Authors: Lois Ruby
In every class, the same seat, Miriam's, was vacant, and I think it unnerved some of the teachers. Mrs. Loomis made us all change seats. No one wanted Miriam's desk, but Mrs. Loomis made up this ridiculous rule that all the front rows had to be filled before the back rows. This really hurt Tyrone Boyles, who made a career of sleeping in the back row on Monday mornings after every football weekend. No one bothered him much, because he was a terrific linebacker and smart enough to get his work done even if he snored through English, and either way he was sure of a juicy scholarship.
Reluctantly, Bailey Mathews inherited Miriam's seat. She gave fresh new meaning to the term “hangover” when we were treated to the vision of her jeans pouring over and out of Miriam's desk chair.
Just after Thanksgiving, Mrs. Loomis sprang a new surprise on us. “How many of you clever students are going to college?” Since Senior Honors English was an advanced placement class, one hundred percent of us put our hands up.
“Well, we haven't failed the future entirely,” the Big Bang said. “Now, how many of you are applying to state colleges?” About nineteen of the twenty-six kids raised their hands, including Brent. Someone nudged Tyrone, who also raised his hand. “So, I'm assuming that the world has not changed radically since last November, and the state colleges are still not requiring tricky essays for admission, correct?”
“That's right,” Tyrone said, shaking the sleep out of his eyes.
“Good morning, Mr. Boyles. Now, may I assume that the rest of you are applying to private colleges?”
“You may,” said Diana. “And you wouldn't believe the essays they're asking for.”
“Oh, yes, I would,” Mrs. Loomis said, coming out from behind the barricade of her desk. I hoped she would pull one of her most spectacular circus acts, backing herself up to her desk and tempting fate by daring the desk corner to support her. It was our lucky day. She inched back, hoisted one cheek up, then the other, and commandeered the corner of the desk. Between her and Bailey Mathews, you would have thought the entire classroom would tilt to the north. I guess Tyrone, weighing in at 230, balanced the room.
Mrs. Loomis said, “Those little essays are the topic of our discourse this morning, ladies and gentlemen.” Her legs dangled like giant salamis in the delicatessen. “I want to see your essays,” she thundered.
Well, this was news, because I hadn't written any of them yet. My parents convinced me to apply to all these small colleges for underachievers, like Grinnell and Carlton, where you got in on potential, but once you did, you had to try really hard to flunk out. All the essays were due before January 1, and I wasn't going to worry about them until December 30, at the earliest. But here was Mrs. Loomis taking control of my destiny.
“You seven, I expect to see all your essays by Monday, December seventeen.”
“Aw, Mrs. Loomis. Let us turn them in after Christmas,” Arnita whined.
“Before winter break, ladies and gents. It won't do you a bit of good if I peruse them after you've sent them off to the colleges.” There was a lot of gloating, of course, from the nineteen students who thought they were off the hook. But they'd underestimated the Big Bang. “For the rest of you, I shall be handing out a sheet with six devilishly difficult topics, and you are to write on two of them by next Monday.” She shifted on the desk, and its back left leg wobbled. We expected a real show any minute. But to our disappointment, she slid off the desk and didn't even seem to notice when it jumped in relief.
Diana raised her hand. “Mrs. Loomis, I have my essay ready for Yale. Would you like to see it tomorrow?”
“I would be delighted. Perhaps you could read it to the class as an example of how such a thought-provoking essay ought to be researched and written.”
“Oh, I couldn't,” Diana said, and we all knew she could.
I caught up with her after class. “What am I going to turn in? I'm not writing these stupid essays before winter break.”
“That's my Adam, always planning ahead. You know what, Adam? You have problems with decision-making. You have problems with commitment. I can't understand how you even figure out what you're going to have for lunch.”
Lately, Diana was always picking scraps with me, but I was in no mood for an argument. “Give me a break. Grinnell wants a thousand words on a significant event that changed the course of history. The only thing I remember about history is that in seventh grade, Mrs. Thorensen had a heart attack during Egypt, and we got that sub who was a shop teacher, and that was the last we ever heard of the Great Pyramids.”
