Izzy, Willy-Nilly

  “Sure,” I said.

  “He asked me, because I’m your best friend … he asked me if you remembered, and if the police had talked to you and what you told them. He talked to me Monday at lunch, and yesterday, and today too and … I feel so sorry for him, he’s really worried. I mean, we stopped yesterday at McDonald’s and he just sat there … worrying. You know? He’s not such a flirt, not underneath, or, anyway, not with me. He’ll be so glad I finally got hold of you. What should I tell him?”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “Izzy?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  There was a long silence on her end of the phone. I could hear school noises in the background. Suzy was calling from the pay phone outside the office. “Listen,” she said. “I’ve got to get to Latin Club, but listen, Izzy. It wouldn’t do any good, you know? I mean, it’s all over now. I’ll call you tonight, okay?”

  “Talk to you later,” I said automatically. “What is that?” I demanded. My mother was holding up a pink satin jacket, quilted and edged with floppy lace at the sleeves and down the front.

  “It’s a bed jacket.” She held it up in front of her. “Believe me, it was the least fluffy one they had. It feels warm, try it on. If you don’t like it I can return it. But if you’re kept to your bed, they’re really the most comfortable things to wear.”

  It looked like something out of a 1940s movie. My mother helped me put it on.

  It felt pretty good, except for all that lace flopping around. My mother stepped back to study me; then she started to giggle. Every now and then my mother does that, just gets silly, as if she weren’t grown up at all.

  “That bad, hunh?” I asked. I flapped a hand at her, the lace waving like a flag.

  “It’s not really your style.” She looked at the jacket with her problem-solving face on. Mom is a problem solver by nature, that’s what she says anyway. Most of the things she does have problems to solve. “Does it feel all right?” I nodded. She helped me off with the jacket and then opened her purse. She took out a little pair of scissors, doubled up into a little red leather case.

  “What are you doing carrying scissors in your purse?” I asked her.

  “A good mother travels prepared for any contingency,” she said. She sat down and got to work. “What did Suzy want?”

  I sat in bed with the unopened box in front of me. She sat in the chair, with the pink bed jacket on her lap. She turned the jacket inside out and began snipping at the tiny stitches.

  “Nothing much,” I said. “Just—you know. She only had a couple of minutes before Latin Club.”

  I wasn’t ready to put the problem before her yet. I knew what Suzy was asking me: not to tell anyone that there had been drinking at the party. Especially not to tell the police that Marco had had too much to drink. He’d probably lose his license or something. And if everyone else at the party would get in trouble too—it wasn’t fair if everyone else was punished for Marco’s mistake. Tony and everyone. If I ratted to the police, or to my parents.

  It’s not that I don’t love my parents. It’s just that the older I got, the more things there were that they couldn’t help me with as much as my friends could, because my friends had a better idea of what was really involved, and my friends knew a lot more about me, Izzy. There were things you just couldn’t tell your parents. I thought about that, watching my mother’s quick hands snip the stitches that held the lace to the sleeve of the bed jacket. If I told her how Lauren always copied off of Suzy in Geometry, for tests as well as homework assignments, she wouldn’t understand. Lauren’s father grounds her if her grades aren’t good enough for him. Her mother wouldn’t care about grades but she’s married to someone else and running a resort down in South Carolina, so only Lauren’s stepmother is there, and she’s all wrapped up in her own children. Besides, all Lauren wants is a high school diploma so she can go to modeling school; it’s not as if any college was going to be lied to about her grades. But my parents would just see that Lauren was copying, cheating they’d call it. But Lauren had to, or she’d never pass. She’d done it in Algebra I, and she’d do it in Algebra II, and then she’d be finished with the math requirements. Her father made her take the college prep courses. He didn’t care that she wasn’t smart enough. So Lauren cheated, in everything I was pretty sure, although I only knew for certain about math.

  I watched my mother fold the wide band of lace carefully on the table. She saw me watching and smiled. “Well, it might come in handy for a Halloween costume. Or something. It’s very good lace, you know.”

