Stacey's Emergency

  “No, wait until Monday!” exclaimed Mary Anne. “Tell all of us about your weekend while we’re holding our meeting. We’ll want every detail.”

  “No, you will,” whispered Kristy, but Mary Anne didn’t hear her.

  “What you ate, how it was prepared, who you saw in the restaurants. You’re bound to spot celebrities,” Mary Anne continued excitedly. “If you see anyone really famous, try to bring me back a personal souvenir, like a table scrap.”

  “You mean like a half-eaten piece of bread?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Mary Anne, that is so disgusting,” said Jessi.

  And Kristy added, “If, for whatever wild reason, I ever wind up as a celebrity, don’t let Mary Anne near me.”

  Mom honked the horn twice then. “I better go,” I said. “We’re going to be early for the train, but I hate to keep Mom waiting. I’ll see you guys on Monday.”

  We called good-bye to each other, and as my friends walked off, I headed toward Mom and our car. I was carrying a pile of books, hoping to get caught up over the weekend.

  “Hi!” I said to Mom as I opened the front door. “Did you bring my bag?”

  “It’s right there in the backseat,” Mom answered. “Are you ready for the weekend?” She glanced sideways at me. “You look a little pale.”

  “Just tired I guess. I didn’t sleep much last night. How are you? You didn’t have any trouble getting off work early today?”

  “Not a bit.” Mom smiled.

  A half an hour or so later, the train pulled into the Stoneybrook station, where Mom and I had been waiting. She was sipping coffee, and I was finishing up a diet soda.

  “Have fun, sweetie!” called Mom, after I’d kissed her good-bye and was stepping onto the train.

  “I will,” I answered. I found a seat by a window and waved to Mom as the train ground into motion and my mother and the platform slipped away from me. I looked around. The train wasn’t too crowded. In fact, my car was only about half full. Good. Things would be quiet. Maybe I could finally get some work done. I stowed my overnight bag on the floor by my feet, stuck my purse protectively between me and the side of the train, and set my book bag on the empty seat next to me. I reached inside, pulled out my French text, and turned to the chapter in which I’d been goofing up. (That was a number of chapters before the one we were already working on.) “The pluperfect,” I muttered, and began to read.

  The next thing I knew, an announcement was coming over the loudspeaker. “Station stop, Pennington. This is Pennington!”

  Pennington! That was more than halfway to New York! I’d fallen asleep and had just wasted over an hour’s worth of studying time.

  I yawned and stretched. Yechh. I felt awful. No wonder I’d fallen asleep. Maybe I was coming down with something again. Boy, was I thirsty. Did I have a fever? I didn’t care. All I knew was that I needed something to drink — desperately. I was opening my change purse when I remembered that the train didn’t have a snack car. Now what was I going to do? Well, I don’t need to have a soda, I told myself. Water will do just fine.

  I looked behind me. Thank goodness there was a bathroom on my car. A bathroom would have running water and little paper cups, wouldn’t it?

  Sort of. I mean, I was half right. The bathroom, which, by the way, didn’t smell so hot, had a sink with nice, cold running water. It even had a bar of dirty pink soap and a stack of paper towels. But there were no cups.

  I thought of this silly fold-up plastic cup that Mom used to bring along on vacations — for situations just like this. I used to tease her about that cup. Now I would have paid her for it.

  I stood in the bathroom and thought. The idea of not drinking some water didn’t even occur to me. It was just a question of how to drink it. Finally I decided that there was only one thing to do. Wrinkling my nose, I washed my hands with the dirty soap. I figured that washing my hands with dirty soap was cleaner than not washing them at all. When I finished, I turned off the hot water, cupped my hands under the cold water, and drank … and drank … and drank. Ooh. At that moment, nothing — not even chocolate — would have tasted as good as that water did.

  I went back to my seat.

  Five minutes later I was thirsty again.

  By the time I reached Grand Central Station, I had gotten up for drinks of water six more times. (And I had been to the bathroom twice.) When I saw Dad at the information booth, the first thing I said to him was, “Can I buy a soda?” My thirst was raging. I could not make it go away.

