Kasey & Ivy Page 8

  I have to tell you something. It’s a total secret though. Don’t tell anybody, especially my Mom. Here’s what happened.

  I was lying in bed today. Do I even have to say that, I wonder? Lying in bed seems to be all I do. There was nothing on the two channels of television (you can only watch preschool cartoons and boring golf so much), and I’ve read and reread all the books I have (Dad should be bringing in a new batch soon). So there I was, lying and staring at the clock, watching that smooth, red second hand swoop around and around. I’d peeked out of my doorway a little bit earlier to see how the infectious-disease stuff was going. There were a few rattling carts and gowned figures gliding around over by the desk. But it was pretty lonely at my end of the hall. So I shut the door, crawled back into bed and watched the clock.

  There was a knock on the door. This was odd. As I’ve told you before, almost nobody knocks in a hospital. And it was too early for “dinner” (which, by the way, has not improved).

  “Who is it?” I called warily, slipping on my mask and grabbing the pumper of hand sanitizer that Rosie gave me.

  Lizzy’s head poked around the door. Yes, Nina, that Lizzy. My Lizzy. My little sister! She slipped in, closed the door after her and pushed her mask up onto the top of her head.

  “Hi, Kasey,” she said, as if there was nothing unusual about her wandering into the hospital in the middle of a life-threatening epidemic. Well, hopefully at the end of a life-threatening epidemic.

  “Lizzy!” I struggled to sit up in bed. Ivy swayed her bag head and looked over in watery interest at my eight-year-old sister. “What are you doing here? Where are Mom and Dad?”

  “Oh, Mom’s at home with the others,” Lizzy said. “Dad’s down the hall at the desk, asking the nurses a bunch of questions. He’s being,” she said conspiratorially, “a distraction.” She came over and sat on the side of the bed. She was wearing a baggy hoodie and walked with her arms around her middle, like she was hugging herself. “I just thought I haven’t seen you for a while,” she said calmly. “And I promised you…” She unzipped the hoodie and out popped our little dog!

  “Squeakers!” I cried, as she jumped all over the bed, frantically wagging her whole back end like she does when she’s really, really excited. She covered my face with little dog-lick kisses. I was so happy to see her! Nobody can convince you you’ve been missed quite like a dog can.

  I told Lizzy she shouldn’t have come. I told her that she could get sick, Dad should have known better, that the hospital people wouldn’t like a dog being brought into the hospital, that she should have a gown, and gloves…

  “But it’s just for, like, five minutes,” Lizzy said. “You haven’t seen Squeakers for so long! So I told Dad I needed him to drive me and Squeakers to the hospital for five minutes. We came up the back stairs, and we didn’t touch anything or see anybody. And I’ve only got five minutes and then I have to meet Dad back downstairs! It’s exciting! Our secret, Kasey—between you and me and Dad. And Squeakers.”

  “Our secret!” I laughed. After weeks of nothing but hospital rules, I’d forgotten that some people don’t live by them. I cuddled my dog’s wiggly little body, wishing she and Lizzy could both stay. “You should go though. What if somebody sees you leave?”

  “Well, I thought of that,” Lizzy said slowly. “They pretty much would have to forgive me. I mean, they couldn’t put me in jail or anything.”

  She was right. I have to remember how Lizzy thinks. It’s a different way of thinking than anyone else I know. It is sometimes easier to ask forgiveness than get permission.

  “You’re a wonderful sister, Lizzy,” I said, stroking Squeakers’ silky ears and feeling like I was going to cry. “Thank you so much for coming.” I gave her a hug. “But you should go now. Wash your hands hard when you get home, for a long time. Lots of soap. In fact, have a bath too. Okay? Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  She gave me a hard, awkward hug.

  We stuffed Squeakers back down the hoodie (“It’s just until we get outside, Squeakers,” I heard Lizzy murmur), and she opened the door, looked out, turned and gave me a thumbs-up and a little wave, and then Lizzy was gone.

  It was the happiest five minutes of my whole hospital life.

  Your friend who’s letting you in on the secret,

  Kasey

  Nineteen

  Dear Nina,

  I’m in training.

