Izzy, Willy-Nilly

  That night we had pizza in the kitchen. My father and Francie drove out to pick it up. My mother set the table and made a tossed salad, even though she knew no one would eat it. She set out glasses. “Root beer or milk?” she asked me and I told her root beer, as usual. She and my father had some of the Swedish beer she gave him a case of for each Christmas and birthday.

  As usual, there was too much pizza, two medium-sized pies. Both had double cheese and thin crusts. One was plain, the way my father likes it; the other had crumbled sausage and slices of green peppers and mushrooms and onions, the way I like it. For a minute, I didn’t even take a piece for myself, I just breathed in everything—the tomato cheese smell of pizza, the bright kitchen with darkness outside, my parents and Francie serving themselves with little bits of conversation, “Thanks,” “Elbows, dear,” “If someone would pass me the salt,” “Don’t forget salad, anyone.” I breathed it all in, and the little Izzy inside my head did her back flip. Then I helped myself to the biggest slice.

  If there is anything like the first bite of pizza, crisp crust and gooey cheese with tomato underneath, I don’t know what it is. Strands of cheese hung down over my chin. I pushed them in my mouth with my fingers and chewed.

  “Boy, does that taste good.” I reached out to take another piece.

  “Don’t forget salad,” my mother said. I ignored her.

  “Are we going to have that party?” Francie asked.

  “I don’t know,” my mother said. “Izzy, we didn’t know, would you like to have a party? To get everyone together again?”

  “No,” I said. “Thanks, but no. I don’t think so.”

  “You’ll have to see them all sometime,” my mother started.

  My father stopped her. “If you ask her and she says no, Jane, that seems pretty clear.”

  “If Izzy doesn’t want it, can I have it? My friends want to see her too.”

  I could just imagine that.

  “You’ll want a quiet weekend,” my mother told me. “During the week, you’ll have therapy every morning. How tiring is it?”

  “Not too bad.”

  Francie wanted to know all about it, what I did, but I didn’t want to talk about it. “Every day?” I asked.

  My mother nodded.

  “Why every day?”

  “It’s what Saul said. Once you get back to school you won’t be able to go in as often. Which reminds me, we have to do something about your assignments, so you won’t be too far behind.”

  “If you call the school they’ll get all that ready for you at the office. So I won’t be doing home teaching?”

  “You won’t be home long enough for that,” my father said.

  “I didn’t know,” I said. “How long—?”

  “Once you get onto crutches, and when you feel well enough, Saul said you can go back,” my mother said. “He knows what a social bird you are, he’s known you all your life—which reminds me …” She shifted the subject, “Do I expect lots of people around this weekend?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Anyone besides the usual? Should I lay in extra sodas and chips?”

  But I really didn’t know. The only one I knew might be coming by was Rosamunde. “I called Suzy, to tell her,” I told my mother. I felt like I was trying to deceive her, because she didn’t know that things had gotten queer between me and my friends. “But I don’t think … All I really want is just to be home,” I said, so she wouldn’t get worried.

  “You won’t get bored?”

  “I have three weeks of school to catch up on. I doubt I’ll be bored. Besides, Rosamunde might be coming by, because I’ve got some library books she took out on her card, and things.”

  “Who’s Rosamunde? That’s a funny name,” Francie said. She had to repeat her question because she had asked with her mouth full. “Is she somebody from the hospital? Did you make a lot of friends in the hospital? You should teach me how to make friends, you really should.”

  “I’m not sure that can be taught,” my mother said gently. “Besides, you have friends.”

  “But she never even tried to teach me,” Francie continued.

  “For heaven’s sake, Francie,” I said, since neither of my parents seemed about to say anything. “Don’t be such a baby.”

  “Izzy, can’t you talk nicely to your sister?” my mother asked, gently.

