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  Word I Never Thought I'd Use About Claire

  Flabby.

  Medical Update

  Dr. Hazel is the big star around here. He's more like a TV doctor than geeky Dr. Cooper: dark hair with silver threads, brown eyes that pay attention. The nurses flurry when he's expected or when he's in the corridor, with other doctors trailing.

  So when Dad steps into his path today and says, “Hey, I'd like a word with you,” I can see the flank guards ready to drag him down. Mom went to pick up Aunt Jeanie, so she's not here to interfere.

  But Dr. Hazel looks at Dad and he stops his sailing doctor-walk and puts on that special face for families. He ushers us quickly away from the nurses' station, into a little office with only one chair. So we stand, too close together. I'm sweating and I keep my arms pressed down, hoping I don't stink.

  “Mr. Johnson,” he says. “And?”

  “Natalie.”

  “Yes, Natalie. I know this is a difficult time for you.”

  “What can you tell us, Dr. Hazel?” Dad is fidgety, abrupt.

  “We've been watching Claire very carefully,” he says. “And performing ongoing physical examinations. What we'd like to see is a response to any one of several tests that would indicate some cognitive function.”

  “And?” says Dad.

  It's way too hot in here.

  “So far there's nothing.”

  Nothing. He said “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? But, that doesn't necessarily mean … You can't just say that's it, right? That she's a … a vegetable?” says Dad. “I've been doing some reading about this….”

  Dr. Hazel sighs. Not out loud, but his eyes sort of click out of focus, like they're sighing.

  “There are plenty of cases,” Dad goes on, “where the medical guys say there's no chance, but the patient somehow wakes up after a prolonged period of time and turns out to be okay. There was this one case I found on the Internet, about a man in Jacksonville, Florida, and he—”

  “Dad,” I say.

  “His family never gave up,” says Dad. “They talked to him and they prayed and they—”

  Dr. Hazel pulls a pen out of the chest pocket of his white coat. He makes a note on his clipboard and then just taps the pen a few times till Dad pauses.

  “None of us can discount what seem like miracles,” the doctor says. “But they are very, very rare. The more time that goes by without reaction, the more … the likelihood of recovery diminishes.”

  “If she gets transferred to a bigger hospital?” says Dad. “Where they have more equipment?”

  “Claire is getting the best possible care right where she is, Mr. Johnson. I promise you that. After surgery there's often a waiting period before we can assess how the body adjusts. We let the sedative subside and keep watching for… some sort of response to stimulation. At this point, we're about, oh, roughly thirty-six hours after surgery?”

  “You would know,” says Dad in a voice tight with, I'd say tight with agony.

  “Yes,” says Dr. Hazel, glancing at his gold watch. “We'll take a look at Claire again tomorrow morning, and likely schedule an EEG first thing Wednesday. Until then, get rest if you can.”

  I step backward out of his way, opening the door, knowing he's done. He nods to me, flashing some brown-eyed pity, and goes away. Dad's head is bowed, and he just stands there.

  “Come on, Dad.” I slide my hand into his and give him a tug.

  “I need a minute.”

  “Okay,” I say. “I'll go find Mom. I'll be right back.”

  Did You Ever See Dad Cry?

  Okay, Claire, I'm going to tell you the saddest thing.

  Dad and I talked to Dr. Hazel and then I went to find Mom. She wasn't in your room and I checked the lobby. Aunt Jeanie's train was late, maybe. I went back up to the fifth floor and I could see Dad in the lounge reserved for freaked-out families. It's separate from the regular place; the sofas are fabric instead of vinyl, and there are table lamps with cheesy maroon shades instead of fluorescent lighting.

  When I look down the hall and through the glass door, it's like seeing Dad through a spyglass, this hunched-over man, waiting for the next blow to fall.

  I slide down next to him on the nasty brown tweed and bump shoulders, letting him know I'm there.

