Get Well Soon, Mallory!

  The thought of Charlotte Johanssen in a turkey costume leading a bunch of other turkeys in a dance sounded pretty funny. “The turkeys are going to dance?” Stacey said. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world. On Monday I’m going to tell Mary Anne not to schedule me for anything the day before Thanksgiving.”

  “Thanks, Stacey,” Charlotte said. “I’ll try not to mess up any steps.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be wonderful.”

  The two of them had reached downtown Stoneybrook, which is about fifteen minutes from the Johanssens’ house. Because Thanksgiving was only a few weeks away the main street had taken on a festive look. It seemed as though every shop window was decorated for the holiday.

  “Where should we go first?” Stacey asked. Charlotte saw the twinkle in Stacey’s eye and the two of them answered the question at the same time.

  “Polly’s!”

  The official name of the store is Polly’s Fine Candy and it is famous all over Connecticut not only for its delicious sweets but for its wonderful window displays.

  Stacey and Charlotte made their way down the street and stopped one store away from the shop with its red-and-white-striped awning.

  “Close your eyes,” Stacey instructed. Charlotte squeezed her lids closed. “Now what do you smell?”

  Charlotte took a deep breath. “Chocolate. Mmmm! And saltwater taffy … and roasted hazel nuts.”

  “It smells divine,” Stacey said.

  Charlotte opened her eyes and repeated after Stacey, “Divine!”

  Stacey can’t eat sweets but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t like them. She loves them. Especially chocolate. It takes a lot of willpower for her to not eat it.

  “Come on, Stacey!” Charlotte pulled Stacey down the street. “Let’s look in the window.”

  The year before, Polly’s Thanksgiving window display had featured a huge chocolate turkey surrounded by lots of little chocolate turkeys and it was spectacular. But this year, Polly had really outdone herself.

  “Oh, Stacey, look!” Charlotte exclaimed. “It’s the Mayflower filled with Pilgrims, and the Indians waiting for them at Plymouth Rock. All in chocolate!”

  “Wow.” Stacey pointed to a plaque in the corner of the window. “Look. They won first prize in The Chocolatiers of America sculpting contest.”

  “I can see why,” Charlotte murmured. Her eyes were two huge saucers as she oohed and aahed over every detail.

  “The ship has a chocolate steering wheel and a chocolate flag —”

  “And a mouse!” Stacey cried. “Look, Char! Behind those chocolate barrels and crates, they put a tiny little chocolate mouse.”

  The two of them spent fifteen minutes looking in Polly’s windows. To the right of the front door was a much smaller window holding a lovely gingerbread house with elaborate grillwork made of icing. A gumdrop Santa was perched on the roof as a reminder that Christmas would be coming soon after Thanksgiving.

  “Boy, that was fun,” Charlotte said as they finally pulled themselves away from the window display and moved on to the next shop. “I can’t wait for Thanksgiving to get here.”

  “Me neither,” Stacey agreed. “Especially this year. You see, my friends and I decided to try to do something for others this year.”

  “What others?” Charlotte asked.

  “Well, there are lots of people in need, but we thought we’d try to do something very special for the old people at Stoneybrook Manor. Not only that, we want to get you and some of the other kids involved.”

  Charlotte cocked her head and thought about it. “I’d like that.”

  “We haven’t settled on a project yet,” Stacey continued. “We’re all supposed to come up with suggestions.”

  “Well, a visit from us kids would definitely be nice,” Charlotte said. “It must get awfully lonely for those people whose grandchildren live in other states.”

  “But what should we do when we visit?”

  “How about bringing them presents?” Charlotte said, eyeing a shop window with a Christmas display of a sleigh full of presents covered in red and green foil. “Everyone likes gifts.”

  “But they’ll be getting presents for Christmas.”

  “How about Thanksgiving-type presents? You know, a cone basket full of food.”

  “You mean, a cornucopia?” Stacey giggled.

  “That’s it. That basket shaped like a horn.”

  “Hmm.” Stacey squinted one eye shut. “It would be hard to find that many cornucopias. But baskets would work.”

  “We could fill them with special treats to eat,” Charlotte added.