  “Nothing but the best for the Lingards,” I joked. But I knew how lucky I was. My parents left me alone if I wanted them to. Suzy’s mother seemed to feel she should be her daughter’s best friend and kept going off into sulks if Suzy said something was none of her business, or even hinted at that.

  They all said how lucky I was, and I agreed. Inside me, the miniature Izzy did a couple more impossible back flips.

  “What about my radio?” I asked.

  “It’s in there, somewhere. I’ll plug it in as soon as I finish this.”

  “Without the lace, it’ll be just right,” I said. “That was nice of you, Mom.”

  For a minute I thought she was going to cry, but we don’t do that, we Lingards, and so she didn’t. “A good mother tries to think of everything,” she said, instead.

  “A good mother,” I nagged, “would let each child have her own phone. No matter what it cost.”

  She bit off the final thread from the sleeve and looked at me. “A good mother would talk it over with her husband.” That meant a no. It’s my father who has a big thing about the dangers of living entirely separate lives. We have one TV set, in the den, and one phone line, and we always eat dinner at the same time, together.

  Dr. Epstein arrived then. He rolled the table away and lowered my bed until I lay flat on my back. He checked my legs. I couldn’t see what he was doing, but I answered his questions and wiggled my toes when he asked me to.

  “That’s good,” Dr. Epstein said. He raised me back to a sitting position and fixed the pillows so I’d be comfortable. “Has Mrs. Hughes-Pincke been in yet?”

  “Who is Mrs. Hughes-Pincke?” my mother asked.

  “Psychological liaison nurse,” he told her. My mother, who likes doctors but doesn’t trust psychiatrists, raised her eyebrows. “It’s okay, Jane, it’s standard practice after a trauma. It’s what responsible medicine does. This isn’t analysis, or therapy, or anything like that. Look, if Hendrik had an account that barely escaped bankruptcy, he’s watch it carefully for a while, wouldn’t he? To see that what he expected to happen did happen, and what he expected not to happen didn’t.”

  “If you say so, it must be all right. But I wonder—”

  “It’s okay, Mom. She’s pregnant.”

  “Is she?” My mother looked at me. “When’s she due?”

  “Thanksgiving,” I said. Then we both burst out laughing at the conversation we’d just had, because—it was just like us to have that conversation.

  Dr. Epstein looked pleased with us. “Are you feeling all right, Izzy?” He really wanted to know.

  “Fine. Really,” I told him. “I mean, I feel so much better than I did.” His eyes stayed on my face. “I mean—there are worse things, a lot worse.“ Kids died in car wrecks. One of the boys the twins went to grade school with had had cancer, one of their good friends, and that was terrible. There was a junior at school who had tripped and fallen into a campfire, and the whole side of her face—I couldn’t even look at her. “Much worse,” I said, thinking of it.

  “And I’ve seen a lot of them,” Dr. Epstein said, his eyes sad. “You’ll start physical therapy tomorrow. Just a massage and some toe-wiggling, to start with, a little walking along the ramp. You can’t afford to let your muscles get soft. We’ll get you in a wheelchair pretty soon, get you out and moving around. Does that sound exciting?”

  “Not exactly,” I joked.

/>   “The therapy might feel a little rough, but it’s really important to do it. Okay?”

  “Okay.” I knew that whatever Dr. Epstein thought should be done was the best thing to do. I knew that he knew what should be done. I trusted him. Not just because he was a doctor, but because of the way he really talked to me, and listened, as if he really cared about me and not just about what was wrong with me.

  4

  When my mother left, I opened the box she’d brought. My radio played beside me. There were dozens of cards to open, messages saying Get Well Soon and signed Love Ya. The music played and sometimes I sang along, as I opened the cards. “‘I just called to say I love you,’” I’d sing, a little softer than the radio. I don’t have a very good voice, but I can keep pretty much on key when I’m singing along. There was a pad with phone messages—messages from the twins, from my grandparents and aunts, from my friends and from people I didn’t know were friends, and a lot of boys too, even, “Someone named Tony—he says HI.”