“Come on, you must have learned something in a year of world history,” Diana said.
“There was something about Mesopotamia. That's about it. I remember that, because it's one of my favorite bands.” I flashed her my most adorable grin.
“You know, Adam, you're not as stupid as you pretend to be.”
“Sure I am.”
She looked me over more deeply than usual. “Maybe you are. Okay, you can use one of my extra essays. The question for Swarthmore was something like Grinnell's. You can adapt it.”
“You'd do that for me?”
She shrugged. “It's no different from letting you use my car.” We'd come to physics class and were passing Miriam's empty seat when Diana said, “Let's say I'm doing it for old time's sake.”
The hospital filed a suit against Miriam's mother, demanding that Miriam be evaluated for aggressive treatment. Judge Bonnell was persuaded by the sheer numbers of doctors and nurses who signed the petition that went with the suit: every doctor on staff, and 92 percent of the nurses and lab techs signed. Miriam had a police guard outside her room again. I was there right after school, and her eyes were ringed with red. I tried to make a stupid joke.
“What? On top of everything else, you've got pink eye?”
“No,” she replied, in a baby voice. “I read Diana's article in the
Wichita Eagle
today. You must really be proud of her.”
“Listen, I'm not her journalism teacher.” What could I say?
Miriam obviously decided not to say what was on her mind. “Well then, her journalism teacher should be proud of her. She presents a very persuasive argument.” Miriam's voice waivered. “But why is she against me? I never did anything to her.”
Again, what could I say? If I defended Diana, it would look bad, and if I sided with Miriam, it would look worse.
Miriam quickly composed herself. “Well, we all do what we're called to do, right?”
“I guess so.”
“Hold my hand, okay?”
I took her small hand, soft as feathers, and noticed the sensible white half-moons of her nails. There was a Band-Aid at the tip of one finger, maybe where they'd taken blood. She wore a hospital-issue green cotton robe, drab as a prison uniform. They'd taken her shoes and clothes, she said, so she couldn't escape.
I had this crazy idea of kidnapping her and taking her to the Bahamas where she would get some color into that pale, pale face. I'd hide her out in a thatched hut with a dirt floor, or in an Indian tent, and I'd surround her and hold her so tight that nothing else could get in to invade her bones.
“What happens next?” I asked.
She shrugged. “They don't tell me. They're afraid I'll tell Brother James, and he'll make a fuss.”
“You want me to see what I can find out from my father?”
“If you can. But, I'm not sure you should even come here any more.”
“Why not?” I lifted her hand to my cheek, and she moved her fingers to my lips, then drew her small hand into a fist.
“Because I'm just making trouble for you, with Diana.”
“I'm making my own trouble, Miriam. Let me handle it.” She opened her hand again. I kissed her fingers one by one. “Hey, I'll bring a puzzle. I don't know if I can get a guy who cut off his ear or any other appendages, but would you settle for a baseball card puzzle? I've got one in the back of my closet. I'll bring it after school tomorrow, okay?”
“Tomorrow,” she said, smiling through her tears.
But by the next day, the pain was back worse than ever. The court order had said that the doctors could evaluate and recommend action, but they'd have to go back to court for permission to start any specific treatment. And anyway, the court order didn't say a thing about pain control. So there was nothing they could do when Miriam could barely sit up in that cold vinyl chair in her room.
I laid out the pieces of the puzzle, and Miriam struggled with it. “That's the Mick,” I said, aiming for a light tone. “Mickey Mantle, probably the greatest baseball player of all time.” Her face was like ash, twisting with pain every time she shifted in the chair. “His best average was .317.”
“Is that a fact?” She didn't care, but I had to fill the room with sound, just like infield chatter was supposed to distract the man at bat.
Suddenly I was having brilliant baseball insights. “Yeah, really. His all-time homerun record was fifty-four, in 1961, but Roger Maris, who batted right after him on the Yankees, he hit sixty-one homeruns that year. Too bad. I still think Mickey was the greatest. He was a switch hitter.”
“What's that?” she whispered.
“Could hit just as well with his left or right hand.”
