Cyclone Page 7

  “Nora?” Dad stood in the doorway. “You ready to go?”

  “Be right there,” I said, jamming the roller-coaster page into my backpack and then spending entirely too much time zipping and unzipping every compartment like I needed to find something specific. “I just need . . . I mean, I’m just looking for . . .”

  “Everything okay?”

  Jack stood up and walked toward him, introducing himself and buying me time. “Hi, Mr. Reeves, I’m Jack.”

  “Nice to meet you, Jack,” Dad answered, taking his eyes off me. “I hear you guys have been keeping each other company.”

  “Yeah, absolutely,” he replied. “How’s Riley?”

  “She’s good,” Dad answered. “Getting better.” Dad was in full small-talk mode now and kept going. Jack was clearly a pro at this. He bought me at least three minutes. I took a few deep breaths and got myself together.

  “Ready, Dad. See you later, Jack.”

  “Later. Thanks for the sandwiches. Next time, more mayo?”

  * * *

  Make small talk, I reminded myself as I walked toward Riley’s room, sketchbook in hand. Include Riley. Talk about the wolf. Look, Aunt Mo, I brought some of Riley’s drawings from home. Don’t forget to include Riley. Give her time to answer you, even though she won’t actually answer you. Do you remember the wolf we did together?

  “Hands.” My dad prodded me toward the sink as my mother excused herself to abide by the visiting rules.

  “Huh? Oh, right. Sorry. Hands.” I held the book between my knees while I soaped and rinsed. Hands washed, standing next to Riley’s bed, I took a deep breath. Riley’s eyes were already on me. She half smiled at me and raised her hand, like a small wave! SPARK! She looked different too. Was she missing a tube? One tube? She was; there had been a tube taped down to the side of her mouth, hadn’t there? Or was it her lips? Her lips, of all things, looked . . . better . . . normal. Less chapped and dry and split. Lips for talking, not lips for a tube.

  “Did you want to show us something?” Aunt Mo encouraged me, pointing at the sketchbook.

  “Um . . . yeah. Right. I found this wolf sketch that you did. It’s . . . really good . . . and I just thought I would show it to you.” I opened the sketchbook. Riley was still watching me, so I said, “Do you remember when we—”

  “Excuse me.” A nurse appeared and checked some of the equipment and numbers. Another false start. Grrrr. The nurse tapped away at the computer that seemed to be at the center of it all. We stepped out of his way, and I realized that I was still standing there like a human easel with the wolf picture on display. The nurse left without saying anything else.

  “That’s a great picture, honey.” Aunt Mo motioned me closer to Riley. “Bring it here so Riley can see it better.”

  I took a step closer. Riley pursed her lips a few times and muttered some sounds I couldn’t understand. I came even closer and put the sketchbook on the tray in front of her. “Do you remember? We worked on this last week? You showed me how to draw it too.” Riley scanned it with her eyes and then looked up at her mother, not at me. Aunt Mo gave me a small nod to continue. I loved Aunt Mo so much for giving me cues. I turned the page and pointed to my wolf.

  “You taught me how to draw a wolf,” I repeated, slower this time. I flipped back to my original wolf. “My first one looked like this.”

  “Oh my,” Aunt Maureen said politely.

  A sound, like a grunt, leaked out of Riley. Was that a laugh?

  “Riley, do you remember this?” Aunt Mo asked, excitedly pointing at my pig straw wolf. She was talking to Riley like she always did—like Riley was going to answer. I guess that was the right way. I would do that too. Riley reached toward the wolf.

  “That was the first one,” I said, glancing at Aunt Mo. “Riley told me to draw it with my eyes closed.” She looked from me to Riley, tilting her head toward my cousin in a sit-beside-her kind of way. I sat down in the chair next to Riley. “My wolf was terrible, and you helped me. You told me to draw it with my eyes closed.” I tried to keep eye contact with Riley without giving her that concerned eye contact that I hated and was sure she would too. Riley stared at the page for a long time. “See?” I said. “It looks like a pig with a straw. Well, it sort of does, but my friend tried—” My father put his hand on my shoulder. Wait. I think that’s what Dad meant. Wait for Riley.

  After she had looked at it for a while, I turned to the page with her wolf. “This is your wolf, Riley. It’s amazing.”

