Ann Martin - Stacey's Emergency

"Oh. That used to belong to my mother," said Dawn. "She found it and gave it to me. The story is a little old-fashioned, but I think you'd like it."

"Okay. Let's read," said Charlotte.

Dawn opened the book, being careful of its tattered dust jacket. She began to read to Charlotte, who seemed interested in the story right away. After about ten minutes, though, Charlotte said, "Dawn? I don't feel too good."

"Your neck?" asked Dawn. "Why don't you lie down then."

Charlotte shook her head. "It isn't my neck. It's my stomach. It's sort of aching and burning. I think maybe I have an ulcer."

Dawn tried to come up with an appropriate response. Finally she said, "People your age hardly ever get ulcers. If you have one, it's pretty rare. What did you eat for dinner tonight?"

"Dawn, this is not indigestion," said Charlotte indignantly.

"All right. How bad is the burning?"

"Why?" asked Charlotte warily.

"Because I'm thinking that maybe I should call your parents to see if I can give you some Mylanta or Pepto-Bismol or something."

"Oh, no," said Char quickly. "You don't have to do that. But — but now I'm all tired and really thirsty. Do you think I have diabetes . . . like Stacey?"

What was this? Dawn asked herself. Sore throats, pinched nerves, ulcers, diabetes. She didn't think Charlotte was sick at all. But how could she convince Charlotte of that?

Then Dawn got an idea. "No, I don't think you have diabetes," she said quickly. "Listen, Char, do you still have your old doctor's kit?"

"Sure. It's in my toy chest."

Dawn located the black plastic bag and set it on Char's bed. "I better give you a checkup," she said. "I should find out what's wrong with

you before I interrupt your parents at their meeting."

"But — " Char started to say.

"No buts/' replied Dawn. "Hold still. I have to listen to your heart."

Dawn held the plastic stethoscope to Char's chest. She stuck a fake thermometer under her tongue. She used every instrument that was in the kit. She even wore the pair of red, glass-less glasses. "You're perfectly healthy," she announced several minutes later.

"Can I talk now?" asked Char.

"Yup."

"Dawn, that is a toy doctor's kit. And anyway, you aren't a doctor."

Dawn sighed. "Shall we read some more?" she asked.

"Okay. Even though I really do think I have diabetes. I may be anemic, too."

Dawn spent the next hour trying to convince Charlotte that she wasn't sick. Nothing worked. At last she told Char that a patient needs plenty of sleep, so she put her to bed. Dawn tiptoed downstairs with her Kid-Kit and worked on a school assignment until the Jo-hanssens returned.

"How was Charlotte?" asked Mr. Johanssen.

"Fine," Dawn replied, gathering up her books and papers, "except that she now thinks she has a pinched nerve in her spine, an ulcer,

diabetes, and possibly anemia."

Dr. and Mr. Johanssen exchanged a glance. "Hmm," said Char's mother.

"I hope I handled everything okay," said Dawn. She explained what she'd done.

"That sounds fine," Dr. Johanssen replied.

"Um . . . can I ask a question?" said Dawn.

"Of course."

"Why do you think Charlotte is acting this way? It must have something to do with Sta-cey, but I don't know what."

"We're not sure ourselves/' said Dr. Johanssen. "But I can guess. Charlotte misses Stacey an awful lot. She wants to see her. I have a feeling that somehow Charlotte thinks — although she's probably not aware of it — that if she gets sick enough, she'll wind up in the hospital with Stacey. Then she can spend time with her, and also reassure herself that Stacey is all right and that she really will come back to Stoneybrook."

"Wow," said Dawn. "What are you going to do?"

"We've been thinking about that," said Mr. Johanssen. "We've just decided to be extra patient and understanding with Charlotte. And to let her be in touch with Stacey as often as she likes."

"All right," replied Dawn. But she was worried.

Chapter 11.

On Friday morning, my first thought as I woke up was, Oh, no. It's back.

What's back? I asked myself, and realized that I didn't have an answer. I just knew that, although I was still lying in bed (I hadn't even sat up yet), and although I'd slept for almost nine hours, I felt incredibly tired — as if I couldn't move a muscle.

Impatiently, I slapped at my alarm clock. When it stopped ringing, I glared at it. "I don't like you this morning," I told the clock. "And I will not obey you. I am not going to get up."

Actually, I thought, I couldn't get up. I didn't want to admit this to myself, but ... I . . . felt. . . rotten. The idea of getting dressed and doing school work seemed beyond reason.

I rang for a nurse. Five minutes later, one hurried into my room, pausing briefly to check the nameplate outside my door. She didn't even know who I was. And I wished desper-

ately to be with someone who knew me.

I was scared.

I read the nurse's name tag. Darlene Desmond. A movie-star name.

Okay, so now we each knew the other's name.

"Stacey?" said Ms. Desmond.

I couldn't tell whether that was her way of asking what was wrong, or whether she wanted to make sure that I really was Stacey McGill, as the nameplate said. Oh, well. What did it matter?

"I don't feel too good," I told the nurse. "For the past few days I was feeling a lot better. But now ... I don't think I can even get out of bed."

That was bad enough. But when Darlene Desmond asked if I needed to go to the bathroom and I said yes, she brought me a bedpan. A freezing cold, embarrassing bedpan.

And she stayed with me while I used it.

After I was finished, I said, "I'm supposed to get up, get dressed, and start my homework." But even as I said that, my eyelids were drooping.

"Not this morning," replied the nurse. "You can go back to sleep. I'll talk to your doctor as soon as I can."

"I don't have a doctor," I mumbled. "I have three million of them." But either the nurse

was already gone, or I just dreamed those words. At any rate, no reply came.

I fell fast asleep. I slept right through Vital Signs.

I didn't wake up until the carts carrying the breakfast trays began to rattle up and down · the hallway. Usually, I enjoy meals. They're never any good, but at least they're a distraction. That morning, though, I had no appetite. I pushed the bed table away and leaned against my pillows. I wasn't tired enough to go back to sleep, but I didn't have the energy to do anything — even to turn on the television.

So when Mom arrived a little while later, that was how she found me; just lying in bed in a quiet room, my uneaten breakfast sitting on the table.

"Are you okay?" Mom asked before she even took off her coat.

"Not really," I replied. I hate seeming weak around my parents, but just then I was too worried to care.

"What's wrong, Stacey?" Mom's face was the picture of alarm.

"I don't know. I feel almost as bad as I did last Saturday."

"I'll go find a doctor," said Mom quickly.

"No, don't. I mean, you don't have to. This

nurse — her name was Ruby Diamond or something — said she'd get a doctor for me."

"How long ago was that?" Mom wanted to know.

"I'm not sure. I fell asleep. She came in right after my alarm clock rang. What time is it now?"

"Nine," my mother replied. "The doctor should already have been here."

She stood up, looking furious, just as a man named Dr. Motz strode into my room. I tried to remember if I'd seen him before.

I decided that I must have, because he greeted me with, "Good morning, Stacey. Good morning, Mrs. McGill. Stacey, one of the nurses said you aren't feeling so hot this morning. Can you tell me what's wrong?"

I almost said, "You're supposed to tell me what's wrong." But I knew what he meant. Besides, Mom was in the room. So I described how I was feeling. The doctor looked slightly concerned, but all he did was raise my insulin dosage (again) and send in a stream of people to draw my blood and perform other tests, some of which had been performed once or twice earlier in the week. Before Dr. Motz left he said, "Take it easy, Stacey. I'll look in on you again this afternoon or this evening. And I'll let you know the test results as soon as possible."