  “Char!” Stacey gave her a hug. “I think you’ve just solved our problem!”

  Stacey and Charlotte continued to walk down Main Street but neither of them noticed any of the other window displays. They were too busy discussing the details of how to make goody baskets for Stoneybrook Manor.

  “This is a big project,” Stacey said. “I wonder if we’d be able to make enough baskets for all the residents?”

  “I’ll help,” Charlotte said. “And I bet Becca Ramsey and Nicky and Margo Pike will, too.”

  “If all the BSC members worked on it, plus the kids,” Stacey murmured, “we just might be able to pull it off. Now let’s see. What should we put in each basket?”

  “Chocolate,” Charlotte declared. “Everybody likes chocolate.”

  Stacey ruffled Charlotte’s hair. “But not everyone can eat it. Some elderly people are on diets as strict as mine.”

  “Then put fruit and cheeses and healthy things in, too.”

  By this time the girls were back at the Johanssens’. Stacey fixed a snack of ants on a log (celery, cream cheese, and raisins). Then she and Charlotte got out pencils and paper and sat down at the coffee table in front of the couch to make a list.

  “The big question is,” Stacey said, nibbling thoughtfully on her eraser, “how do we pay for all this stuff?”

  “Maybe people will give the food to us free,” Charlotte said. “There are lots of things in our house that we don’t eat.”

  “Food drive,” Stacey said as she wrote it on her paper. “That will help. But there are some things, like fruit, that people don’t just have sitting around their houses. We may need to do some sort of fundraiser.”

  “A fundraiser and make up the baskets?” Charlotte repeated. “That’s a lot of work.”

  “I know, I know.” Stacey leaned back against the couch. “It’s a little scary, isn’t it?”

  Charlotte nodded and then grinned, revealing her dimples. “But really exciting!”

  Stacey could hardly wait to get home to share Charlotte’s idea with the rest of the BSC. Of course, she dialed Kristy first.

  “Charlotte Johanssen just came up with the best idea for Stoneybrook Manor. What do you think of making goody baskets that we fill with food, and maybe even a surprise or two?”

  Kristy didn’t hesitate for a second. “Great idea,” she said.

  “The only problem,” Stacey continued, “is how to pay for the baskets. We could have a fundraiser, or we could ask for donations.”

  “I think we should do both,” Kristy said. “We’ll come up with the specifics later. Right now I’ll call Shannon and Mary Anne. Then Mary Anne can call Logan —”

  “And I’ll call Claudia,” Stacey said. “And Jessi and Mallory.”

  “Spread the news about the goody baskets,” Kristy instructed. “Tell everyone to start thinking about a fundraiser and we’ll talk on Monday.”

  That night the phone lines were busy all over town. I was the last person Stacey called. Mom and Dad had plugged our downstairs phone into the jack in my room so I wouldn’t have to get out of bed.

  “I think it’s a terrific idea,” I said to Stacey. “But I don’t think I’m going to be able to make Monday’s meeting.”

  “You don’t have to,” Stacey said. “I just want you to think about ways we can raise money to pay for the baskets.”

  “There aren’t many
things the doctor will let me do,” I joked. “But thinking is one of them. I’ve got plenty of time for that.”

  “Good. And if you come up with a brilliant fundraising scheme, call me.”

  I didn’t think I was capable of coming up with anything brilliant ever again, but I said I would call, anyway.

  After Stacey had finished her calls she checked in with Kristy. “Everybody I talked to is excited about the project,” Kristy said. “I can’t wait to get started!”

  Before Stacey went to bed that night she made one last call.

  “Dr. Johanssen?” she said. “This is Stacey. I know Char’s in bed by now, but when she wakes up tomorrow, please tell her that everyone in the BSC absolutely loved her idea!”

  I used to like my pajamas. They’re made of white flannel, with tiny pink rosebuds printed all over them, and pink lace at the collar and cuffs. Mom said they were “practical but feminine” and I agreed. Well, after a week of lying around in bed staring at the tiny little rosebuds and the lacy cuffs, I wanted to tear them up and burn them.