  Dad looked closely at me as he took my bag. “Sweetie?” he said. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Not really,” I had to admit. I didn’t think I could hide it any longer.

  “What about dinner?” asked Dad.

  “I’m starving,” I replied. “I’ve been starving all day —”

  “Have you eaten?” Dad interrupted.

  “Yes. Breakfast and lunch.” (I didn’t mention the package of M&M’s that I’d sneaked while I was hiding in the girls’ room.) “But I’m still hungry. The only thing is, I’m tired, too. I’d like to go out to dinner. I love the Sign of the Dove, but I’m just not sure — I mean, I don’t know —”

  Dad interrupted me again. “We’ll eat at home. We’ll order something in. Let’s get a cab right away.” He began hurrying toward the doors.

  “Can I get a soda first?” I asked.

  “Can’t you wait until we get home?”

  I shook my head.

  “All right.” Dad looked even more concerned as he glanced around for the nearest concession stand. He bought me a large diet soda. I finished it before we reached his apartment.

  * * *

  That evening Dad ordered two kinds of salad and some sandwiches from a nearby deli. We ate dinner in the kitchen, which was much more relaxing than eating out, even at the Sign of the Dove. I changed into jeans, and Dad and I just sat around and talked and ate.

  I considered calling Laine, but by nine o’clock I was so relaxed that I yawned and said, “I think I’ll go to bed now.”

  “Now?” Dad looked surprised.

  “Yeah, I’m really zonked.” Thirsty, too, but I didn’t say so.

  It was hard to hide this from Dad, though. His apartment is not all that big. There’s only one bathroom, and it’s closer to his bedroom than to mine. So he heard me when I kept getting up all night for drinks of water. (At least Dad’s bathroom has clean soap and my own personal glass.)

  Once during the night, Dad was waiting for me when I came out of the bathroom. “Are you okay?” he asked. “I knew we shouldn’t have ordered from the deli.”

  “Oh, my stomach’s fine,” I answered. “It’s just that I’m still so thirsty. I keep drinking water and then I have to go to the bathroom all the time.”

  Dad frowned. “We should check your blood sugar level.”

  “Now?” It was three-thirty. “No way. I’m falling asleep. Tomorrow.” I made my getaway as quickly as I could.

  * * *

  But by the next morning, when I was still drinking like crazy, Dad didn’t even suggest checking my blood sugar again. He just said, “I think it’s time to call the doctor, don’t you?”

  I nodded. Something was very wrong. I couldn’t deny it any longer.

  Dad ran for the phone. When he couldn’t reach my doctor immediately, he put me in a cab and we rode to the nearest hospital.

  Saturday had been a good day for Claud. At least that’s what she said the first time we had a chance to talk after I was admitted to the hospital. The cab had taken Dad and me to one of New York’s finest. However, having been in a number of hospitals, I can tell you that no matter what … the food stinks. It makes the food in our school cafeteria look — and taste — like gourmet dishes prepared by a great chef of the world. In a hospital nowadays, everything that can be is individually wrapped — a slice of bread in a plastic wrapper, juice in a disposable plastic cup with a foil lid, etc. I would look at my plate after a meal, and it would pra
ctically be hidden by a pile of plastic and foil and paper.

  What a waste.

  If one person in one hospital generates this much trash, I thought, after my first “factory-fresh” meal, how can our environment possibly deal with it? How can — Oops. I am way off the track. I’ll tell you about the hospital later. What I started to tell you about was Claudia and her good day. It began with a pottery class. At the end of the class, Ms. Baehr, the teacher, chose Claudia’s piece (I think Claud said she was working on a vase) as “exemplary” and asked the rest of the class to look at it before they went home. What a boost to Claudia’s ego!

  That afternoon, Claud studied for a spelling test. When Janine quizzed her on the words, Claud spelled seventeen out of twenty correctly (although you’d never know it from her notebook entry).