  I filled my mouth with pizza so I wouldn’t have to answer. It was no use talking nicely to Francie. She had her own ideas about things, and she only listened when you agreed with her. She had always been jealous of me, I knew that. Little sisters are always jealous of older sisters, who have more privileges; and she was jealous because I was prettier and easier to get along with. I couldn’t figure Francie out, and I didn’t really want to. Why Francie should have been jealous of me then, I didn’t know, but it was there in her face across the table. I should be jealous of her, I thought, remembering her long legs as they swung in perfect control over her head, jealous of her perfect body and her coordination.

  And you are, I said to myself.

  But I had never been jealous of Francie before. In fact, I’d always been glad I was myself, not her. I was glad I didn’t have her problems, her moods, and her intensity. That night, however, I almost wished I had those qualities, and her self-centeredness too. It would have made it easier on me. I wished I could get away with the kind of behavior she got away with, just because my parents said she had a lot of rough corners to knock off.

  I liked it better when Francie was jealous of me and I could agree with her that she had reason to be jealous.

  “Izzy?” my mother said. “I asked you a question. Didn’t you hear me?” I hadn’t. “You must be tired. Why don’t you take a long hot bath and get yourself into bed. Would you like any help?”

  “Maybe I will,” I said, suddenly discouraged. “Anyway, I’d better unpack.”

  “I’ll do that,” my mother said. “While Dad and Francie do the dishes. But you have to have some salad.”

  “I’d like to watch a little TV. I’m stuffed, Mom.”

  “I get to choose TV between eight and nine,” Francie said. My father glared at her. “Unless there’s something you especially want to see,” she told me.

  It was almost pitiful, how much it mattered to her. “No,” I said, “there isn’t.”

  In the den, Francie sprawled out on the sofa and I maneuvered the wheelchair into place. On the screen, somebody advertised their soda with people on a beach playing volleyball. Francie said, her eyes on the screen, “I’m really sorry, Izzy—about what happened to you.”

  I knew at that moment she really meant it. “It’s not your fault, Francie,”I said.

  “If it was my fault—I’d die. I’d kill myself.”

  “No, you wouldn’t,” I answered. “You know, you are pretty emotional, Francie. Did you ever think that people don’t always like all that drama? That maybe people like things to be a little more relaxed?”

  “You think you’re so perfect. You just think you’re the perfect one.”

  I had the needlepoint kit on my lap, so I picked up the can-vas and went back to making stitches and stopped trying to talk to Francie.

  I did take a bath. I had wanted to take a long, steaming bath, but it was so uncomfortable with the cast hanging out over the side of the tub, and the other leg just—there under the water—and my mother waiting in the bedroom just in case, that I washed myself quickly and hauled myself out. My mother made a point of not helping me. I could feel her worrying as I moved around the room. It was good to be in a big room, I thought, but it made for long distances between the bathroom and the bureau, between the bureau and the bed. The room had been built for people who could walk.

  I don’t know why I was so depressed that night. Maybe my mother was right about my being tired. Maybe just because it had been so uncomfortable and awkward to take a bath that I couldn’t get relaxed. And then, my mother hadn’t even put a box of tissues beside the bed, so
I had to get up and go into the bathroom for toilet paper, to blow my nose on, to wipe my eyes with. I couldn’t turn on the lights, because then they’d know I was awake. I couldn’t ask her to give me a box of tissues, because then she’d know I needed them. She’d just have to think that for some reason I was using an awful lot of toilet paper, I thought, taking a handful back to the dark bed with me. Because I couldn’t even go out and get a box of tissues for myself, privately.

  Nobody woke me up the next morning, but I still got up early, just as the sun was starting to lighten the curtains. I got myself washed and dressed—another skirt, and an oxford shirt because it was pretty warm with that blanket over my legs. I noticed, when I opened the closet to pick a skirt, that my mother had removed all my right shoes. I hadn’t seen that before, and I thought for a minute I’d have to go back to bed. Then I thought about how it didn’t matter what color shirt I wore, whether it matched the skirt or not, since the blanket covered the skirt. I picked a white shirt anyway and settled myself in the wheelchair.