  Riley studied it for a full minute while we waited. She finally raised her eyes slowly off the page and up to me. The outer corner of her left eye still drooped, giving it a different shape than her right one. But it was much better than a few days ago. I managed to hold her gaze for a few seconds, but then I had to look away because looking had started to feel too much like staring. Riley lowered her eyes again and ran her hand over the page, rubbing her finger over the top where the corner was damp from the rain. I knew I should have protected it better! She flattened her fingers across the picture and then flicked the edge of the page with her thumb, snapping it. Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap.

  “It’s yours,” I said. “Your sketchbook. I brought it from your room.” I pulled the chair closer to the bed. Could she even understand me? “I can show—” I stopped and looked at my aunt. She nodded. I leaned over Riley’s weak arm. “I can show you more. . . .” Riley flattened her hand, covering the wolf entirely. Again she pursed her lips, over and over. Did it mean something? It must. I just didn’t know what, so I didn’t know what to say. “Mmmmmm,” she hummed. “Mmmmm??”

  I looked at Aunt Mo. Me? Was she saying me? It sounded like a question, I thought. That was a spark too, wasn’t it? Knowing how to make your word sound like a question? Riley leaned back against her pillow and closed her eyes, her hand still resting on top of the wolf.

  “Are there more sketches in there, Nora? Can I see?” Aunt Maureen took the book from the table. I relaxed back into the chair, relieved—I’m so awful, but I was—Aunt Maureen was taking over, but also feeling like I had done okay. Like Riley had recognized the wolf.

  Aunt Maureen leafed through the sketchbook, smiling. I thought she was going to show the pages to Riley, but she kept flipping through the sketchbook again and again.

  “You’ve been drawing and sketching since you were big enough to hold a pencil,” she said at last. She rolled the tray table away and sat on the bed, turning the pages, showing Riley, teaching Riley more about being Riley. “Don’t ask me where you got it from either,” she said with a laugh. “I can’t draw worth a lick and neither can anyone else in the family.” Actually, I knew that wasn’t true. Uncle Pete was a pretty good artist. He used to draw stories for Riley. I’ve seen them. I checked Riley’s face for some kind of protest, but there was nothing there.

  “You ready for me?” A woman I hadn’t seen before walked in with a large canvas tote bag on her shoulder. “I’m sorry to interrupt.” She smiled at Riley first and then addressed Aunt Maureen. “How’s everybody today?”

  “Good,” replied Aunt Maureen enthusiastically. “I guess it’s talking time!”

  “Huh?” I asked.

  “Speech therapy,” explained the woman. “I’m Josephine, Riley’s speech therapist.28 Now that she’s feeling better, she gets to spend more time with me!” She took some charts out of her tote and rolled the table back in front of Riley.

  Fake half smile. No eye crinkle. Tomato-soup smile? Not sure Riley enjoyed her speech therapy or the charts.

  “Thank you for bringing this in, Nora,” Aunt Mo said to me, closing the book and handing it back. “That was a real treat! Don’t you think so, Riley?” Riley waved her fingers again. Agreement? Or was I catching Aunt Maureen’s imaginary spark bug?

  “Sure, no problem.” I smiled at Aunt Mo and wedged the sketchbook into my backpack. “I’ll see you guys later. Bye, Riley.” Half smile. Some crinkling! A spark for me!

  “Mmmmm,” Riley said, exaggerating
her closed lips for the M sound. A long humming sound. “Mmmmooo.”29 I stopped what I was doing. Riley stared and blinked. “Moo,” she said again. “Moo.” Riley jerked her hand back. Her left hand. Her weak hand. I hadn’t seen it move yet. I jumped, but Aunt Mo didn’t. She leaned in closer.

  “Moo?” repeated Aunt Mo.

  “Keep going, Riley, tell us more.” Josephine was leaning forward, encouraging Riley to continue. Riley’s arm jerked again, striking Aunt Maureen in the side of the face. This time she jumped too. Riley’s face twisted, her hand stuck in Aunt Maureen’s curls—as crazy and big as Riley’s own hair. She pulled Aunt Maureen’s head roughly toward her.

  “Ooh, girl, you are getting strong!” Aunt Maureen laughed, and buried her own hand in her mass of curls, wrapping it right over Riley’s.

  “Moo-Moo,” said Riley. “Moo-Moo.”

  “Moo-Moo is Mom,” Josephine surmised. “Is that right, Riley?”