  And then Claudia headed for the Johanssens’. After such a good day, she wasn’t too worried that Charlotte would want to be a Martian chef again, but it had crossed her mind after reading my last notebook entry. However, the first thing Charlotte said when her parents left was, “Let’s play Memory, Claudia, okay? I have a new Memory game!”

  “You do?” said Claudia.

  “Yup.” Charlotte pulled Claud into the living room. “Here. Sit on the floor,” she said. “The game’s in my room. I’ll go get it.”

  Charlotte dashed up the stairs and a few moments later reappeared with a box of square cards, which she dumped onto the floor between her and Claudia.

  Claud glanced at one of the upturned cards. “This looks different,” she commented.

  “I told you it was a new game.” Charlotte grinned. “See, instead of matching up pairs of things, like two beach balls, you match animal mothers with their babies. A cat with her kitten, a goose with her gosling. Get it?”

  “Yup,” replied Claud. “This should be fun.”

  “It is,” Char exclaimed. “I beat Mommy twice today.”

  “Really? That’s terrific.”

  “Thanks. Now let’s spread out the cards.”

  Charlotte and Claudia needed several minutes to mix up the cards, turn them all facedown, and then arrange them on the rug in a neat square of rows.

  When that was done, Charlotte said grandly, “You may go first, Claudia. You’re a new player, and I’ve already won some games.”

  “Okay.” Claudia randomly turned over two cards.

  “A puppy and a chick. No match!” cried Char.

  Claudia turned the two cards facedown again, and then Charlotte took her turn at trying to find a pair. No match.

  The game continued. It was very close. Charlotte is just plain smart, and Claudia has a good visual memory. (Maybe that’s why art is so appealing to her.)

  The game was tied nine to nine when the telephone rang.

  “I’ll get it!” said Char.

  “Okay,” replied Claudia. “But remember, don’t say that your mommy and daddy aren’t at home. Just say —”

  “I know,” Charlotte interrupted. “Say they can’t come to the phone right now. Then take a message.”

  “Right.” Claudia smiled.

  “Oh, and no peeking at the cards while I’m gone,” said Char.

  “Promise,” Claud answered. “No peeking. Cross my heart.”

  Charlotte ran into the kitchen. A few moments later she returned to the living room. “Claudia?” she said, with a catch in her voice. “That’s Mrs. McGill. She wants to talk to you. She sounds like she’s been crying or something.”

  “Are you sure?” said Claud, not even bothering to wait for an answer. She dashed into the kitchen and picked up the phone. “Mrs. McGill?” she said.

  My mother did sound as if she’d been crying. That was because she had been. My father had called her an hour or two earlier, to tell her what had happened. And as soon as they hung up, Mom had freaked out completely. Then she began packing two suitcases — one for her and one for me.

  Mom thought about driving straight to New York that very moment, but Dad discouraged her. This was not because he didn’t want to see her. It was because she wouldn’t have enough time to pack before the last train of the night left for New York, and Dad could tell that Mom was much too worried to drive the car for two hours in the pitch-black. So Mom decided to drive to New York the next morning. (I know all this because Dad was sitting in a chair in my private room at the hospital when he called Mom. I couldn’t help but hear his end of the conversation.)

  Maybe it was no wonder that Mom had freaked out. She and Dad and I know that with the kind of diabetes I have, I can get sick no matter how strictly I stick to my diet and no matter how careful I am about giving myself the insulin injections. I guess none of us wanted to think about that, though.

  Anyway, Mom felt better (she said) if she kept herself busy. So first she packed the suitcases. She knew I’d brought only enough things for the weekend, so she put some extra underwear, some nightgowns, my bathrobe, and a few other things into a bag for me.

  Then she reorganized the closet.

  And then she called Claudia.

  She knew that Claud and the rest of my friends should be told what had happened. They would freak out if they thought my mom and I had disappeared off the face of the earth. Anyway, a best friend should know when her best friend is in the hospital.

  “Hi, Claudia?” said my mother when Claud picked up the phone in the Johanssens’ kitchen. Mom wasn’t sure how to break the news.

  “This is Claudia. Um … is everything all right?”

