The Symptoms of My Insanity (26 page)

“I just—I don’t know. Forget it.”

“Well, I can’t drive with you [cough] yelling like this. Especially … [cough] when I’m not … feeling well,” she coughs out, digging her chipped fuchsia nail into the fabric of the steering wheel.

“I’m sorry. I … well … maybe then that’s what we should focus on—getting you feeling better, and not some picture of some poor girl who we don’t … even know.”

Mom responds to that by pressing
PLAY
on the CD player.

My life is sunshine lollipops and rainbows that’s how this refrain goes so come on, join in, everybody! Sunshine lollipops …

•   •   •

“We just missed the shuttle to Dr. Madson’s wing,” Mom says an hour later as we pull into the parking lot of the Pittsfield Medical Village and watch a bus pass by our car. “We’ll have to wait for the next one.”

“Okay,” I say.

As we sit in the parked car, waiting, Mom concentrates her gaze on me like I’m a line on an eye doctor’s chart. And for a moment I think she knows, I think she knows everything. Then she leans in toward me, pushes a chunk of my hair behind my ears, and says, “They did such a good job with your layers. It’s going to grow out really well.”

I nod and give her a small smile, concentrating on taking as many mental snapshots as I can right now, while she still thinks I’m not one of those girls.

You’d think they’d build a huge medical center, where lots of sad and serious stuff happens, somewhere that’s a little sunnier than Pittsfield, Michigan. It’s only a couple of hours from home, but the Pittsfield Medical Village feels like another country, where the language is hushed tones and the currency is crisp dollars bills that the vending machines won’t spit out.

Dr. Madson has his own floor. It’s one big main, circular area with all these hallways going off in different directions. If you looked at it from above, I imagine you’d see kind of like a spider’s body, or if you’re feeling optimistic, a sunburst. The main area is pretty spacious with a big nurses’ station in the center, and clusters of chairs all around it.

I’m sitting in one of those chairs, and I know it’s only been a couple of hours, but I feel like I’ve been at this hospital and on Dr. Madson’s rare-stomach-cancer floor for centuries. Mom’s still having tests done, or maybe she’s already talking with Dr. Madson about the results. I’m really not sure because I haven’t heard anything from anybody since the nurse
came and took her away when it was still light outside.

So yes, I’ve had plenty of time to sit here writing horrific captions on all my mental snapshots, going through every single Rap Room moment, and realizing that my ugly, unsupported boob is now immortalized in binary form.

The worst part of it all being, I let it happen.

It’s true. I did. When Blake pulled my sweater up, I knew I didn’t want to do that and I didn’t want to be there. I knew something wasn’t right, but I just stayed on my back while Blake took pictures! Pictures that, by now, a
lot
of people have seen, again and again and again, and again and again and
again
. And like me, they probably all said “Ew!” Because even though the reception here is terrible, my phone indicates that I have seven new messages. Seven new
picture
messages. That’s right, I’ve already been sent seven copies of Blake’s clear, centered, high-resolution photo of the very worst part of me.

My head, it’s seriously going to pop off my neck. It’s going to just explode off my body like one of those champagne corks. But obviously, not as celebratory. Are there more photos than the one I saw? Is my face in them? I think my face was underneath my sweater the whole time. Was it? Not that it matters, because all those guys know it’s me, and what’s to keep them from telling whoever they want? Cathy Mason will find out. She finds everything out. And Pam! Pam saw me leave the Rap Room, wearing that sweater. If she sees it, or if Mom does, they’ll recognize it for sure.

I want to run into one of those hospital rooms and gulp
down the first bottle of pills I see, because everyone has seen that picture now, and people will talk, and then they’ll all know it’s me, and then Mom’s going to know, and she’s going to be so disappointed. She’s going to be so disappointed in me. It will be so much worse than the
nafka
top I wore to that stupid party. It will be so much worse than sneaking out to that party to begin with. It will be more negative energy than her stomach cells can handle. And then she’ll never focus on getting better. And it will be because of me.

I’m so stupid.

I’m such a stupid, stupid, stupid person.

Actually, no, I’m not even a person. I’m a task! That’s how Blake Hangry has always thought of me. Not that I care what some sleaze bucket thinks anyway. And I hate that I’m even thinking about him right now. It’s just upsetting to realize that all the good snapshots of someone in your head were never any good at all. That they were actually terrible.