  He doesn't say anything. But then he shudders and spits out this deep, gargling sob. His face squints up and his eyes are squeezed shut, so only the tiniest trickle leaks out. It's as if his tears have never been called on and there's nothing in there. It looks painful, and he's making this bleating noise.

  I twist around and try to hug him. He grabs on and throws his whole shaking weight against me, like I'm the only hope. The only hope. My shirt rides up in back and the scratchy upholstery is scraping my skin. Tears swamp my eyes. Dad's clinging to me, and it's the most wretched thing that has ever happened.

  Since the … accident… I haven't really … looked at him. I haven't ignored him, exactly, but he's been busy looking up cures online and hovering over Mom and figuring out who to blame and if there's anybody to sue and I just haven't paid attention.

  But now he's not letting go; he's heaving and holding me tighter and tighter so I can't breathe. I've stopped crying, but how am I supposed to pull away? If a boy did this to me I'd scream, Get the hell off me, you freaking skeeze, but it's my dad and it's getting scary.

  He's lost his mind. Bawling, out of control.

  What if he actually has lost his mind? What if this is it? I'm witnessing the total collapse of a normal man.

  The door opens and the nurse, Florence, comes in. She notices us and tips her head. But what is she actually seeing? Maybe nothing is a surprise in the distressed families lounge.

  “Help.” It's just a croak, but she hears me. She calls to someone in the hallway and then slides in, quiet on those heinous puffy white shoes.

  “Honey,” she says, touching my head.

  And then she settles her nurse's hands on Dad's shoulders, reminders of civilization, of how fathers are supposed to be no matter what. Dad gulps, pulling in breaths like a little kid recovering. My mind repeats that word, recovering. Like a little kid recovering from a bike bump or a stubbed toe—and then I hear another thought.

  There will be no recovery.

  We are broken. Even fathers break.

  It started with you, Claire, the one broken person. But there is never only one broken person.

  Aunt Jeanie

  “Natalie!” Aunt Jeanie hurls herself at me, squeezing my breath away.

  “Un Jee,” I say, my greeting muffled with my mouth crammed into her burgundy shoulder pad, bugging my eyes at Mom.

  “How are you, baby?” Jeanie cups my face in her hands, trying to peer into my soul. “This is a big, hard punch, Natalie. There's no hiding from this one.”

  “Uh—”

  “Jeanie, don't start,” says Mom. Her little sister can drive her from mild to exasperated to insane in seconds.

  “What we have to do is to share our strength and punch back! If we visualize Claire standing on her feet again, we can make it happen! Am I right?”

  “ Uh-huh,” I say. Aunt Jeanie's voice is way too loud. She's bigger and rounder than my mother, even though she's younger. She's jollier too, except right now jolly is so wrong.

  “Mom? Dad's in there.” I point to the lounge, where he's sipping a Coke and gripping an ice cube in his fist.

  “You take me to see Claire,” says Aunt Jeanie, propelling me along the corridor. “We'll tell her that we're all pulling for her, eh?”

  Wishful Thinking

  I'm not sure what Aunt Jeanie was expecting, but it wasn't anything like this. I can only see her eyes above the mask, but they go wet and afraid as all her positive thinking melts into the humming quiet of Claire's room. I notice I have a stomachache from hoping she was right all along.

  How We Make Room for New Truths

  You don't look quite so bad today, actually.

  It's scary how a person
adjusts to being able to say that. To being able to see that. Because you're lying in a hospital with tubes crawling in and out of your body like garter snakes, but you don't look quite as… bad as you did yesterday. The bruises on your face are fading, sort of. To yellow.

  It makes me think about that time we went tobogganing with Leah and Ben Skipton before they moved to Texas. When we had that colossal smash-up at the bottom of Kill Hill. We didn't tell Mom and Dad about it because it was hard enough getting permission to go with those older kids. And your whole arm was purple with bruises from being slammed underneath. You wore long sleeves for the first couple of days and it was winter, so no big deal.