  After I burned my pajamas, I planned to blow up the television set. At first, having the portable TV in my room was kind of neat, but how many soap operas can a person watch? What gets me is nothing ever happens until Friday. Then on Friday one of the characters announces that he’s getting a divorce or quitting his job, or that she’s going to have a baby. I know they do that just so you’ll tune in on Monday (which I did, because there wasn’t anything else to do).

  My brothers and sisters had been great. For a solid week they’d tiptoed past my room and spoken in hushed tones, as if I were a patient in a hospital. In fact, Margo and Claire had even decorated my room to look like a hospital room. They’d attached a clipboard to the end of my bed, and brought up one of the houseplants from downstairs and placed it on a table beside the bed. Whenever any of the other kids wanted to talk to me, Margo would tap lightly on the door, stick her head in the room, and announce, “Mallory, you have a visitor.”

  I did get to go downstairs a couple of times (whoopee) and once I even went to the basement to see a show that Margo, Nicky, and Claire had put together just for me. It was called “Mallory Is Sick.” Claire played me and her part consisted of lying on a cot pretending to be asleep. Margo and Nicky played the doctors who discovered I had cooties. They talked a lot about operating while they mixed up a drink of milk, orange juice, and raisins. It was supposed to be a miracle cure for the cooties. Then they tried to make Claire drink it but she refused, so the show ended in an argument. I know it was supposed to make me feel better but I was too tired to laugh.

  “Mom,” I complained as I shuffled back to my bedroom, “why do the kids keep saying I have cooties?”

  “Because they can’t pronounce mononucleosis,” she said with a smile.

  “Why don’t they just call it mono like everyone else?”

  Mom shrugged. “Cooties is more fun.”

  “Fun for who?” I grumbled as I got back into bed. “Not me. I can’t remember what fun feels like.”

  Mom tucked the covers up around my neck. “Just get some rest and later on you can try to do a little homework.”

  “Homework.”

  Just saying the word made me tired. I had been trying to keep up with my schoolwork but it was hard to concentrate. I’d work on a few math problems and discover that my pencil had drifted off the page and I’d drooled on the paper (ew, gross).

  On Saturday Mom tapped on my door. “Mal? Your father and I are taking the older kids into town to do some shopping. Do you mind keeping an eye on Margo and Claire?”

  “Mind!” I sat up in bed. “I’d love to.” At last, something to do besides lie on my back, watch TV, and try to do homework!

  “Make sure they get something to eat,” my mother said. “I put some cheese sandwiches in the fridge for lunch. And if they want a snack, there are celery sticks in a plastic bowl, too.”

  “Don’t worry, Mom,” I called as she headed down the hall. “I’ll take good care of them.”

  Boy, was that a joke! The instant the front door shut Margo appeared at my door. She was wearing a white bathrobe over her clothes. A toy stethoscope hung from her neck. Claire stood beside her, a white paper hat pinned to her hair.

  “Good morning, Miss Pike,” Margo said. “I’m Doctor Margolius and this is Nurse Claire.”

  Claire tugged on Margo’s sleeve and whispered into her ear.

  “Oh, excuse me,” Margo said, straightening up. “I mean, this is Nurse Tiffany.” Tiffany was the name Claire happened to like that week.

  “How do you do,” I said, deciding to play along with them. “Are you two making your rounds?”

  Margo looked confused. “Huh?”

  “Visiting your patients?” I explained.

  “No.” Margo shook her head. “You’re our only patient.”

  Claire pointed a pudgy finger at me. “We want you to listen to us ’cause we’re in charge.”

  “It’s nearly lunchtime,” Margo said. “And in our hospital patients eat at eleven o’clock on the dot.”

  “Lunchtime? I should get you kids something to eat,” I said. I flipped back the covers on my bed and started to stand. “Mom said she left some food in the fridge.”

  “Get back in that bed!” Margo barked. “You’re too weak to stand.”

  “But Margo — I mean, Dr. Margolius, I’m feeling much better. Honest. Besides, Mom asked me to look after you —”

  Claire sprang forward and grabbed my wrist. She held onto it and looked at the toy watch she wore on her arm. “Uh-oh. This doesn’t look good, Doctor,” she told Margo.

