Izzy, willy-nilly
CYNTHIA VOIGT
Debra Sfetsios
Atheneum Books for Young Readers 1230
Avenue of the Americas New York, New York 10020
Izzy, willy-nilly
Books by Cynthia Voigt
Bad Girls in Love
Building Blocks
The Callender Papers
Come a Stranger
Dicey’s Song
Elske
Homecoming
It’s Not Easy Being Bad
Izzy, Willy-Nilly
Jackaroo
On Fortune’s Wheel
Orfe
The Runner
Seventeen Against the Dealer
A Solitary Blue
Sons From Afar
Tell Me if the Lovers Are Losers
Tree by Leaf
The Vandemark Mummy
Atheneum Books for Young Readers
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, New York 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1986 by Cynthia Voigt
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
Book design by Debra Sfetsios
The text of this book is set in Times.
Manufactured in the United States of America
Revised format edition, 2005
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Voigt, Cynthia.
Izzy, willy-nilly / Cynthia Voigt.
p. cm.
Summary: a car accident causes fifteen-year-old Izzy to lose one leg.
Then she must start building a new life.
ISBN 0-689-31202-4
eISBN 978-1-439-10567-2
ISBN 978-1-416-90340-6
[1. Amputees—Fiction. 2. Physically handicapped—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.V874lz [Fic] 85.22933
ISBN 1-4169-0340-2
For JESSICA, who is old-fashioned nice, newfangled nice,
and a pleasure to have around.
I’d like to thank Dwight Fortier, MD,
for answering my questions and clarifying the possibilities,
not to mention enriching my vocabulary.
1
“Isobel? I’m afraid we’re going to have to take it off.”
“Take it off, take it off,” I sang, like a vamp song; but I don’t think I actually did, and I know my laughter stayed locked inside my head. I think my voice did too.
“Isobel. Can you hear me?”
I didn’t know. I didn’t think so.
It was my leg. I went to sleep.
“Izzy,” I said, finally figuring out what was wrong. “My name’s Izzy.” Nobody ever called me Isobel. I felt better, then. I didn’t open my eyes, but now that the disturbing, frightening feeling that something was wrong was explained, I relaxed.
Except nobody here called me Izzy, I remembered that. Here, where everything was bright white, or cold metal, or pale plastic, where voices seemed to echo strangely, here they called me Isobel. Doctors and nurses, and there had been a policeman—why had there been a policeman in my room?—all calling me Isobel. I didn’t correct them. It didn’t seem so important at the time.
Except my parents, sometimes they called me Izzy, although most of the time they called me old baby names, Pumpkin and Angel, Sweetheart, Lamb. Remembering their voices, I drifted back to sleep. Pumpkin and Angel, Sweetheart, Lamb.
The next time I was really awake. I knew where I was. Before I could stop them, my eyes opened.
I was still attached to an IV, this time clear liquid not one of the red bottles of somebody else’s blood. My mother sat in a chair near the metal crib sides of the bed. She looked terrible. She was dressed all right, but her face looked terrible. Her eyes were closed. Beside her sat my father, broad-shouldered, his hair still white-blond from the summer sun.
A nurse turned the pages of the chart that hung from the foot of the bed. The only sound in the room was the rustling of papers. Before the nurse could see me, I closed my eyes again.
What, I asked, is a nice girl like me doing in a place like this?
A nice girl—that—s just exactly what I was. Am.
Most of the people I know don’t want to be just nice. They want to be interesting, or exciting, romantic, terrific—something special. I don’t think I ever wanted to be more than nice. Nice suited me: pretty but nowhere near beautiful; popular enough, with girls and with boys; although no jock, I could give somebody a respectable game of tennis, and I was one of only three sophomores on the school cheerleading squad. A B student, except for Latin where, for some reason, I got a few As, I did the work I was told to do and didn’t mind school: just a nice person, easy to get along with, fun to have around. I usually got jokes although I seldom made them. I often tried to make peace in quarrels although I took part in my share of them. I liked people, liked doing things with people, liked being with people. Like.
And here I was in the hospital, surrounded by the unhappy silence of my parents, with—
I had awakened once before, I didn’t know how many days ago. Against the backdrop of my closed eyelids I could replay that day. Like a TV rerun. Of Mary Tyler Moore or something. Like M*A*S*H? No, it was like a soap opera, like I’d been tossed into the script of one of the soaps, where I didn’t belong. Nice girls are too dull for the soaps. I wasn’t wild about being dull, but there wasn’t much I could do about that, even if I wanted to; and I didn’t, not really anyway, want to do anything about it. I liked myself pretty much exactly the way I was.
That other day, the soap opera day, I was in the same bed, in the same room, and it was morning. There was blue sky outside the one window. I had an IV attached to my left arm, only that one dripped blood. I didn’t feel like moving, because the only part of me that didn’t hurt was my right hand, and my mother was holding on to that with both of hers. She looked pretty terrible that day too. My mother doesn’t really look like herself to me without her makeup on. Not that she wears so much, but it makes her eyes look a darker brown, and it shades in the bones of her face and gives color to her skin. My father was there too, that day, and he came to stand behind my mother when I woke up. My father looks like someone in an Ingmar Bergman movie. That day he looked like the hero in an Ingmar Bergman movie.
