Room 209
He opened the glass door for her, and she walked with trepidation into the building. The harsh lights in the hospital corridor buzzed angrily as they waited for an elevator. The girl shook her head, tapped her toes.
The elevator rose in one swift movement, making her feel like her stomach had dropped into her shoes. With a whoosh of air, the door slid open and they began their trek to the room. The girl was silent rounding the nurses' station. She clutched her jacket more closely around her as she padded down the hall in her sneakered feet. Don't look, she thought. Just stare straight ahead and you'll be fine.
But she did look; they made her look, made her take notice, of their scars and wounds and pain. A low moan floated out into the corridor, and te girl snuck a peek - an old woman, pale as milk, writhing about; her gnarled hands twisted at the blanket, bones and bluish veins showing through papery skin.
The girl's eyes turned dark, troubled. She hastened her steps to keep up with her father's long strides. Further down the hallway, past thermometers and blood pressure machines, hand sanitizers, glove boxes. There was a sharp smell of disinfectant.
"Hey, Dad," the girl's father said to a form on the bed; he tried to keep an upbeat tone. "How ya doin'?"
A nurse was taking his blood pressure, frowning at the readout on a small digitized screen, marking a chart. The old man beneath wrinkled white sheets, his head listing to one side. It twitched occasionally; the girl thought he might be nodding, until his arms began to follow suit.
He opened his eyes and looked at her. "Emily!" he said, drunkenly. "How are you?" One eye partially shuttered. The girl looked at the floor.
"Doin' good," she replied, scuffing the floor with her sneaker. She stood with her back to the wall, watching the nurse fuss with his IVs. Her father asked questions while she watched the sleek black ponytail of the nurse bob about as she worked.
When the nurse had gone, wheeling the blood pressure machine in front of her, Emily cautiously approached the bed. A chalky white paste flecked his lips. Grey faced under the fluorescents. Crepey skin under his chin, to his chest. His arms, thin and wobbly, covered in abrasions and sores, oozing with bright arterial blood. And his stomach, round and taut as a drum under the pale-blue hospital gown. He looks like he swallowed a watermelon, she thought.
"You in school?" he asked her.
"Yeah, I had class this morning."
"Thass good . . . Siddown, there's . . . a chair . . . somewhere."
"No, it's okay," she answered, eyeing the chair in the corner behind the tubes. "I sit all day at school." Her back was killing her - too much concrete.
"They tell me . . . they tell me ta eat. How can I? Bellyfulla warter . . . can't eat. I gotta, though. They said. They tell me . . . I gotta eat."
Emily thought of a fast food jingle. It continued to play in a loop, while she racked her brain for something to say. Feeling strange, lightheaded, she hoped her father would talk. "What's on your mouth?" he asked.
"Eh?"
"You got white stuff all ova your mouth - what is it? They give you a pill?"
"Pill? What pill?"
"Did they give you pills?"
"Oh . . . they give me all sorts of pills. I hate pills. I feel so sick."
"I know, Dad. That's why you're in here."
"I just want to die."
Silence. Emily counted the cracks in the linoleum beneath her feet, tapping her toes absently.
"There's a chair in here . . . somewhere . . . isn't there? Siddown," her grandfather said.
This time, she accepted his offer, and carefully wended her way around the tubes and wires and cords, sinking gratefully into a very worn chair with a white cloth.
Her father took some papers out of his wallet. "You should call Eunice," he said, carefully dialing the phone. Emily's grandfather drooped his eyelids and made no reply.
"Aunt Eunice? It's Tom. Tom, Jr. . . ."
As he conversed, Emily heard conversation on the other side of the blue privacy curtain.
"He's got high blood pressure now, too. I'm prayin' for 'im."
A bag rustled, and the smell of French fries wafted through the air, making Emily's mouth water.
"I gotchoo some Powerade - the red kine." Emily wished she had something to drink, something to do with her hands other than sliding them over her knees in a continual downward motion.