  Getting out of the room was tricky. I had to wheel up side-ways and lean over to twist the handle so I could pull the door a couple of inches open. Then I had to back around, without touching the door because then it would swing shut again, which happened a couple of times. Once I had backed away, I had to lean way forward to pull the door entirely open so I could leave. It took me a while to learn how to back up to a closed door.

  By the time I got to the kitchen, I was starving. Everybody was there. My father had showered and dressed. He was going to spend the morning at the office, then play golf in the afternoon. My mother and Francie were in their robes. A place had been set for me at the table, with a glass of tomato juice waiting, so I rolled right up and drank it down. My mother started to get up, leaving her breakfast half eaten. My father told her he’d scramble me eggs, “and how about some bacon? We’ve got it made.”

  I thought I might tell them about the trouble I had getting through the door, because I thought it was sort of funny, and curious, the kind of thing you’d never think of; but then I thought it might make them feel that they’d forgotten something they shouldn’t have forgotten.

  “We’re talking about getting a VCR,” my father said.

  “We could rent movies, and the library has some too, if you have a VCR,” Francie explained.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “It’s good home entertainment,” my mother said.

  “It’s not like watching television,” Francie explained earnestly. “Because it’s movies, not TV shows, so it’s not junk.”

  My father turned around from the stove and raised his eyebrows at me. I smiled.

  “We could make our own tapes too,” my mother said. “We could tape you playing a round of golf, Hendrik.”

  “That would be exciting.” He poured eggs into the frying pan.

  “Or me, you could tape me at meets,” Francie cried, jumping up from the table in her excitement. She hadn’t even gotten it that my parents were making a joke.

  “Isn’t it expensive?” I asked. “We already have cable, why do we need movies too?”

  “I thought—it might be fun. We could make a bowl of popcorn and watch movies,” my mother said. “Like old Fred Astaire movies, or the ones we wanted to see but never got to … doesn’t it sound like fun to you, Izzy?”

  “Say yes, Izzy. Please,” Francie begged. “If you say yes, they’ll do it.”

  I knew what she meant, and I guessed she was right, from the way my parents exchanged a look after that remark. But I couldn’t think of any objections, and I knew I couldn’t object only on the grounds that I knew they were doing it because I was crippled now. And I wouldn’t be doing much of anything else with my time. “Sounds okay to me,” I said.

  “I’m going to be downtown Monday morning, so I’ll price them—while I’m getting your things at school,” my mother said. She and Francie rinsed their dishes and went to get dressed for gymnastics.

  My father waited for me to finish so he could get my dishes into the dishwasher before he left for work. “It’s the price I have to pay for taking yesterday afternoon off,” he said, bending down to kiss me as he left. “But don’t tell your mother, she’ll feel guilty. Or something.” He turned back at the door to look at me, where I still sat at the table. “Besides, I don’t think I could have gotten anything done anyway. It’s good to have you back, Izzy. I’m awfully proud of you, do you know that?” He stood there, tall and dependable, and glad to see me—proud of me, he said. It made me feel good.

  12

  I sat there for a minute, thinking that I had to go to the bathroom but not wanting to move just yet, because it felt pretty good to be sitting in my own kitchen, with a full stomach and the memory of my father’s words. Then my father came back in, followed by Suzy and Lisa. Their faces got serious as soon as they saw me.

  “How are you feeling?” Lisa asked.

  “Fine,” I said. I was surprised, at first, then glad. “Hey, take your coats off, sit down. Get yourselves something to drink—Suzy knows where everything is. What’s up?” I asked them. “What’s on?”

  “Nothing special,” Lisa said.

  “We’ll be like three old ladies, won’t we?” Suzy said. “We can sit and talk, over a cup of tea.” She made her voice high and creaky: “I don’t know what the world’s coming to.” I started to laugh, but stopped because it made me have to go to the bathroom more.

  Suzy wore a heavy white letter sweater, which she didn’t take off to make the tea. She just rolled the long sleeves back.

