head.”
Distracted, Melody quickly forgets about the book and I slip it back into the store bag with its receipt.
When we stop to eat a late lunch, Melody’s mother eyes our shopping bags. “You only have two bags, Susanna. We’re way ahead of you.”
I nibble on a rubbery-tasting egg salad sandwich. “Small shopping list this year,” I say.
She looks stricken and her face grows pink. “What’s the matter with me? Honey, I’m very sorry. How could I be so insensitive?”
I’m embarrassed because I didn’t mean to make her feel bad. “I—it’s okay. Really.”
She pats the table with her palm. “You know what? As soon as we finish eating we’re going into that baby store on the second level. We need to buy that baby some pretty clothes.”
And that’s what we do. Melody’s mother chooses outfits in three different infant sizes. “So she’ll have something to grow into,” she tells me. She tosses a green velvet baby dress with red ribbons onto the stack. It looks very Christmasy.
“She won’t be born until January,” I remind her.
“No matter. We’ll buy it for next Christmas.” She finds a larger size.
Melody picks out a cute baby hat and tiny socks. I find a soft blanket with pale purple giraffes, trimmed in lime green—the same colors as the nursery.
I feel better after our side shopping trip. I can’t buy a gift for my sister this year, but I can buy gifts for her baby.
When we pile into the car for the trip home, Melody’s mother turns to me and quietly asks, “Would you like to stop at the hospital, Susanna? Mellie and I can wait in the lobby while you run up and see Briana.”
I feel as if she’s read my mind. “Would you mind? Would it be all right?”
“Absolutely,” she says.
I could kiss her.
“I won’t stay long,” I promise before heading to the elevator.
“Take all the time you need,” Melody’s mother says.
“Are you sure we can’t come with you?” Melody asks.
“Only family’s allowed,” I say, glad of the policy. I don’t want anyone gawking at my sister, not even my best friend.
I ride up to Neuro ICU, push through the double doors. The nurses at the desk wave to me. They know Mom and me by now. I walk to Briana’s cubicle and see a woman leaning over her. My heart freezes. “What are you doing to my sister?” I ask.
T he woman turns, flashes me a smile. “I’m Nicole, your sister’s physical therapist. You must be Susanna. The nurses told me about you.”
I’m speechless.
Physical therapy for someone who’s technically dead?
Doesn’t she know about Bree?
Nicole says, “Come closer. I’ll show you what I’m doing.” Warily I shuffle to the bed. The covers have been thrown back and the hospital gown barely covers Bree’s thin legs. “See how her hands and legs are drawing up?”
My sister has only been lying here for a couple of weeks, but already I see a difference. Her hands are turning toward her wrists and her fingers are beginning to look clawlike. Her legs are pulling closer to her body.
“It’s called contracturing. Muscles begin to shrink from inactivity and that causes the limbs to curl. I come in and massage and manipulate a patient’s joints to keep that from happening. I also turn the patient several times a day so bedsores won’t form. Bedsores are caused from lying in the same position day after day. It helps keep a patient comfortable.”
“But Bree—”
“I know her condition.” Nicole interrupts me kindly. “But a bedsore can cause an infection that can get into her bloodstream and cross over to her baby.”
I watch for a few minutes as Nicole gently kneads Bree’s arms and legs, stretching and rubbing the joints. My sister looks like a mannequin, a life-sized doll whose body lies at odd angles. I can’t stand to watch another minute. I back out of the cubicle and leave the unit, hit the stairwell door at the end of the hall, and hurtle down eleven flights of stairs, crying
Distracted, Melody quickly forgets about the book and I slip it back into the store bag with its receipt.
When we stop to eat a late lunch, Melody’s mother eyes our shopping bags. “You only have two bags, Susanna. We’re way ahead of you.”
I nibble on a rubbery-tasting egg salad sandwich. “Small shopping list this year,” I say.
She looks stricken and her face grows pink. “What’s the matter with me? Honey, I’m very sorry. How could I be so insensitive?”
I’m embarrassed because I didn’t mean to make her feel bad. “I—it’s okay. Really.”
She pats the table with her palm. “You know what? As soon as we finish eating we’re going into that baby store on the second level. We need to buy that baby some pretty clothes.”
And that’s what we do. Melody’s mother chooses outfits in three different infant sizes. “So she’ll have something to grow into,” she tells me. She tosses a green velvet baby dress with red ribbons onto the stack. It looks very Christmasy.
“She won’t be born until January,” I remind her.
“No matter. We’ll buy it for next Christmas.” She finds a larger size.
Melody picks out a cute baby hat and tiny socks. I find a soft blanket with pale purple giraffes, trimmed in lime green—the same colors as the nursery.
I feel better after our side shopping trip. I can’t buy a gift for my sister this year, but I can buy gifts for her baby.
When we pile into the car for the trip home, Melody’s mother turns to me and quietly asks, “Would you like to stop at the hospital, Susanna? Mellie and I can wait in the lobby while you run up and see Briana.”
I feel as if she’s read my mind. “Would you mind? Would it be all right?”
“Absolutely,” she says.
I could kiss her.
“I won’t stay long,” I promise before heading to the elevator.
“Take all the time you need,” Melody’s mother says.
“Are you sure we can’t come with you?” Melody asks.
“Only family’s allowed,” I say, glad of the policy. I don’t want anyone gawking at my sister, not even my best friend.
I ride up to Neuro ICU, push through the double doors. The nurses at the desk wave to me. They know Mom and me by now. I walk to Briana’s cubicle and see a woman leaning over her. My heart freezes. “What are you doing to my sister?” I ask.
T he woman turns, flashes me a smile. “I’m Nicole, your sister’s physical therapist. You must be Susanna. The nurses told me about you.”
I’m speechless.
Physical therapy for someone who’s technically dead?
Doesn’t she know about Bree?
Nicole says, “Come closer. I’ll show you what I’m doing.” Warily I shuffle to the bed. The covers have been thrown back and the hospital gown barely covers Bree’s thin legs. “See how her hands and legs are drawing up?”
My sister has only been lying here for a couple of weeks, but already I see a difference. Her hands are turning toward her wrists and her fingers are beginning to look clawlike. Her legs are pulling closer to her body.
“It’s called contracturing. Muscles begin to shrink from inactivity and that causes the limbs to curl. I come in and massage and manipulate a patient’s joints to keep that from happening. I also turn the patient several times a day so bedsores won’t form. Bedsores are caused from lying in the same position day after day. It helps keep a patient comfortable.”
“But Bree—”
“I know her condition.” Nicole interrupts me kindly. “But a bedsore can cause an infection that can get into her bloodstream and cross over to her baby.”
I watch for a few minutes as Nicole gently kneads Bree’s arms and legs, stretching and rubbing the joints. My sister looks like a mannequin, a life-sized doll whose body lies at odd angles. I can’t stand to watch another minute. I back out of the cubicle and leave the unit, hit the stairwell door at the end of the hall, and hurtle down eleven flights of stairs, crying
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