She looked at the clock. It was 3:30. They had been there a half hour. She was tired and wanted to go home.
Her grandfather was terminal, they said. She knew she was being selfish, but she did not want to be here, in this hospital, with the pain so palpable and the faint scent of sickness permeating everything.
Her grandfather's voice broke into her thoughts and scattered them. "Yeah, I heard about Angie," he said into the phone. "It's terrible. She's in the hospital . . . She's in rehab . . . I hope she gets better . . . I hope she gets better . . . I hope she gets better . . . I hope she gets better . . . I hope she gets better . . . I hope she gets better . . . Okay," handing the phone to his son. He finished the conversation lucidly, then hung up.
"She's got cancer. I thought she had cancer."
"It came back."
"Why? Why does it come back? That goddamned cancer . . . where does it come from?"
"Lots of different things, Dad."
"Angie never ate good. . . I eat everything. . . Too picky . . . makes you sick . . . I eat everything . . . I gotta eat . . . they say I gotta eat . . . I can't, though."
"I know, but you have to try."
"I liked those clame, you know."
"You mean the mussels."
Emily thought back to Christmas Day; the dinner at the Chinese buffet, where her grandpa had eaten three plates of mussels, among other things. He had been sickly then, but now, he looked as if he had already knocked the Death's door, and was merely waiting for it to be opened.
"Yeah, I really liked those clams."
"I could get you some mussels if you'd eat 'em."
"The clams were good . . . I'd eat them all the time."
"I don't think he could eat them," Emily finally spoke. She continued, quietly, "He hasn't eaten anything in days. He can't get anything down; you'd have to give him something smaller first."
"Well, we could try. I'd eat them if he doesn't."
"He'll probably forget by tomorrow." She instantly regretted saying it, but her father seemed to agree.
His eyes began to droop with weariness once more, so they said their goodbyes and walked out to the elevator. Once inside, her father danced about to make her smile.
Emily passed quickly through the glass doors to fresh air and sky, and she gulped several times before stopping at the car.
The elevator rose in one swift movement, making her feel like her stomach had dropped into her shoes. With a whoosh of air, the door slid open and they began their trek to the room. The girl was silent rounding the nurses' station. She clutched her jacket more closely around her as she padded down the hall in her sneakered feet. Don't look, she thought. Just stare straight ahead and you'll be fine.
But she did look; they made her look, made her take notice, of their scars and wounds and pain. A low moan floated out into the corridor, and te girl snuck a peek - an old woman, pale as milk, writhing about; her gnarled hands twisted at the blanket, bones and bluish veins showing through papery skin.
The girl's eyes turned dark, troubled. She hastened her steps to keep up with her father's long strides. Further down the hallway, past thermometers and blood pressure machines, hand sanitizers, glove boxes. There was a sharp smell of disinfectant.
"Hey, Dad," the girl's father said to a form on the bed; he tried to keep an upbeat tone. "How ya doin'?"
A nurse was taking his blood pressure, frowning at the readout on a small digitized screen, marking a chart. The old man beneath wrinkled white sheets, his head listing to one side. It twitched occasionally; the girl thought he might be nodding, until his arms began to follow suit.
He opened his eyes and looked at her. "Emily!" he said, drunkenly. "How are you?" One eye partially shuttered. The girl looked at the floor.
"Doin' good," she replied, scuffing the floor with her sneaker. She stood with her back to the wall, watching the nurse fuss with his IVs. Her father asked questions while she watched the sleek black ponytail of the nurse bob about as she worked.
When the nurse had gone, wheeling the blood pressure machine in front of her, Emily cautiously approached the bed. A chalky white paste flecked his lips. Grey faced under the fluorescents. Crepey skin under his chin, to his chest. His arms, thin and wobbly, covered in abrasions and sores, oozing with bright arterial blood. And his stomach, round and taut as a drum under the pale-blue hospital gown. He looks like he swallowed a watermelon, she thought.