  Yes, I’m in the hospital, and true, I do not have the use of my left arm. I also come attached to my training partner, Ivy (who, by the way, never complains about our fitness program—she’s a good sport). Also, the mask and gloves and gown are not optimal. But my bones are feeling all of them fine, just FINE, and I need to do something to stay well. I seemed to be lying in bed a lot, not even reading. Just staring at the clock or out the window and feeling depressed.

  My grandma wrote me a letter (and sent a box of cookies, which I inhaled in about an hour). Anyway, in the letter she said that when she broke her leg, she did all kinds of exercises right in her bed. So that got me thinking, and now I have a plan.

  I, Kasey Morgan, am determined to stay as healthy as humanly possible. How does a person do this? Obviously, by eating right and exercising. Everyone knows that. I can’t do much about the food bit (don’t get me started on the almost-cold beef-like substance and smeary peas in a whitish “gravy” from last night—I’m gagging as I write). But I can exercise.

  And let’s face it. I will get out of here one day (in fact, in ten days!), and I don’t want to be last in everything in our soccer practices when I do. And I feel happier about things now that I have a bit of a plan. More in control, less at the mercy of hospital life, less like a hospital patient.

  Want to hear my training schedule? It’s kind of pathetic, but I had to be creative. Remember that I don’t exactly have a track or gym equipment here.

  1) After breakfast (0800 hours):

  • ten fast laps of the unit (totally gowned and masked and not touching anything)

  • fifty squats in my room with the door closed

  • twenty Ivy lifts (she’s not as light as she looks)

  • hand sanitizing

  2) After lunch (1230 hours):

  • jogging hard on the spot for three sets of five minutes

  • twenty laps of my room with lunges

  • twenty book lifts with my heaviest Harry Potter

  • hand sanitizing

  3) After dinner (1730 hours):

  • ten laps of the unit (gowned, masked and not touching anything)

  • fifty wall push-ups (using that left arm really carefully to avoid it blowing up again)

  • 50 sit-ups (there’s no way I’m lying on that germy floor, so I do them in bed, which is harder)

  • hand sanitizing

  4) Middle of the night (0230 hours)—Ideally, all the exercise will tire me out, so these are optional, for if I’m awake:

  • five laps of the unit (gowned, masked, etc.) if a nurse doesn’t shoo me back to bed

  • fifty toe touches

  • stretching

  • hand sanitizing

  Not much variety, but I’ll let you know how it goes. I hope soccer is going well. That was a big win last week. Tell me, was Shelby’s goal a fluke? It was, wasn’t it? Knew it. Left midfielder’s always been my position (everybody knows that), so I hope she hasn’t gotten attached. That sounds kind of mean, but Nina, I miss it all so much. The running. The kicking. The sun, the grass, the air…Sorry, sounding a little pathetic here, and I didn’t mean to.

  Your friend in health and fitness,

  Kasey

  Twenty

  Dear Nina,

  Believe it or not, I am sitting outside. The sun feels strange and wonderful on my pale hospital skin. Don’t worry, I haven’t escaped.

  You know that little patch of grass outside the hospital, right by the parking lot? Well, maybe you don’t because it’s just a little patch of grass by the parking lot. Anyway, t
hat’s where I am. Me and six of the old folks, all lined up in wheelchairs, like a special people-parking section. I should tell you that I’m only sitting in a wheelchair because there’s nowhere else to sit. Ivy and I pushed my chair outside.

  I’m beside Missy Wong, who keeps squinting up at the sky and plucking at her shawl. She’s looking very thin and old and sad somehow, which just breaks my heart. She was sick with C. difficile, which has finally, thankfully, mercifully oozed out of our unit. Or so they told us anyway. I kept gowning and masking and handwashing for two more days to be extra sure. Where do those germy bacteria or viruses actually, technically go? I wonder. Do they die or sleep or what? Or does someone carry one or two of them on the bottom of their shoe (for example) to a whole other place where they multiply and spread and infect unsuspecting new people? Who knows? I hope Dad hasn’t carried them home or to his work. If I were a germ, I’d definitely pick him to hop a ride on.