  “Well, not exactly. I guess I might as well come right out and tell you. Stacey went into the hospital today. In New York.”

  “Oh, my lord,” Claud whispered. “What happened?” (Claud told me later that the first thing she thought of was not my diabetes but the horrible news reports she hears on TV every night. All the murders and attacks and muggings in New York. I don’t think this is quite fair, because people can get mugged or murdered anywhere, but I guess New York City does have a bad reputation.)

  “Stacey’s blood sugar has shot way up,” my mom told Claud.

  At this point, Claud actually sighed with relief. She’d been picturing me lying in bed with stab wounds or something. But then Mom went on to say, “She’s pretty sick. The doctors aren’t yet sure why her blood sugar level is so high. Right now, they’re just trying to stabilize it. Then they’ll begin doing tests. A lot of them, apparently. She may be in the hospital for awhile…. I just thought you’d want to know.”

  “Oh … oh, yes. I — I’m glad you called. I mean — I mean, I’m sorry Stacey’s sick,” Claudia stammered, “but I do want to know…. Can I call her?”

  “Sure. Not tonight, because she needs her rest, but I know she’d be delighted to hear from her friends tomorrow. And if she’s still in the hospital next weekend — and I’m not saying she will be — but if she is, you can come visit her on Saturday or Sunday, if your parents give you permission.”

  “Okay,” said Claud, her voice shaking slightly. She took down the phone number that my mom gave her. Then Mom said she was leaving for New York the next day, asked Claud to get my homework assignments from my teachers (why did Mom have to think of that?), and told Claud not to worry and that she’d keep in touch.

  When Claudia hung up the phone, she knew what she had to do first. Tell Charlotte the news. And she would have to do that carefully, since Charlotte is pretty attached to me.

  “Char?” said Claudia, not wasting a moment.

  “Yes?” Charlotte had been standing in the doorway to the kitchen all that time. She knew something was wrong.

  “Char, um, let’s go into the living room and talk.” Claudia led Charlotte to the couch and sat down next to her. “I guess the easiest way to tell you this is just to say it. Stacey’s in the hospital in New York.”

  Charlotte looked horrified. “Did the Stalker get her?” she asked shrilly.

  “What?” said Claud.

  “The Stalker. I’ve been reading about him in the paper. He stalks girls and th
en he —”

  “Oh, no!” interrupted Claud. “It’s not that. Stacey’s sick. Her diabetes.”

  “Oooh.”

  And in a flash, pretty much as Claudia had expected, Charlotte fell apart. She began to sob. All Claudia could do was hold her. She couldn’t tell her it would be all right, because she didn’t know that for sure. However, when Char had calmed down, she and Claud put together a care package for me: a crossword puzzle book, a drawing by Charlotte, and a few other things. Claud promised to mail it to me on Monday. During the rest of the evening, Charlotte asked questions such as, “Is Stacey going to die? What if she has to stay in New York where her doctors are and she can never come back here?”

  Poor Claudia was stuck with the job of trying to answer those questions — and later with calling the other BSC members to spread the bad news.

  On Sunday at noon, Mom walked into my room at the hospital. I had been in there for almost twenty-four hours. Dad had stayed with me the entire time, except for a few hours very early in the morning when he went back to his apartment to try to catch a little sleep and to change his clothes. I had told Dad that he didn’t have to stay with me, but when he said that he wanted to, I was secretly glad. You won’t understand why unless you’ve been in the hospital yourself. (I mean, apart from the time you were born. That doesn’t count, because you don’t remember it.) The thing is that no matter how hard the doctors and nurses and other staff members try, most hospitals are very impersonal places. They feel impersonal, anyway. At least to me. I don’t care how many clowns come to visit or how many pretty posters and balloons decorate the walls of the ward. A hospital is still a hospital, and that means:

  — There are so many nurses and doctors you can’t keep track of them all. (I wished my specialist were there, but he was on vacation for two weeks. He wasn’t even in New York.)

  — You wonder how the nurses and doctors know who you are. (Are you really Stacey McGill — a person — or are you just “that patient in Room 322”?)