We brought you a little something to drink,” said Zooey, as she pulled a slender silver thermos out from a backpack. “Warm caramel sugar.” She unscrewed the top and poured a thick golden drink into the lid. An intoxicating sweet smell filled the room.

She held the cup under my nose and smiled at me, her brown eyes trying to convince me to take a drink. “MMM, doesn’t it smell delicious?”

I didn’t realize how thirsty I was and, although I never ever took anything from strangers, I took the cup and drank, feeling the cool aluminum against my lips give way to a steamy liquefied caramel goodness. It was the perfect temperature, not tongue-burning hot nor too cool, and tasted as good as it smelled. It seemed as if the liquid trickled down through my limbs and into every sinewy nerve ending like magic sap. It made me feel golden inside, if there is such a thing.

“Let’s go. We’ve got to get back,” they exclaimed, opening the door and motioning me out of the hut hurriedly.

But I didn’t like being rushed. I looked at my bare feet and the red flannel pajama pants that I had worn to the hospital. I was not sure what to do next. I was freed from the hospital, but far from home. I didn’t know if I wanted to go anywhere other than back to sleep under that amazing fur blanket.

I stalled. “Is this a trick? How much did Will and Colin pay you?”

The girls were probably Colin’s friends; they would all laugh at how gullible I was later.

I watched their faces for signs that they were in cahoots, but both stared blankly back at me.

“Who are Will and Colin?” Zooey asked. Then Violet added, “No, they only asked for you.”

How bizarre,
I thought. They were totally sincere. Half of me was saying,
Stay put. The real nurses are on their way and will be angry if I go missing.
The other half was saying,
I should make a run for it.
I glanced around the tiny lumber-room at the indoor-tree bed, the fur covers, the warm drink, the magnetic way the new girls looked at me. It all seemed weird and wonderful but safe at the same time, enough that I wanted to see what happened next. I needed a vacation, a change of scene. I decided to take a chance and follow them.

Still, I promised myself that I would only go so far as to see this girls’ home they were talking about. I wouldn’t commit to anything, or sign any paperwork. I had no credit cards or cash either. I assumed they knew that and told them as much. My plan was to mark my tracks and then return to the hut for a good night’s sleep before the doctors knew I was gone.

“How long will this take?” I asked as I stepped over the threshold, but Zooey and Violet were charging ahead and didn’t hear me.

The girls plodded ahead silently, occasionally looking back to encourage me with a smile but walking swiftly and purposely as if they were being timed. I picked my way carefully between the tall towers of skinny white trunks on a ground thick with a layer of fallen leaves, the pink setting sun filling in between the lines. I was fine with following them from a distance. The black-haired doctor had said I wasn’t out of the woods yet. I wondered if these girls had come to show me the way.

I glanced over my shoulder at the little hut. Its slanting roof was covered with a layer of emerald moss. The birch tree forest that surrounded the hut was evenly laid out, every tree identical, standing stick straight and silent. There were no physical markers that might help me find my way back, no way to tell which direction I had come from. A few degrees to the right or a few degrees to the left and I would miss the little hut upon my return. I was terrible with directions to begin with. Plus, exactly how does one mark one’s track wearing only a sweatshirt and sweatpants and in bare feet? I had no breadcrumbs. Or potato chip crumbs. A granola bar would crumble if I had one, but I didn’t. Jeez, I was hungry. Coming back might not be so easy after all, I realized. Oh well. Too late now. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I was venturing.

Finally the birch tree forest broke and a paved path appeared. Zooey and Violet turned back and waved me forward. Ahead, a massive grey stone wall stretched for miles on either side. It was the type of fortress I had seen hundreds of times before in fairytales and movies. A navy blue and white standard flew from a flagpole. A layer of thick mist hovered a good inch above the ground. An immense iron gate topped with swirls and curlicues and an ornately carved capital letter C was slowly opening as we approached.