  But then we were supposed to be having a bath and your arm was yellow. Mom called out, “Get ready, spit-spot,” the way Mary Poppins does. I dove into the art box and pulled out the finger paints and we slathered ourselves with green, yellow, blue, pink. And then we climbed into the bath. Mom had a complete fit. But with all the muck in the tub and on our skin, well, she never saw the bruising at all. Remember that?

  I guess not.

  I depended on you…. You're older, you're supposed to be my … my archive. That's what sisters do, remember for each other.

  But the cold, hard, horrible truth is that I don't feel you here.

  Some of What the Principal Said at Claire's Graduation

  “You'll have some tough choices in the years ahead— whether to continue your education, whether to travel, whether to join the workforce, start a family, buy a house…. But you will face some even harder choices— whether to socialize with people who drink and smoke cigarettes and marijuana; whether to stand up for someone who is being mistreated, at the risk of your own comfort; whether to tell a difficult truth or to rest with a simple untruth; whether to accept who you are or to change who you are….

  “Each of these dilemmas presents a challenge that I feel confident this class is prepared to meet. It is with great pride that I send you forth into the world….”

  A Couple of Things That Only I Know About Claire

  The exact nanosecond her eyes will find mine when Mom starts to sing.

  That she hooked up with Kate's cousin when she went to Kate's cottage even though she was with Joe-boy and even though Kate would kill her if she knew.

  A Couple of Things That Only Claire Knows About Me

  The day I got my first period, which I didn't tell Mom about till three months later.

  How I really feel about Zack. Something Audrey may never, ever know.

  I Like to Be the One Who Locks Up

  I tell Shannon to go ahead, I'll close the pool by myself. She sticks around long enough to help drag out the lane dividers, but I do the rest.

  I top up the chlorine tank and test the water chemical levels, which makes me feel like a scientist. I collect stray foam noodles, kickboards and life jackets and stash them away. I swab the decks with the squishy foam mop, muttering pirate curses the way I always do.

  By the time I'm done the water's still again. There are always a few diving toys on the bottom of the pool, and those are my excuse.

  I turn off the main lights, leaving the emergency pin spots. I peel off my LIFEGUARD tank and shorts. I dive in, quick and sleek, being a penguin. It's my trick, getting in without moving the water. I go deep and roll over, gazing up at the surface. Is it called the surface when you're under it?

  The lights gleam like stars through oil-slick shimmer; my breath bubbles upward in dancing crystal balls. Only underwater is a person so aware of the beauty of breathing.

  Who Was Driving?

  “I know the guy,” says Leila. “The driver.”

  “You do?” I say.

  “You do not.” Carson thinks she's full of it, the way she always knows everybody.

  “Yes, actually. He's a young guy, Ted something, only a few years older than us, like, mid-twenties.”

  “That was in the paper,” says Carson.

  “Ted Scott,” says Leila. “And he works at that place out on Carlisle Street, where they rent equipment like back-hoes and chain saws, for fixer-uppers.”

  “How the hell would you know a guy like that, Leila? Your addiction to heavy machinery?”

  “Carson, eff off,” says Leila, which is pretty strong language for her. “His wife works for my mother at the bank. I'm just telling you. Maybe Natalie needs to know he was a person too.”

  “I don't think I need to know that,” I say.

  “Yeah, right,” says Carson. “A person who was wack enough to destroy her life in a split second.”

  “He wasn't wack,” says Leila. “If anything, he was happy. His wife—”

  “I really don't think I want to know this.” He's the villain.

  “His wife had a baby,” she tells us. “On Saturday. She's still in the hospital. It's a little girl. Brianna Marie.”

  “No.” I plug my ears.

  The End of the World

  Audrey is folding the paper napkins, making rabbits with stiff little ears.

  “Thing is,” she says, “we're in this whirlpool. Since nine-eleven we've been churning around, waiting for the world to collapse.”

  We all glance at Leila and observe a moment's silence because her father's cousin's new wife died on the ninety-second floor. Even though Leila had only met her at the wedding and no one was sure the cousin had made a good choice, this was the closest we came.