“Isabella Skymen?”

Suddenly there’s a “Hi, I’m Patricia” name tag in my line of vision.

“Isabella?”

“Oh. Yes?”

“Hi there, honey. I just wanted you to know that you’ll be able to see your mom in a little bit,” she says, giving me this big smile as if she’s just told me I’m going to Disneyland. Which I guess is nice. I know it’s just her job to be super-friendly, but still it’s kinda nice to see someone with a Disneyland smile when you’re in a place like this.

“Has Dr. Madson talked to you yet?” she asks.

“No, no one’s talked to me.”

“Oh … okay …” she says, looking at her clipboard.

“Is everything okay?” I ask.

“Your mom came in this afternoon … right?” she asks more to herself than to me, flipping through her chart. “Okay, yeah. So Dr. Madson’s got her set up in room 5112 for the night, and then as soon as he—”

“What?” I shoot up from my chair. “For the night? No, she’s not staying here—she’s just here for an appointment, a checkup.”

The nurse looks at me cautiously for a second and then says, “Okay, um … just wait right here for a sec, honey. Let me just see if I can get some more info for you.” I watch as she flips through the chart she’s holding and heads back to her station.

I don’t wait around, though. I grab all our stuff and head to room 5112.

•   •   •

“Mom!” is all I manage to get out when I see her lying in bed wearing one of those hospital gowns and with all these needles in her arms that are attached to beeping machines, which are attached to poles on wheels with plastic bags full of liquid. I’m having flashbacks to the summer. This was just supposed to be a checkup!

“Hi, sweetie,” she says, quickly trying to scoot up to a sitting position.

“What’s wrong? What’s going on?” I move closer to the bed. I want to give her a hug but am afraid I might disconnect something.

“Don’t be scared. It’s just IVs.” She gestures me over. “One for nausea, for fluids, that’s all.” She smiles and reaches out her arms, and I give her a soft hug and a kiss on the cheek, grateful for the combo of her baby oil moisturizer and perfume after being in Lysol land for so long.

“I just told one of the nurses to get you,” she’s saying to me. “I think her name was Becky. She’s the one who’s got on that really awful, orangey lipstick”—Mom pulls back and wrinkles her nose—“but so, so nice.” She smiles. “I told her that you might still be in the waiting area and—”

“No, well, this other nurse just told me that you were—”

“And Pam should be here soon, and she’s called Allissa, who—”

“Mom, what’s going on?”

My mom opens her mouth to say something, but then—

“I completely forgot you wouldn’t have your cell phones on in here!” Pam cries, barreling into the room and pulling a large rolling suitcase behind her. “I called both your phones. Izzy, I called yours hours ago. I’m sorry—I forgot what room they told me, and then I forgot the doctor’s name, and that stupid shuttle system. Why don’t they have a parking structure for this wing? Fortunately I got pointed in the right direction.”

Pam parks the suitcase against the wall, gives Mom a kiss and me a shoulder squeeze.

“Oh, yes, that’s the one I was talking about. Thank you, thank you, Pam,” Mom says, gesturing to the suitcase.

“I think I got everything. At least I hope so. I just took all your makeup. I didn’t know what was good and what was crap. So what you don’t need, you won’t use. I got your good moisturizer, and two hairbrushes. Oh, and I took six pairs of underwear, I hope from the right drawer. That should be enough. We can always get you more underwear; that’s not an issue. And I got pajamas, and a robe, and …” She stops to catch her breath. “So, any more news?”

More
news? I don’t have
any
news! And why does Mom need a suitcase and
six
pairs of underwear? And why is it so hot? I take off my sweater; the neck-hole feels like it’s strangling me. But before I can get a word in, Mount Allissa erupts into the room, spouting a mile a minute. She’s saying something about her exam, and then something about the traffic and how the guy in the minivan had no right to give her the finger since she had plenty of room to switch lanes without signaling. I interrupt because I have no idea what’s going on and everything is just chaos.

“Are you staying here overni—?”

“Yeah, why do you need a suitca—?”

“How long are you—?”

“That IV is fluids, and the other is—?”

“You thirsty, you need wa—?”