  At first when we came outside (in a long, slow, wheely line of patients and nurses and porters), it seemed like a bit of a party, like those rare times we have class outside at school when the weather is nice. But now it’s a bit of an ordeal, to be honest. Ken and the new guy (which makes him sound young, but he’s not—at all) are asleep, two of the others are arguing loudly, and Sadie is asking nonstop what’s for lunch. Believe me, Sadie, you don’t want to know.

  I feel like making a break for it across the parking lot. I could do it too, Nina—I could run right out of here! With all my training, I could definitely outrun the nurses and porters (the triathlon nurse isn’t here). But there are curbs, so what would Ivy do? Plus, Rosie would be disappointed, and Louise wouldn’t have anyone to help her with the snack cart, and Missy Wong wouldn’t have anyone to push her down the hall, hold her hand, draw her pictures and cheer her up.

  So here I sit, flexing my feet and itching to run but stopping myself.

  Are you proud of me?

  Your friend who challenges you to a race the second I get home,

  Kasey

  Twenty-One

  Dear Nina,

  Thank you so much for the stuffie! It’s so cute and looks kind of like Squeakers, only with different colors. I’m calling her Sneakers, because she’s got four black feet. She’s officially a premium stuffie, a head-of-the-bed rather than a down-by-my-feet stuffie. I laughed at your card too. No, I’m not watching the evil-clown-puppet-movie sequel. Ever.

  Boy, was it nice to get your present today, especially after Dr. Roberts’s visit. Remember him? Dr. Robot? So he hasn’t come by ONCE since this whole thing started, and he gave me the one-month sentence in this place. You’d think he might have checked in maybe once, right? Just to see that my leg hasn’t actually fallen off? The lesser doctors (who are way nicer) have been by, but not the Robot himself.

  So I was surprised when he and another doctor walked into my room this morning. I was doing my squats but stopped, obviously, when they came in. Not stopping doing the squats would have been hilarious, come to think of it. How weird would I have looked?

  Anyway, here’s how it went.

  Dr. Robot (barely glancing at me while flipping through the chart): Well, ah, Katherine-Charlotte. How’s the leg?

  Me: Good. I’ve been doing—

  Dr. Robot: Inflammation down. Good. Well, another month in the hospital should do it.

  [DEAD SILENCE DURING WHICH I BELIEVE MY HEART ACTUALLY STOPPED]

  Me: What??? WHAT???

  Dr. Robot (barking laugh, like an alien that’s taken over a human body and doesn’t know how to do laughter yet): Mhar! Mhar!

  Other Doctor: He’s joking. Joking.

  Dr. Robot: Did you see her face? You’d think she wasn’t enjoying our hospitality! Mhar!

  And here I thought Dr. Robot didn’t have a sense of humor, Nina! Obviously he does. It’s just a freakishly mean one! Mhar!

  The nonalien other doctor paused at the door and gave me a two-thumbs-up sign and said, “End of next week you’ll be outta here! Enjoy the rest of your summer!” Thank you, other doctor.

  Your friend who is still shaking, and who officially hates Dr. Robot, but who only has a few days left,

  Kasey

  Twenty-Two

  Dear Nina,

  You remember how Lizzy broke all the rules by bringing Squeakers in here? Well, I broke some rules tonight—probably a lot of them—and I don’t even care.

  I was fast-walking my first lap of the unit, trying to tire myself out. It was about 2300 hours (11:00 PM). That’s a very quiet time, by the way. The two night nurses have just taken over from the tired evening nurses, and most of the patients are asleep. The unit is pretty quiet, except for the death snorer and a patient who always calls out in her sleep.

  I turned a corner and almost collided with—guess who? My old late-night, hall-walking buddy, Missy Wong! Alone, out of her wheelchair and making a break for it again. Only this time, she didn’t look excited or happy. She looked desperate and determined. And, for her, she was moving pretty fast.

  The Night Owl told me that Missy sometimes slips out of her bed at night even though they put up these rails and “secure her” so she won’t fall out. It’s for her own protection, the nurse said, because she could fall out of bed and break her hip or something. I’m glad she explained that to me, because if you don’t know the reason for it, all these old people strapped and barricaded in their beds just looks mean.

  Anyway, here she was, in the quiet back hallway, heading for the exit.