  “But now,” says Audrey, “to continue the whirlpool metaphor, we've been sucked against the drain with a crash. We thought the world would end but that we'd get off easy. Like, we'd be immolated in a fraction of a second, and it was sad and scary, thinking about it ahead of time, but the actual event would just, you know, be the end.”

  “Oh,” I say. “You mean Claire's the drain.”

  “Well…,” says Audrey, “… yeah. I guess.”

  “There were plenty of times in history when they thought the world was going to end,” says Zack. “Like the Crusades, for instance. How about if you were sixteen in 1091 and this thundering cloud of horsemen pounded through the village wearing metal body suits and not having washed for maybe a decade. And they raped you and they stole your father's grain store and then they raped your mother and burned everything else. And they said they were doing God's business. Wouldn't that seem like the end of the world?”

  “Or how about the Plague?” says Leila. “That was nasty.”

  “It wasn't a healthy time in general,” says Zack. “Aside from the Plague, there was plenty of consumption going around, and grippe and dropsy and fevers and rickets and rotting teeth! No one died of old age.”

  “I vote for the Nazis,” says Carson. “Best all-time world-enders. Thought-out evil. Kind of brilliant, really. Organized death camps all over Europe, nothing but horror from the first roundup to the cattle-car trains to the bug-infested dorms to the gas—”

  “ Zyklon-B,” says Zack.

  “Yeah,” says Carson, “With the gas gassing them in piles and then the pits full of bodies …”

  “Did you know that Anne Frank has her own Dewey decimal number?” says Zack

  “Please tell me you don't know what it is,” says Audrey.

  “Nine four oh point five three four nine two,” says Zack.

  “Weapons are worse now,” says Leila. “Push a button and blow up a whole city. Fly one airplane into a building and kill thousands of people.”

  “Two airplanes,” says Carson.

  “Are weapons worse,” I say, “or better? Would you rather die, pfff from a nuclear bomb? Or have your throat slit with a not-real-sharp sword? Or, god, like all those children in Africa, who had their hands cut off. How sick is that?”

  “The thing that scares me the most,” says Leila, “is that the Plague will come back. Sores or pox all over your face. Or other, you know, private places.”

  “The Plague has come back,” I point out. “It's called AIDS.”

  “That's why sex is a bad idea.” This is Leila's mantra.

 
“You don't have to have sex to die from the West Nile virus,” says Zack. “Just get a mosquito bite. Or eat a burger and get E. coli. Or breathe and get SARS. Bird flu. Whatever. There are going to be about fifteen plagues that end the world, and every one of them will be really ugly.”

  “What if the terrorists have biological weapons?” says Leila.

  “Won't be long, Leila.” Zack loves to torment her. “If I were an evil genius, nothing would be more satisfying than infecting my enemies with smallpox or something that would cause festering boils, running pus and hideous pain.”

  “Good thing you're not a genius,” says Carson.

  Zack hits him. “But—Nat's question. Would you rather feel blinding, scorching pain and then die quickly? Or no pain, but prolonged, trembling decay instead?”

  “My point,” says Audrey, “was Claire.”

  “Oh yeah.” They're all nodding, being sensitive.

  “Claire doesn't have a choice,” I say.

  “Exactly,” says Audrey. “She got it both ways.”

  “She's not dead,” I whisper.

  But what if she dies?

  And what if she doesn't?

  Joe-Boy

  This day is longer than a week. I'm on my bike in the dark; my light's busted. It's maybe midnight and I'm pedaling back and forth outside Joe-boy's house on George Crescent. It's too late to knock. But I want to know what happened.

  Someone said he went to the hospital, but they're still not letting anyone in except family. Dad went over to his house to talk to him, but I guess Joe was a mess; the police had been there. His parents let him stay in his room and gave Dad a whiskey. Dad was pissed off and told them he had a right to know what happened. But he still came home without seeing Joe.