"You in school?" he asked her.
"Yeah, I had class this morning."
"Thass good . . . Siddown, there's . . . a chair . . . somewhere."
"No, it's okay," she answered, eyeing the chair in the corner behind the tubes. "I sit all day at school." Her back was killing her - too much concrete.
"They tell me . . . they tell me ta eat. How can I? Bellyfulla warter . . . can't eat. I gotta, though. They said. They tell me . . . I gotta eat."
Emily thought of a fast food jingle. It continued to play in a loop, while she racked her brain for something to say. Feeling strange, lightheaded, she hoped her father would talk. "What's on your mouth?" he asked.
"Eh?"
"You got white stuff all ova your mouth - what is it? They give you a pill?"
"Pill? What pill?"
"Did they give you pills?"
"Oh . . . they give me all sorts of pills. I hate pills. I feel so sick."
"I know, Dad. That's why you're in here."
"I just want to die."
Silence. Emily counted the cracks in the linoleum beneath her feet, tapping her toes absently.
"There's a chair in here . . . somewhere . . . isn't there? Siddown," her grandfather said.
This time, she accepted his offer, and carefully wended her way around the tubes and wires and cords, sinking gratefully into a very worn chair with a white cloth.
Her father took some papers out of his wallet. "You should call Eunice," he said, carefully dialing the phone. Emily's grandfather drooped his eyelids and made no reply.
"Aunt Eunice? It's Tom. Tom, Jr. . . ."
As he conversed, Emily heard conversation on the other side of the blue privacy curtain.
"He's got high blood pressure now, too. I'm prayin' for 'im."
A bag rustled, and the smell of French fries wafted through the air, making Emily's mouth water.
"I gotchoo some Powerade - the red kine." Emily wished she had something to drink, something to do with her hands other than sliding them over her knees in a continual downward motion.
She looked at the clock. It was 3:30. They had been there a half hour. She was tired and wanted to go home.
Her grandfather was terminal, they said. She knew she was being selfish, but she did not want to be here, in this hospital, with the pain so palpable and the faint scent of sickness permeating everything.
Her grandfather's voice broke into her thoughts and scattered them. "Yeah, I heard about Angie," he said into the phone. "It's terrible. She's in the hospital . . . She's in rehab . . . I hope she gets better . . . I hope she gets better . . . I hope she gets better . . . I hope she gets better . . . I hope she gets better . . . I hope she gets better . . . Okay," handing the phone to his son. He finished the conversation lucidly, then hung up.
"She's got cancer. I thought she had cancer."
"It came back."
"Why? Why does it come back? That goddamned cancer . . . where does it come from?"
"Lots of different things, Dad."
"Angie never ate good. . . I eat everything. . . Too picky . . . makes you sick . . . I eat everything . . . I gotta eat . . . they say I gotta eat . . . I can't, though."
"I know, but you have to try."
"I liked those clame, you know."
"You mean the mussels."
Emily thought back to Christmas Day; the dinner at the Chinese buffet, where her grandpa had eaten three plates of mussels, among other things. He had been sickly then, but now, he looked as if he had already knocked the Death's door, and was merely waiting for it to be opened.
"Yeah, I really liked those clams."
"I could get you some mussels if you'd eat 'em."
"The clams were good . . . I'd eat them all the time."
"I don't think he could eat them," Emily finally spoke. She continued, quietly, "He hasn't eaten anything in days. He can't get anything down; you'd have to give him something smaller first."
"Well, we could try. I'd eat them if he doesn't."
"He'll probably forget by tomorrow." She instantly regretted saying it, but her father seemed to agree.
His eyes began to droop with weariness once more, so they said their goodbyes and walked out to the elevator. Once inside, her father danced about to make her smile.
Emily passed quickly through the glass doors to fresh air and sky, and she gulped several times before stopping at the car.