  I read a long letter from Francie, telling me all about her life, where the handwriting got bigger and bigger so she could fill up more sheets. She numbered every sheet, all fourteen of them, even though page fourteen had only her name written in two-inch high letters on it. My mother had put in a couple of little puzzles in boxes, some stationery, and two paperback Agatha Christies—she reads mysteries and is forever telling me that they’re more fun than the Harlequins I like, more interesting and more exciting and better written. People started bringing flowers into my room too, until the whole deep windowsill was filled, and the nightstand too, and there were even some bowls of flowers lined up along the wall.

  Suzy called back, after supper. I turned the sound down on the TV while we talked. “I don’t know what you must think of me,” Suzy said. “I didn’t even ask how you’re feeling. Can you believe I’m so—thoughtless? How are you feeling, Izzy? Are you all right? Your mom’s told us—and I think it’s so sad. I mean, why should it happen to you, of all people? But your mom says you’re feeling okay. I think you’re awfully brave, I don’t know what I’d do if I—”

  I cut her off, which is the only thing to do with Suzy when she’s rattling on. “Tell me what’s happening, tell me what’s going on at school.”

  “You don’t want your assignments, do you?”

  “No.” I had to smile at her amazement. “No, I want to know—like, what did you do in Latin Club today.”

  “Nothing much.” She wasn’t telling the truth; I could tell by the way she hesitated and then said something indefinite. That’s the way Suzy lies. “You missed a history test.”

  “Good.”

  “And Lauren’s mother called her to say she can’t have her over Christmas, because they’re so busy then, so Lauren’s pretty depressed. Remember, there was that boy there last year, from Michigan, and they were supposed to meet again this year?”

  “Remember? How could I forget, the way she talked about him.”

  “So you can imagine how she’s feeling now.”

  “Don’t tell me.”

  “Oh, Billy Sachs is … God, I thought he was going to cry at me.”

  Billy Sachs has had a crush on me since we were in seventh grade. He never bothered me with it, just sort of wrote my name all over his notebook and stared at me whenever we were in the same room. I didn’t mind Billy. Other boys had crushes on me too, and some of them I’d like back, sometimes, for a while, but Billy was always there. We almost never exchanged a word, which is funny, I guess, and I never would like him as a boyfriend—he isn’t my type, he’s one of those science types, beanpoles with thick glasses, who don’t ever notice when their shirts need ironing—and I didn’t know him, not at all, not as a person. But I always knew how he felt and I guessed he would be especially upset.

  Suzy and I talked awhile longer, then Suzy said she had to do her homework, curse it, but had I thought of any message for Marco.

  “No,” I said, my eyes on the TV. “I’ve barely thought about it at all, since right after you called.”

  “But, Izzy, this is important.”

  “Well, I’ve been busy,” I answered, which was true. I had to make some excuse, because you can’t just tell your best friend that she’s trying to bully you. Friends don’t say things like that to one another.

  That evening I got to change into a long flannel nightgown, and the nurse helped me off the bed and into the walker, so I could go to the bathroom. The bathroom was maybe five steps across the room, but my legs were so weak and the walker was so awkward….

  It was hard work getting there. Really hard. So hard I was tired when I got back on the bed. “This must be the way really old people feel,” I said to the nurse.

  She went on settling pillows behind me. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “I’d never thought,” I said, but she didn’t want to hear what I was thinking. I never had, though, thought about how it would feel to be so weak that it was hard work, really hard work, to get out of bed and into the bathroom.

  The next morning I talked to my mother and Francie early. My mother only wanted to ask if I had slept well, and if it would be all right if she didn’t come in until after lunch. Francie was impossible to talk to. She sounded about four years old, her voice high and squeaky, and all she would do was answer my questions. “How are you? How’s school? What are you reading?” It was as if she was frightened of the telephone. I finally gave up trying.

