Would You by Marthe Jocelyn Page B

afraid of. Think how nice it'll be for her to have a little foot rub.”
    “Will she know?”
    “It's nice to think she knows, isn't it? Put out your hands, I'll give you some lotion. That'll do the trick.”
    What choice do I have? Obey? Or run from the room and let them all know I'm a sissy who can't face her own sister?
    Florence untucks the sheet at the end of the bed andreveals Claire's feet. They look a little puffy, like the rest of her, but they're just feet. I can see that.
    Florence says, “You all right from here? I've got other patients needing washing.”
    “Yes,” I say. “I'm all right.”
Your Feet
    They're just your feet, after all. Okay, I've never given you a foot massage, but I've painted your toenails about a hundred times. Hospital lotion is unscented. What's the point of that?
    I know your feet. Your second toes are longer than the big toes and you claim that's significant, that it means you're a descendant of Egyptian royalty, that it makes you a faster runner.
    I know this jagged white scar on the side of the sole, where you stepped on broken glass on the beach at Lake Huron. We had to drive to the hospital in Bayfield with you lying on the backseat holding your leg up in the air so the blood would supposedly stop flowing so hard. You screamed every time the car joggled you, even if an insect hit the windshield. And I was squeezed over to my side because even though Mom wrapped the cut with picnic napkins, blood was dribbling down and you purposely kept swerving your leg in my direction, trying to gross me out. When we turned into the hospital parking lot, your foot hit me in the faceand splattered blood over my lips and chin. At the Emergency reception they thought for a second that I was the victim. You straightened them out fast. And you got stitches. Eight or nine, I think. A lot, for a little kid's foot.
    Must have been a beer bottle smashed to bits. Thoughtless teenagers, probably, Mom said.
    On the way home, we both got Fudgsicles even though you complained that I wasn't hurt. Dad settled it by promising that when I inevitably did get hurt in the future, you could have one too.
    So, you still have the scar, in case you were wondering. I guess they took off the nail polish. I've heard they have to do that in a hospital. They need to see your nails when they put you under so they can monitor your oxygen levels or something, during an operation. Goodbye, Ruby Champagne.
    Okay, how was that? You now have the softest, most relaxed feet in town.
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 flurrywhen 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