I know Carly misses Grammy B even though they talk on the phone all the time. On the phone isn’t the same as in person, and Christmas visits and a week in the summer just aren’t enough.
“Is she okay?” I whisper back, a reflex even though it isn’t the brightest question. If she were okay, Carly wouldn’t be calling me.
Everyone leaves.
I press the back of my hand to my mouth. Carly stood beside me at Mom’s funeral—Dad on one side of me, Carly on the other. She held my hand. She held me up when my knees went weak. She slept in a sleeping bag on my floor beside my bed for a week afterward, waking up with me every time the nightmares ripped me open, sitting on one side of my bed while Dad sat on the other.
I’ll do the same for her. I’ll go to Florida, go to the funeral, unless they’re bringing Grammy B’s body back here—
“She’s in the hospital,” Carly chokes out. “CICU. They said it’s acute myocardial infarction.”
Hospital. Not dead.
Myocardial infarction is a heart attack. That’s bad.
But people can recover from that. I know they can. Mr. Shomper had a mild heart attack a couple of years ago and he’s still here—still teaching, even.
“That’s good,” I say, fighting my own tears. “That’s great.”
“What?” Carly chokes out.
I shake my head, then realize she can’t see me and my words aren’t making much sense to her.
“It’s great that she’s alive,” I say, all the hope in my heart coming through in my tone. “She’s alive, Carly.”
“You’re right,” Carly says after a few seconds. “She’s alive. She has a chance.”
“A good chance, right?” Please let her have a good chance.
She sniffles. “They say that if she makes it through the night, that it’s a good sign.”
I close my eyes and silently hope that she makes it through the night. That she doesn’t pass in her sleep without ever waking up like Sofu did.
“They’ll take care of her. They’ll make her better,” I say even though I’m not convinced of the last part. I don’t exactly have the best track record with hospital outcomes. But I want Carly to have hope. And I desperately want my words to prove true.
“What do you need?” I ask. “What can I do to help?”
“We’re heading to the airport in a couple of hours. We’re all going. The whole family. Just in case.” She pauses. I can hear her crying—big, snuffling sobs. Tears prick my lids and I blink against them. “I don’t know how long we’ll be there.”
You’ll be there till she’s well enough to go home. Or until she can never go home . . . The thought rips me up inside.
“I’ll get your homework,” I say, needing to be able to do something. “And I’ll tell your teachers.”
“And Kelley and Dee. Sarah. Amy. I didn’t call anyone. Just you.”
“I’ll tell them.” I feel so sad for her.
“And can you watch my Daimon?”
Daimon. Her fish. It’s a betta—a Siamese fighting fish.
She swears he’s brilliant. That he does tricks. Personally, I think that he comes to the surface when she dips her finger because he’s genetically programmed to attack.
“You know where Mom hides the spare key. Can you come get his bowl and keep him till I get back?”
“I’ll get him first thing in the morning.”
“You need to feed him once a day. I do it right before I leave for school. Don’t overfeed him,” she says, her words rushing together. “Just give him what he can eat in two minutes. No more. Or bacteria will get in the water and that’s not good.”
“Got it. His food’s in the freezer on the door, right?”
“Yes. Take care of him. Promise.”
“I promise.”
A promise I’m destined to break.
Four days later, Carly calls with the awesome news that Grammy B’s going to be okay.
“She has to take aspirin every day and beta-blockers and something else that’s a blood thinner . . . it starts with a P. She was only in CICU one night; then they moved her to a regular room, and then they let her out of the hospital today. We’re flying home tonight,” she says, sounding happy and relieved. “Can you bring Daimon by? I miss his wavy blue fins.”
I glance at the bowl on the end table. “Sure.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Good.” Sort of a white lie. He didn’t eat yesterday. I ended up having to scoop all the food out after a few minutes so it didn’t taint the water. He didn’t eat this morning, either. I take a step closer to the end table. “He’s good.”
“Did you do the little trick where you put your finger in the water and he bumps up against it?”
I’m standing over the bowl now, looking at the fish. He’s not moving at all. Not even the flick of a fin. I dip my finger in the water and bump it against the little blue body with its fins sagging toward the bottom.
Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap.
“Yep. Bumped the fish in the water. Doing it right now. As we speak.” Truth. Sort of.
She laughs. “Gotta go. The taxi’s here to take us to the airport. See you soon.”