  “You’re acting weird,” I said.

  “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say,” she squeaked.

  My mother took the phone back to tell me her plans for the day, in case I needed to reach her.

  After that, my grandparents called, both sets, one after the other, but they didn’t talk long which I thought was pretty nice of them. I realized I’d forgotten to thank them for the flowers so I started to write thank-you notes, but then I wasn’t sure which flowers who had sent and I didn’t want to get out of bed to check the cards, so I set out one of the puzzles instead and listened to the radio. I let the rhythm of the music run along my shoulders and up my neck as I started on the edge of the puzzle.

  I heard them coming down the hallway. Their high voices chattered and giggled. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I could hear that they were a little nervous. I looked at the open door and waited.

  First Suzy, then Lisa, and Lauren stood in the doorway.

  For a minute, I just looked at them, too glad to do anything more than smile. The little Izzy inside my head did a couple of cartwheels. I wore the bed jacket and I had combed my hair. They looked absolutely normal, in skirts and sweaters and flats, just like always.

  Lauren held my attention longest, with her tall figure, her ash blond hair freshly washed and blown-dry to sweep back from her face—my mother says Lauren is very nearly beautiful. She has a heart-shaped face and dark, arched eyebrows she plucks carefully to keep in shape. Her eyes are so deep blue that they look violet, large and set wide apart. She has a little Clara Bow mouth. Lauren always said that her chest was too flat and her facial bones too strong; she worried about her complexion, but she was always perfectly made up, starting with makeup base. Even at slumber parties, Lauren kept her face perfectly made up.

  Just in front of her, Suzy looked plain by comparison. Ordinarily, Suzy’s stylish way of dressing makes her look attractive, and her lively expressions and quick tongue make her narrow, pointed features, her thin lips and small eyes interesting. Suzy is a dishwater blonde, but she uses rinses to highlight her hair. She is constantly dieting to keep her stomach and hips in shape. Still, next to Lauren, Suzy looked plain and a little overdressed.

  Whoever Lisa stands with, she looks like herself. She is the most popular of us and always has been, as well as having the best taste. Even Lauren asked Lisa’s advice when we went shopping. Lisa is about my height, a little on the short side of average, and we both wear a size eight. Lisa, like Suzy, wears her hair in a flip, but she needs no rinse to bring ou
t its color, just as she needs no makeup. Her hair is the color of the brandy my father likes to drink, and so are her eyes, a light, clear brown. Lisa is the quietest of us all, and the best listener.

  My friends hesitated in the doorway, while I looked and looked at them, then Suzy led them into the room. Each one of them had something in her hands. Lauren came up and put a bouquet of flowers on the tabletop, then retreated to the doorway again. She didn’t say anything and her face looked blank and lovely, almost as if she had been struck blind. I didn’t mind her silence, because Suzy was chattering away, at about twice her normal speed.

  “Our parents gave us permission to get to school late, so we could come see you. How are you?”

  “I’m really glad to see you,” I said, smiling around at all of them, feeling like things were getting back to normal. Lauren’s bouquet was set within a little lace paper doily, and it had thin pink ribbons hanging down from it. The flowers were pink sweetheart roses and little white patches of baby’s breath. It was the kind of bouquet Shirley Temple would have carried in one of her old movies.

  Suzy talked on. “History and English will just have to stumble on without us. And—if we’re lucky—Math and Science too. I don’t see how I can manage to stretch it out to PE, do you?” Suzy had PE last period of the day. “Oh well, maybe I can lie. How are you? My mother sends her best, and Bethy too, and”—she held out a brown paper bag—“I got these for you, because I figured you like them, and all that. Open it, Izzy.”

  She had gotten me two new Harlequins, and I laughed aloud. While I was taking them out and reading the covers, Suzy had been looking around my room. She brought her eyes back to me as I told her, “I haven’t read either one. Thanks, Suzy, that’s great.”