“I guess that would be convenient,” Miriam said, without much enthusiasm.
I was nervous. The canned heat in the room and the thick strands of pain were closing in on me. I couldn't stop talking. “No one's ever been able to do it like the Mick. Lou Gehrig was great, too. Here, here's Gehrig's face.” I held up a jagged piece of the puzzle. “Did you know he played in 2,130 consecutive games? The guy never got a cold!”
“So what happened to the 2,131st game?”
“He got sick. Couldn't play anymore.”
“And then?”
“He died.” Wrong thing. We weren't supposed to talk about sickness and dying. “I'm really sorry.”
“It's all right, Adam. Listen, I think we'll finish the puzzle some other time. I'd like to lay down on my left side; that sometimes helps. But keep talking.”
I did a monologue, my best Jay Leno and Robin Williams material, for a couple of minutes, but then I was worn out from the effort of trying to translate it all into clean language. So I just sat there quietly, rubbing her shoulders, her neck, her cheek, while she hid the pain by keeping her back to me.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Told by Miriam
Back in the same room of the hospital, with the guard outside my door again, my faith was sorely tested. The days drifted by like storm clouds: slow, dark, and threatening. I prayed when I was awake and slept as much as I could, because I wasn't aware of any pain when I slept. Even when I wasn't asleep, I'd pretend I was, whenever anyone, except Adam, came into the room. Then, I'd lay awake in the shrill quiet of the hospital night, longing for company. The Jeremiah passage came to mind in those desolate hoursâ“Why is my pain perpetual?”âand also the words of Christ at his hour of agonyâ“My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?”
When I thought I couldn't endure another minute of despair, I would fall asleep and wake up to discover two or three hours had mercifully passed, and it was nearly dawn, and the pain had lessened.
Dr. Gregory was often there when I woke up and so was Brother James, who would be kneeling beside my bed as my eyes opened. His soothing voice was my corridor back to dawn. “God has given you the gift of another day, child. Isaiah 58:8: âThen shall thy light break forth as morning and thy healing shall spring forth speedily.'”
“The miracle of a new morning,” said Dr. Gregory, who'd been reading the nurse's notes on how my night had gone. “The night has healing powers.”
“Only because she gives herself over into Christ's hands when she sleeps,” added Brother James. In subtle ways, they fought over me, as if I were the testament to each one's brand of faith.
But each morning I believed them both, and my faith was renewed. I would get up to eat breakfast in the little dining room down the hall. Then I'd take a shower and wash my hair, rinse out a few things in the bathroom sink, rearrange things on my bedside table, pull off dead leaves, and pray. By 10:00, I would feel the pain seeping back in like a low fog. By 11:00, the pain would be nearly unbearable again, and I would be grateful that Brother James had gone on about his day and wasn't there to see my weakness and tears of frustration.
Mr. Bergen usually came around 11:30, when lunches were delivered, so they'd let me eat in the room with him instead of the dining room, where sick people made me nauseous. Mr. Bergen would pull out thick sandwiches of dark bread with deep green lettuce spilling over the edges like the dust ruffles on my bed at home, and two or three pieces of fruit, and a wide-mouthed thermos of soup or chili. It all looked delicious. I pictured Mrs. Bergen lovingly preparing it in the mornings. But I was never hungry. I picked at the food on my tray. The best I could do was a few spoonfuls of tapioca.
As December began, Mr. Bergen grew more and more restless. He paced my little shoebox of a room, jiggling the coins in his pocket and tapping the wall with his pen. He drank my milk in two or three greedy gulps, slamming the empty carton back on my tray. At least the nurses would think I drank the milk and not nag me so much about eating.
“I've been thinking,” Mr. Bergen began on one of those tense days.
Sometimes these are the most dangerous words in the language, because they usually signal cracks in one's steadfastness. I found myself trembling.
“And I've been talking to Adam. For just a minute, I'm taking off my lawyer hat and putting on my good friend hat.” He doffed an imaginary derby toward me as I had seen Charlie Chaplin do in movie clips on TV.
He said, “What do you want?”