  My mother and Francie came hurrying through the room. “It’s good to see you girls,” my mother said. “And you could help me out—Lisa? Could you ask the office to get Izzy’s assignments and books? I’ll be in around eleven on Monday.” She didn’t ask Suzy, because Suzy is liable to say she’ll do something and then, if something more interesting comes up, she won’t do what she said.

  “I’d be happy to, Mrs. Lingard,” Lisa said.

  “Thanks a lot.” My mother bent over to kiss the top of my head. “I’ll be back in a little while. Is there anything you need?” Her hand rested on my shoulder for a minute, as I shook my head no. She wasn’t about to hug me with my friends there, because she knew it would embarrass me, but she wanted to tell me she was glad that they had come over, because I was glad.

  We three sat around the table. I dumped sugar into my tea and didn’t look at them, to give them time to look at me. “Anyway, how are you?” I asked. “What’s on?”

  “Nothing much,” Suzy told me. “You look different.”

  “I think I lost some weight.”

  “Some people have all the luck,” she grumbled. “But it’s not that, it’s something else.”

  I didn’t know what to answer because the obvious answer—I am different—was so obvious it couldn’t be that she was talking about. Lisa asked if I was glad to be home.

  “You can imagine. At the hospital they wake you up at six.”

  “But that’s awful,” Lisa sympathized. “Why did they do that?”

  “Routine,” Suzy told her. “In a hospital, everything’s run by routine. It’s your eyes, Izzy, they look different.”

  “Oh, I’m not wearing mascara.”

  “Why not?” Suzy wanted to know.

  I didn’t want to talk about myself. “Is there going to be a lot of homework to catch up on?”

  “It hasn’t been too bad, no worse than usual,” Suzy told me. “We started Romeo and Juliet, we’re already in the second act, and we’ve done some translations in Latin. I don’t know about your biology class, we’ve had—what’s it been, two weeks?”

  “Three,” Lisa said.

  “Two lab reports and a chapter test. There were only three grades above a ninety. I got a ninety-one.”

  “Good for you,” I said. “Who got the other two? What were they?” We were drinking tea and talking without really looking at one another, which felt just right to me, because it w
as the way things usually went with us. We’d sit around and say whatever crossed our minds. I knew that I couldn’t do that anymore, but I wanted them to feel that they could.

  “Rosamunde Webber got one, and Billy Sachs got the other. I don’t know what they were. I mean, what does it matter? If Billy got a less than perfect paper he’d probably hang himself anyway. He hasn’t got anything else to do except work for perfect grades. Rosamunde too; she only got a ninety-eight, big tragedy.”

  “Where’s Lauren?” I asked, although I’d made up my mind not to.

  “Who knows?” Suzy said.

  “We’re meeting her later, for lunch. I need some stockings and Suzy wants to look at formals.” Lisa wanted to divert me from the topic of Lauren. I didn’t want to be diverted, because I wanted to be able to say that I knew something was wrong. But I didn’t quite dare insist on talking about her and I didn’t know how to say outright that I knew what was going on, that they weren’t fooling me, that they didn’t have to try to fool me. I figured that they probably wanted to think that they were.

  “Why formals?” I asked.

  “For the Christmas dance,” Suzy said eagerly. Then she stopped herself. “In case, you know.”

  I didn’t know why she was being so secretive. If she was going to wear somebody’s letter sweater, did she expect me not to figure out that she was dating an upperclassman? And—since we’d talked about it for years, complaining that only upperclassmen could go to the Christmas dance—did she think I couldn’t put two and two together? I was feeling a little uncomfortable, only partly because my bladder was pressing against my stomach. I didn’t like to think that my friends thought they couldn’t talk about boys with me anymore. Since I knew that a lot of what we talked about and thought about was boys. So I did ask that question directly: “Whose sweater is that?”

  Suzy hesitated. “Oh—I’m not sure. I picked it up at the party last night because I only wore a blazer. Don’t ask me why, except my mother started giving me grief about only wearing a blazer. She should have known better.”