“I’m sorry,” I said to them.
That made my father angry. “Don’t you ever apologize,” he said. When my father gets angry, his blue eyes turn icy and his voice would freeze hell over, that’s what the twins say anyway. Then either Jack turns to Joel and says, “I guess you’d know about that, hunh?” or Joel turns to Jack and says the same thing, and they laugh. The twins weren’t there, that day, and I didn’t feel much like laughing, so my father just stood there being angry.
“Ever,” he repeated. “It”s that little bas—”
“Hendrik,” my mother stopped him.
I was beginning to feel terrible, pains all over my body, and my head throbbed, and I tightened my grip on my mother’s hand. I liked the way her engagement ring cut into my fingers. She asked my father to get the nurse and stayed there, holding my hand, until the nurse gave me a shot.
The surgeon came first, that day. He was short and bald. He stood at the foot of the bed, never looking at me, while he told me. I already knew that my right leg was broken, because it was held up in the
air with pulleys and wires. I had to lie flat and the blankets covering my right leg made a kind of tent that hid the doorway. The surgeon stood to the left of that tent. He told me that my left leg was broken too, a simple fracture. He asked me if I could move my toes. After I showed him, I wanted him to say something approving, like, “That’s good.” He didn’t say anything though, Dr. Carstairs. He just “hmmed” and made a note. Then he told me about contusions and bruising “of the upper torso,” which he sounded pretty bored with. After that, he moved around the IV stand so he was next to my bed, opposite to where my parents were. Even though he moved closer, he didn’t get any closer.
“Now that leg,” he said, sounding more interested, “that leg’s had severe bone and muscle trauma. Multiple fracture of tibia and fibula, a closed fracture of the femur.” I looked at my parents, hoping they would explain, but they were just staring at Dr. Carstairs, the way kids stare at a teacher who is really angry at them, silent and … waiting for what they already know.
“That sounds serious,” I said. My voice squeaked a little.
Dr. Carstairs agreed. “Yes. It is. The time that elapsed between the accident and when you finally were admitted here did you no good at all. No good at all. You’d have been a lot better off if you’d gotten in right away. I avulsed the debride tissue, tried to align the bones …” It was as if he was talking in a foreign language, but I got the general message: Things were pretty bad with my right leg.
“We’ve got you stabilized,” Dr. Carstairs told me, “and we’ll keep the leg pinned up.” He indicated the blanket tent. “You’re young, you’re healthy.” I didn’t understand why he was telling me this. He waited for me to say something, or ask a question.
“I see,” I said. “Thank you.”
The expression that crossed his face was like a teacher who thinks you’re going to have the right answer and you don’t.
“Isobel,” he said.
I was getting frightened, so I didn’t correct him.
“There’s a strong possibility that the right leg won’t heal.”
My mother’s hand tightened. I swallowed, and asked, “You mean, like, I’d have a limp?” I hoped he wasn’t talking about a brace, but I didn’t want to mention that.
“The leg may well have to be amputated,” Dr. Carstairs said. “In twenty-five percent of the cases this severe, the limb has to come off.”
“But why?” I asked. “It feels all right.”
“I doubt that you feel anything at all,” he said. He was right, but at least it didn’t hurt, which was, frankly, about all I cared about. “Isobel,” he started again. I felt my eyes getting bigger and bigger, just waiting for him to say whatever he was going to say. “We can’t predict how much tissue necrosis there will be, and that leads, of course, to the danger of infection.”
I swallowed again and tried to look attentive. I was frightened and I hurt and my heart was beating up in my throat. I concentrated on behaving well, because then things would have a better chance of turning out all right.
“You must stay absolutely quiet while we see what the leg is going to do,” Dr. Carstairs told me sternly.
“I will,” I told him. “How long—”
“Nobody can predict. You’ve been given plenty of antibiotics and all we can do now is wait and see. But if you feel at all funny—feverish or dizzy—you must say so right away. Will you do that?”
“I will,” I promised.
“We’ll see how it goes,” he said. He nodded to my parents and left the room.
When bad news comes, you don’t believe it right away. Not really. Or anyway, I didn’t. I didn’t even know then, not really, what I was doing in the hospital. I’d been in a car wreck, but I couldn’t remember that. I only knew it. Dr. Carstairs’s words washed over me, like icy water, and froze my brain. None of it made sense, so I didn’t believe in it. I concentrated on not crying, which was hard because I really felt like crying.
The policeman came in the late afternoon. I’d spent most of the day asleep. My father had gone home to take care of Francie but my mother stayed, just sitting in that chair. She didn’t talk much to me, but I didn’t need her to talk to me. I just needed her to be there.