  I pushed Ivy around in front of her and tried to talk to her, to look into her eyes. She didn’t even pause, she was that focused. She has this way of looking at you as if she’s not looking at you but at something bigger than you, if you know what I mean. As if you’re only a piece of some big puzzle she’s been doing for years inside her brain. She reminded me of my sister Lizzy, who thinks differently than pretty much anybody in the world. Maybe that’s how I solved the problem—thinking like Lizzy.

  Missy Wong grabbed my arm with her little bird hand and started hauling me along with her, like a little kid tugging at her mom. We lurched and leaned and shuffled forward until she stopped dead in the silence of that back hallway. She grabbed my hand with her shaky one and pointed it down at her shawl.

  That shawl again. Always the shawl. Rosie told me that as long as she’s worked here, she’s never seen Missy Wong without it. They even have to wait until she’s asleep to pull it away from her to wash it, and they get it back to her by the time she wakes up.

  Was all this pointing at the shawl random? I wondered. Was it just that she was so old, and the shawl was so familiar, like one of my stuffies, that it was comforting to her to point at it and stroke it? Or was it more than that? Was there some meaning in the shawl, some message? What if she’d really been trying to say something, in Missy Wong shawl language, all this time? What if I tried her language for a change and really listened to her? It was like a mystery, Nina, and I felt like the shawl was the key.

  She held out a part of the shawl with her free hand and ran my fingers over it with the other. I felt the thick, silky embroidery like it was a raised map. Over the tiny bumps of the people in the fields, around the swirls of the peacock’s feathers, down the thick, smooth river. And, finally, up the winding, spiky dragon, up, up, up the tower to the stars. She stopped my fingers at the stars. And she held them there.

  The stars! I remembered Louise saying she’d caught Missy Wong trying to get “upstairs.” I’d found her trying to get upstairs before. Both times were at night. Maybe we’d just assumed she wanted to go upstairs because she was pointing up. Maybe up meant more than just upstairs. Maybe up meant up beyond the roof and into the sky and out into the universe. Maybe she wanted to look up at night and see the stars! Could it be that simple?

  I circled my finger on the shawl’s spiky, silvery stars. I thought about how Lizzy had brought in Squeakers against the rules. And about how rules made things easier for the people in charge but sometimes weren�
�t so great for the people who had to live under them. I mean, some of these old people might actually want to eat dinner at, say, six o’clock. Or seven even. But dinner here, whether you like it or not, whether you’re hungry or not, is at 5:00 PM (1700 hours). And as far as I can tell from my time here, they only get the old folks (and me) outside occasionally, and only during the day. Never at night.

  When was the last time Missy Wong had seen the stars?

  I thought about the nurses on duty tonight. The Night Owl and the Grumbler. Neither one of them would understand that Missy Wong wanted to go outside. The Night Owl knew her rules, and she’d cluck about patients needing to be in bed by 9:00 PM (2100 hours). She’d be cheerful about it, but there would be no way she’d say, “Sure, great idea! I’m a night creature myself, so I totally understand.”

  The Grumbler would see it as a stupid hassle involving more work. But I thought about how happy that five minutes with Squeakers had made me. Couldn’t I give Missy Wong five minutes, just five minutes, with the stars?

  “Missy Wong,” I said, giving her arm a little pat, “let’s go outside.” I pointed up. Her feet started moving in that excited up-down way.

  How does a kid smuggle a little old lady out of the hospital, Nina? Carefully. Quietly. And with a bit of luck. I remembered that the Grumbler was in room 216 because I’d just passed by there. I looked up at Ivy and her bag head nodded gently, agreeing with me. But where was the Night Owl?

  You know how sometimes things work out even better than you’d hoped? That doesn’t happen often, but every once in a while, it’s a nice surprise. Like that time at school when I didn’t even order the hot lunch (and instead had a smelly tuna sandwich on that dry, grainy bread Mom makes that I hate), but there was an extra pizza because William was sick so I got it? This was a bit like that. There was nobody at the unit desk. Nobody down the hall. Nobody near the elevators. And the elevator doors opened the second I pushed the Down button. It worked perfectly, even though my heart was hammering and I was bracing myself for a swoop from the Night Owl the whole time. Missy Wong just looked excited. The three of us got into the elevator without a problem. Ivy made a little noise rattling over the metal elevator bump, but she couldn’t help it.