  “Why? Is her pulse too fast?” Margo asked.

  Claire shook her head.

  “Too slow?”

  “No.”

  Margo put her hands on her hips and asked in exasperation, “What then?”

  “She doesn’t have one.”

  “That can only mean one thing,” Margo said, scribbling furiously on the chart at the foot of my bed.

  “What, Doctor?” Claire asked wide-eyed.

  “She’s sick.”

  “No!” Claire gasped.

  “Yes. Very, very sick.”

  Claire leaned her head against the wall. “This is awful.”

  It took every ounce of my willpower not to laugh out loud. I decided that Margo and Claire must have been watching too many soap operas, too, because they sounded just like the characters on Young Doctors in Love.

  “She better eat something fast,” Margo declared.

  “Right.” Claire nodded her head. “Doctor, what should I get?”

  Margo rubbed her chin. “I prescribe Animal Crackers, Goofy Grape Kool-Aid, and some M&M’s.”

  I liked that idea. It sounded much better than the Jell-O and chicken soup I had been eating for the past two weeks.

  “If you insist, doctor,” I said, leaning my head back on my pillow. But then I remembered I was supposed to be taking care of them. And that did not sound like a nutritous lunch. I raised myself on one elbow. “Doctor Margolius and Nurse Tiffany, the hospital had some cheese sandwiches and celery sticks flown in on our medivac chopper just for you. I believe they’re downstairs in the refrigerator.”

  “Celery sticks?” Claire wrinkled her nose.

  “Yes, all the great nurses ate celery sticks,” I said solemnly. “Florence Nightingale, Clara Barton, and, uh …” (The only other nurse I could think of was from the old TV series M*A*S*H. I told you I was watching too much TV.) “… Hot Lips Houlihan.”

  My list seemed to do the trick because Margo and Claire disappeared. When they finally reappeared, they were carrying plates laden with sandwiches and celery sticks. I was relieved. So far I hadn’t taken care of them at all. In fact, the way things had been going, they were the baby-sitters and I was the charge.

  For the next couple of hours, Claire and Margo took turns reading to me (or in Claire’s case, showing me pictures). Every so often one of them would take my temperatur
e or listen to my heart with the stethoscope, but all in all it was a pleasant way to spend the day. I was actually kind of disappointed to see my parents return.

  My doctor and nurse were busy taking my pulse for the fifteenth time when my mom popped her head in the door and asked, “How’d it go?”

  Margo answered for me. “The patient was a little cranky at first but she took her medicine. Luckily, we didn’t have to operate.”

  “I see.” Mom shot me an amused look, then turned to Margo and Claire and said, “All right, you two. I think it’s time for your patient to get some rest.”

  I was still chuckling to myself when I drifted off to sleep.

  “I have big news,” I announced to my family at the breakfast table on Sunday morning. “I can swallow and it doesn’t hurt.”

  “That’s great, honey,” Mom said. She squinted at me and shook her head. “Your glands are still a little swollen, though. I can see them from here.”

  “But I don’t have a fever anymore,” I said. “Maybe I could go to school tomorrow.”

  Dad put down his fork. “Mallory, you still don’t look well. Now tell the truth. How do you feel?”

  “The truth?” I stared at my plate. The truth was, I still felt really tired and dragged out. “A little tired,” I murmured.

  Mom and Dad exchanged concerned looks and then Mom said, “We need to have a talk after breakfast.”

  From the tone of her voice, things didn’t sound good. And they weren’t.

  “Your recovery has been much slower than we expected,” Dad said after the three of us had gone upstairs to my room. I was sitting on one side of my bed, with my parents across from me. “So your mother and I talked to Dr. Dellenkamp.”

  “What did she say?” I asked in a tiny voice.

  “She said that mono hits some people harder than others,” Mom replied. “Unfortunately you’re one of those people.”

  Dad cleared his throat. “She said we should keep you home until you get better and then you can go to school, but that’s it.”

  “That’s it?” I repeated. “What do you mean?”

  Dad looked at Mom, who leaned forward and took my hand. “It means no extra activities. No archery team, no school projects, and —”