I stare at the fish, willing it to move. “You’re sleeping, right?”
Right. Sleep of the dead.
“Is she okay?” I whisper back, a reflex even though it isn’t the brightest question. If she were okay, Carly wouldn’t be calling me.
Everyone leaves.
I press the back of my hand to my mouth. Carly stood beside me at Mom’s funeral—Dad on one side of me, Carly on the other. She held my hand. She held me up when my knees went weak. She slept in a sleeping bag on my floor beside my bed for a week afterward, waking up with me every time the nightmares ripped me open, sitting on one side of my bed while Dad sat on the other.
I’ll do the same for her. I’ll go to Florida, go to the funeral, unless they’re bringing Grammy B’s body back here—
“She’s in the hospital,” Carly chokes out. “CICU. They said it’s acute myocardial infarction.”
Hospital. Not dead.
Myocardial infarction is a heart attack. That’s bad.
But people can recover from that. I know they can. Mr. Shomper had a mild heart attack a couple of years ago and he’s still here—still teaching, even.
“That’s good,” I say, fighting my own tears. “That’s great.”
“What?” Carly chokes out.
I shake my head, then realize she can’t see me and my words aren’t making much sense to her.
“It’s great that she’s alive,” I say, all the hope in my heart coming through in my tone. “She’s alive, Carly.”
“You’re right,” Carly says after a few seconds. “She’s alive. She has a chance.”
“A good chance, right?” Please let her have a good chance.
She sniffles. “They say that if she makes it through the night, that it’s a good sign.”
I close my eyes and silently hope that she makes it through the night. That she doesn’t pass in her sleep without ever waking up like Sofu did.
“They’ll take care of her. They’ll make her better,” I say even though I’m not convinced of the last part. I don’t exactly have the best track record with hospital outcomes. But I want Carly to have hope. And I desperately want my words to prove true.
“What do you need?” I ask. “What can I do to help?”
“We’re heading to the airport in a couple of hours. We’re all going. The whole family. Just in case.” She pauses. I can hear her crying—big, snuffling sobs. Tears prick my lids and I blink against them. “I don’t know how long we’ll be there.”
You’ll be there till she’s well enough to go home. Or until she can never go home . . . The thought rips me up inside.
“I’ll get your homework,” I say, needing to be able to do something. “And I’ll tell your teachers.”
“And Kelley and Dee. Sarah. Amy. I didn’t call anyone. Just you.”
“I’ll tell them.” I feel so sad for her.
“And can you watch my Daimon?”
Daimon. Her fish. It’s a betta—a Siamese fighting fish.
She swears he’s brilliant. That he does tricks. Personally, I think that he comes to the surface when she dips her finger because he’s genetically programmed to attack.
“You know where Mom hides the spare key. Can you come get his bowl and keep him till I get back?”
“I’ll get him first thing in the morning.”
“You need to feed him once a day. I do it right before I leave for school. Don’t overfeed him,” she says, her words rushing together. “Just give him what he can eat in two minutes. No more. Or bacteria will get in the water and that’s not good.”
“Got it. His food’s in the freezer on the door, right?”
“Yes. Take care of him. Promise.”
“I promise.”
A promise I’m destined to break.
Four days later, Carly calls with the awesome news that Grammy B’s going to be okay.
“She has to take aspirin every day and beta-blockers and something else that’s a blood thinner . . . it starts with a P. She was only in CICU one night; then they moved her to a regular room, and then they let her out of the hospital today. We’re flying home tonight,” she says, sounding happy and relieved. “Can you bring Daimon by? I miss his wavy blue fins.”
I glance at the bowl on the end table. “Sure.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Good.” Sort of a white lie. He didn’t eat yesterday. I ended up having to scoop all the food out after a few minutes so it didn’t taint the water. He didn’t eat this morning, either. I take a step closer to the end table. “He’s good.”
“Did you do the little trick where you put your finger in the water and he bumps up against it?”
I’m standing over the bowl now, looking at the fish. He’s not moving at all. Not even the flick of a fin. I dip my finger in the water and bump it against the little blue body with its fins sagging toward the bottom.
Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap.
“Yep. Bumped the fish in the water. Doing it right now. As we speak.” Truth. Sort of.
She laughs. “Gotta go. The taxi’s here to take us to the airport. See you soon.”
I stare at the fish, willing it to move. “You’re sleeping, right?”
Right. Sleep of the dead.
