Ann Martin - Stacey's Emergency

My father had arrived.

Ill

Chapter 13.

"Stacey!" Dad exclaimed. He strode across the room to my bed and gave me a big hug. "How are you feeling? I'm glad you're off the I.V."

"I'm fine," I replied. "Well, better anyway." Since Dad had not spoken to my mother, I added, "Um, Dad, Mom is still here. She's going to stay for awhile."

"Well, I could use some coffee," my father said.

"No, don't go!" I cried. "Stay here with me. I want to see you guys together again." (What I meant was, "I want to get you guys together again.")

"All right," said Dad. He moved the vacant chair as far from Mom as possible — clear to the opposite side of my bed.

That's something, I thought. He isn't leaving. It's a start.

But that's all it turned out to be. A start.

The rest of the evening was a disaster. Looking back, I don't know whose fault it was. Maybe nobody's. Or everybody's. Anyway, it doesn't matter.

For about ten minutes my parents remained civil by speaking only to me. I was in the middle of two conversations, one with Dad and one with Mom. Dad asked a question about the hospital, and I answered him. Then Mom told me about a phone conversation she'd had with Mrs. Pike, and I asked her a question about Mallory. And so on.

Things began to go downhill when Dad said, "So what on earth happened this morning, Boontsie?"

To my surprise, Mom answered him before I could. "If you'd been here you'd know yourself."

"I was worfcing," said Dad testily. "Besides, I thought we agreed not to visit Stacey together. You said you didn't want to see me."

Mom ignored that last comment. "You were working on Saturday?"

"Yes, I was working on Saturday. If I don't do my job properly, I'll get fired and then I'll lose my insurance. Do you think we could afford to have such good care for Stacey if I didn't have insurance?"

"What a hero," muttered Mom.

"Excuse me?" said Dad.

"Nothing."

"Nothing worth repeating," I spoke up.

For a moment, Mom and Dad looked at me as if they'd forgotten I was there. Or as if they'd forgotten I was their daughter. Then they picked up the argument again.

"Hospital care is not cheap," said Dad.

"I know that. So why did you put Stacey in a private room?"

"Because I love her."

"Are you saying I don't?"

"All I'm saying is that last weekend Stacey arrived in New York from Stoneybrook looking sicker than I've seen her since she was first diagnosed."

I felt my cheeks redden hotly.

"So?" Mom prompted Dad. She was trying to force him into saying something, but I'm not sure what the something was.

Dad remained silent.

"If Stacey got sick, that wasn't my fault," Mom finally said. "You know as well as I do that the doctors weren't sure what course this particular kind of diabetes would take. Stacey is a brittle diabetic. The doctors have had trouble controlling her blood sugar from the start. Plus, she's had the flu, and you know what infections can do to her. It's a miracle she hasn't — "

Mom was cut off. By me. "Shut up!"

"Anastasia," my father said warningly.

"You shut up, too!" I cried, even though I know that neither of my parents is fond of that term. And that certainly no one likes to be told to shut up.

Mom and Dad just stared at me.

I went one step further. "And get out of here. Right now. I'm not kidding."

A look of surprise, then anger, then confusion crossed Mom's face. "Stacey."

"I mean it. Get out. I thought maybe the three of us could be together for fifteen minutes without an argument, but I guess not."

Dad stood up slowly. "You were not," he said in a low voice, "brought up to speak to anybody that way, young lady. Whether you're sick or well."

"I know," I replied after a few moments. I glanced at my mother. She was crying. And both she and Dad were gathering their things together, putting on their coats. But they looked like they were moving in slow motion.

I watched them until they were almost ready to leave. Just as they were about to walk out the door, I spoke up. "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm so sorry. But you guys should listen to yourselves sometime."

Mom dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. My father fumbled around for a handkerchief. I couldn't believe it. I'd made him cry, too. For

a moment, I felt the anger rise up all over again: I had the power to move two adults to tears, but not to make them act civilly toward one another.

I pushed the anger away. "Can you," I said to Mom and Dad in a steady voice, "come back on Monday, instead of tomorrow? I need some time to think."

"So do I," said Dad.

"So do I," said Mom.

"Okay. So I'll see you on Monday?"

My parents nodded. Then they left, Mom slightly ahead of Dad. I watched them to see if Dad might rest his hand on Mom's back. Or if Mom might send a flicker of a smile to Dad. But they were isolated, living in separate worlds.

Ordinarily, after a scene like that, I would have given into tears. I might even have enjoyed them, let them run down my cheeks in salty tracks, not bothered to wipe them away. Not that night, though. I was feeling too angry. And, I realized, too strong. My body was getting better, so I allowed my mind to get better, too.

"Look out for number one," I murmured. Where had I heard that? I wasn't sure. But I did, suddenly, know what it meant. And that's exactly what I was doing — looking out for number one, for me. I was putting me first,

along with my thoughts, feelings, and emotions.

How, I wondered, did I really want to spend Sunday? Out of the hospital, I answered myself. But that wasn't possible. Okay. Next best thing? With my friends, forgetting about my parents. Well, that might be possible. I could find out in just a few minutes, with two or three phone calls.

I dialed Claudia first, praying that she was home.

She was. She answered on the first ring. "Hi, Dawn," she said.

I paused. "Claud, it's me."

"Stacey?! I was expecting Dawn to call me back. She — Oh, never mind. It's a long story. How are you? You sound okay. I mean, you sound good."

"I'm feeling pretty good," I said truthfully. "And I was wondering something. I know this is a lot to ask, but would you and Dawn and everyone want to come back tomorrow? Would your parents let you?"

"Come back? To New York? Well . . . sure. I mean, I guess so. I mean, yes, definitely, but I have to see if we have enough money and everything."

I laughed. "I know what you mean. If you guys could come, I would love to see you. But I know that's asking a lot."

"Not so much/' replied Claud. "Let me talk to the others. I'll get back to you."

"Okay," I replied. "I'm going to call Laine in the meantime. You don't mind, do you? I mean, if Laine comes over for awhile tomorrow? I thought it would be fun if we all got together."

"Fine with me," said Claud.

We hung up then, and I dialed Laine.

"Hi," I said. "It's Stacey. Um, is my mom back yet?"

"No," Laine answered.

"Oh. Well, she probably will be soon. And she might be uspet." I told Laine what had happened earlier.

"Wow," said Laine when I'd finished. "So do you want her to call you when she gets here?"

"No," I replied. "I really do need to wait awhile until I talk to my parents again. But I was wondering if you could visit tomorrow. Claudia and everyone might be here, too. If they get permission from their parents, and if they can get by the nurses."

"Great!" exclaimed Laine. "See you tomorrow."

On Sunday I woke up early. Everyone had permission to visit. (Well, not Mallory and Jessi, but the others. Plus Laine. I couldn't wait.)

I asked a nurse to help me wash my hair in the sink. Then I put on fresh clothes. I even put on some makeup that Laine had sneaked to me a few days earlier. I added jewelry and, when I checked myself in the mirror, thought I looked like the same old Stacey. The same old reasonably healthy Stacey.