“I thought this was just a—?”

“Where’s the doctor? Who’s the doctor? Are you dehyd—?”

“WHAT EXACTLY IS GOING ON?” I practically shout over everyone else.

Mom responds to all the verbal disorder by just raising her arms high in the air. Well, as high as they will go, hooked up to all that stuff. We all stop talking and look at her.

“Pam, would you run out and ask the nurse to get me another cup of ice, please?” she asks. And once Pam has shut the door behind her, Mom says, “Okay, sit. Both of you sit, please. I can’t focus with all this movement.”

Allissa and I each sit down on a rolling stool and wheel ourselves closer to the bed.

“I don’t understand [sniffle] why you’re [whimper] here,” Allissa sobs out.

“It’s okay,” Mom says, giving Allissa’s hand a squeeze. “I’m just staying here for a little bit because Dr.
Madson seems to think I might have a little blockage.”

“What?” Allissa whimpers.

“Blockage,” I repeat.

“Bowel obstruction,” Mom says, like she’s saying she has a stuffy nose.

“What’s causing [sniffle] this [sob, whimper] blockage [gasp]?”

“Well, it seems that there are some issues with my colon and my appendix, and now some … of the stuff has backed up into my stomach, and so I’m a little … blocked.” I can tell Mom’s choosing her words carefully.

“Like gastroparesis,” I say.

“Yes … well, yes.” Mom gives me a quizzical look. “Dr. Madson seems to think, from the results of my last CAT scan and also my latest tumor markers, that perhaps my PMP may be morphing.”

And then it gets so quiet in the room that I swear I can hear the liquid pass through Mom’s IVs.

“Morphing? Morphing?” Allissa repeats like a parrot.

“Morphing into what?” I ask.

“Well, he thinks it’s possible that I have a faster-growing strain now, or actually, two different strains, so—”

“But that—that doesn’t make any sense,” I stammer. “It can’t just speed up!”

“I know, sweetie. But you know how this disease is … it’s like trying to predict what the weather will be this same day ten years from now. So even if it
has
morphed and if it
is
growing at … at a different rate … well … listen, nothing’s for sure yet, okay? So there’s no reason to get worried.”

Then Dr. Madson walks in, his shiny silver hair dented as if he just took a hat off. He’s wearing a suit, and a stethoscope. He looks more like a businessman playing doctor than a veteran surgeon. He shakes Allissa’s hand and then mine as Becky and her orangey lipstick wheel in a vitals cart, telling us they have to run some tests and that we can come back a little bit later.

I barely hear her, though.
No reason to get worried. No reason to get worried. No reason to get worried.
I’m running these words through my head, but they don’t make any sense at all.

•   •   •

“I don’t think this chicken is cooked.” I hold up my fork, speared with a piece of what the hospital cafeteria claims is a chicken Caesar salad. Worst late-night dinner ever.

Allissa looks up at me from her own soggy cafeteria salad, her sparkly purple eye shadow catching the fluorescent lights and glittering. “Just eat.”

This is the first conversation Allissa and I have had in ten minutes. I started the last one too.

“Where do you want to sit?”

“I don’t really care, wherever.”

So at least our topics are improving.

“I don’t want salmonella,” I inform her.

She responds by fishing out a baby carrot from her salad and popping it into her mouth.

“I read they wash those things in chlorine.” I point at the carrots in the bowl. “There’s actually no such thing as a
baby
carrot, did you know that? These are like fake, mutant—”

“Izzy!” She slaps my hand away from her bowl. “Can I please just eat in peace?”

“Sorry.” I stab at another piece of chicken with my fork, attempting to gauge if the meat is light pink or white. “I really do feel nauseated, though, my head feels … clammy.”

“You’re not nauseated, you’re not clammy, you’re not dying!”

“I know I’m not
dying
.” I drop my fork, deciding on pink. “But I’m just saying if salmonella isn’t treated, then—”

“You don’t have salmonella.”

“Not yet, but—”

“Izzy!” Every muscle on my sister’s face does a vertical stretch.

“What?”

Her fork clatters to her tray.

“I’m so sick of your stupid, dramatic, death, health, crap!” she says really loud and really fast, like she’s being timed and has to get out the sentence before the buzzer.