The police officer appeared from behind the tent. He was in uniform, blue jacket and blue trousers. The policeman introduced himself. I said hello. He stood there, turning his hat around in his hands. “I’ll only take a couple of minutes.” He tried to smile. He had a pleasant, round face, and he looked young. I tried to smile back. “You sure are a lucky young lady,” he said. “I was the first one there and—You sure look a lot better today. Afternoon, Mrs. Lingard,” he said to my mother.
“Officer Thoms was at the scene,” she told me. She reached out for my hand again. “I imagine he wants to ask you how it happened.”
By then I knew the accident had been the night before, and they had called my parents from the hospital. It’s only twenty minutes to the hospital from our house outside of town, and my parents had come right down.
“I don’t remember,” I said to the officer. “I’m sorry, I just don’t remember.”
He nodded. “Not to worry. That often happens, or so they tell me. I’m sort of new at the job. It’ll come back to you. Your friend doesn’t remember either.”
“Marco?” I did remember that, then. I don’t know how I knew I’d been out with Marco Griggers that night, but I knew it. “Is he all right?”
“Yeah. He is. I gotta admit, Isabol, when I first saw you—You must have been there an hour or more and I thought—” He tried another smile, and this one worked. I guessed he really had been worried. “You sure are lucky, that’s all I can say. Look, you just concentrate on getting better, and I’ll get back in touch with you in a couple of weeks—if that’s all right with you?” he asked my mother.
“Of course.”
“I didn’t expect you to remember,” he told me again. “Mostly, I just wanted to see you. I’ve got a daughter myself—and a son. Much younger than you,” he said. He flushed, as if embarrassed, and turned to leave.
“Can I ask you one thing, though?” he asked from the doorway, looking around the tent.
“Sure,” I said.
“Would you have been driving? Or messing around with the steering wheel? I mean, if you were steering and he was working the accelerator, you know?”
“Me? Driving? I’m only fifteen,” I said to him. My father would skin me alive if he caught me doing any kind of driving before I was even old enough for a permit. I sort of wanted to tell Officer Thorns that, because I thought he’d like to hear about a parent who was so strict, but I was too tired to find the words. I’d never even steered a car, in my life.
“I didn’t think so,” he said.
After he’d gone, my mother stood up. I could hear activity in the hall beyond the door, carts rolling, I thought. My mother leaned over the crib railings. She held on to my hand but she didn’t touch any other part of me. “I ought to go home,” she said. “I can stay, though, if you want me to.”
“It’s okay. You look like you could use some sleep. You look terrible,” I told her. She had her face where I could see it without moving my head and she didn’t mind my telling her that.
“I feel terrible,” she said. “You don’t look too terrific yourself,” she said, which was about the first normal-sounding thing she’d said all day. “I’ll be back first thing in the morning. If you want me, want company or anything, they’ll call us. Even in the middle of the night. You know that, Sweetheart, don’t you?”
I knew that.
“I’d rather stay, but—I’ll be no use to anyone if I don’t get some sleep. A good mother would stay.”
That made me want to laugh, but I knew it would hurt if I did. I felt better when she talked that way, and when she brushed her hand over my forehead, it felt like she had pulled her love up over me like a blanket and tucked it in around my shoulders. “You get some sleep too, Pumpkin. You need it. There will be s
omebody in the room with you, all night, so you sleep too.”
I watched her walk to the door. She pulled it open and looked back at me. “A good mother would stay here, reading aloud to you. Something uplifting,” she said.
I smiled at her, to let her know I was all right. I closed my eyes and thought about the fictitious good mother my mother talked about, who would fight off Indians at the cabin door and be as with-it as Barbara Walters, who baked pineapple upside-down cakes and never got bored with what her children were telling her. This good mother was some mix of a best friend and Supreme Court judge, with a lot of fairy godmother thrown in, not to mention the glamour of Jackie Onassis and the saintliness of Mother Teresa. The twins teased her about this good mother, and I was old enough now to understand. Francie, who was only ten, was too young. So when my mother admitted that a good mother would start up a troop of Girl Scouts in Newton, Francie really thought that was what she was going to do.
I drifted off to sleep. They woke me up, throughout the night, to take my temperature and my blood pressure. I didn’t sleep all that well with some stranger sitting in a chair by my bed, watching me. I remember that. I remember how long the night seemed, and how much I wanted the sky to get light and the night to be over. I remember how much I wanted to go home.
Once I did fall really asleep, but then I dreamed. In my dream, I was sitting in a car—front seat by the window, the suicide seat—and it was going toward a tree. The car seemed to be going very slowly, but I knew it was going much too fast. I screamed and tried to back away from the big tree with its cloud of branches. I didn’t have my seat belt done up. I pulled my legs up and shoved with my hands against the dashboard to push myself away from the tree. But the back of the seat held me trapped. There wasn’t anybody driving the car, even though it was being driven. There was just the filmy darkness cut by the headlights and the tree trunk coming at me and that helpless feeling nightmares have, when you can’t move your body the way your brain tells you to. Even in my dream I thought it was funny that I screamed, because I’m not a screamer.