  “Moo-Moo,” repeated Riley. One eye crinkled. “Moo-Moo.” Aunt Maureen grabbed Riley’s face in both hands and covered her face in kisses.

  Spark. Spark. Spark.

  * * *

  27 I think it does matter, because you use different muscles, and vertical running is tougher on your heart (cardiovascular) and lungs (respiratory). Not to mention your glutes (butt).

  28 Speech therapists don’t just work on speech! They also help patients practice swallowing. Same part of brain! See diagram.

  29 Interesting side note: The reason so many different languages have an M word for mother is because Mmmm is often the first sound a baby makes, accidentally, by humming!

  DAY 4 3/4

  So you’re saying that if Riley can’t read, she’s supposed to know that this means father? Really? Does this look like anybody’s dad?”

  “If you have a comic-book dad.” Jack and I both laughed. I had told Jack about Riley’s word chart30 that morning, and by lunchtime he had a stack of them from Monica.

  “And this means Mom?” I asked.

  “I guess so? But it could mean baby or doctor, or women or . . . feminism.”

  “Feminism?” I laughed. “Really? Who wakes up in a hospital and asks for feminism?”

  “I would, for sure.” Straight-faced. Jack was ridiculous.

  I covered up the words under another picture and asked Jack what he thought it meant:

  “Ice cream?” he guessed.

  “Nope,” I said, shaking my head. “Daughter.”

  “Daughter? Hmmm . . . I was going to say ‘lick.’ Although ‘lick’ is not really a hospital word.” He stuck out his tongue with a blech. Although actually, I thought Riley was more likely to use the word “lick” in a sentence than some of the other words on the chart, like “bedpan.”

  “How about this one?” I tried.

  “Old.” I wasn’t sure if he was kidding or not.

  “Nope.”

  “Rocking chair,” he tried again.

  “Relaxed,” I explained. “It means ‘relaxed.’ ”

  “Yeah, lots of relaxing in a hospital,” he scoffed. The conversations I had with Jack were completely different from the conversations I had with Aunt Maureen, but what they did have in common was not a lot of medical talk. I didn’t ask specifics about Colin’s condition or prognosis unless Jack brought it up, and he was the same about Riley.

  “I guess there’s no ‘cousin’ on the board, huh?”

  “Nope. No ‘friend,’ either, but that would be too hard, because what would a one-size-fits-all friend look like?” I asked. “I mean, a pillow is a pillow, but what does a generic friend look like?”

  “I’m pretty generic—they could use my face.”

  “You’re not generic.” I laughed. “You’re too tall to be generic.”

  “That’s it? That’s what makes me not generic—I’m too tall?” He pretended to be offended.

  “Sorry, it’s the first thing that popped into my head.” Actually, Jack wasn’t generic because I knew him a little bit now—and because his brother had cancer. There was nothing generic about that, but it’s not something you can draw.

  “She does have her own word for her mother,” I explained. “It’s Moo-Moo.”

  “Moo-Moo?”

  “Yeah, she said it this morning. She said ‘Moo-Moo’ while she was grabbing my aunt. The beginning sound is right, so that’s actually really good. Her name is Maureen, so she could be trying to say Mom or Maureen or even Mo, which is my aunt’s nickname.”

  “Colin calls me Jax,” explained Jack. “Or sometimes JackAttack. I call him Colon sometimes—the large intestine, not the punctuation.”

  “Goes without saying!” I laughed.

  “So why don’t you use Riley’s word on the chart?”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Cross out ‘mother’ under the picture and write ‘Moo-Moo.’ ” He took a pen and did exactly that.

  “Not a bad idea, Jack.” It felt like a very good idea, actually. “But I don’t think she’ll make a connection between Moo-Moo and that drawing.”

  “So draw a new one,” he said, looking suddenly doubtful, “or some kind of abstract version of your aunt, anyway. And don’t do it with your eyes closed, like you did with the wolf. That is not going to be pretty.”

  I was already digging for a pen. “That’s a great idea!” I wasn’t the artist that Riley was (is? will be?), but maybe if I could make the pictures more recognizable, that might help her communicate! I felt kind of giddy, imagining sparks galore. I closed my eyes and pictured Riley when she was just fine. Her dark eyes, swinging ponytail, and earrings, always earrings (like her mom, I supposed). I drew her on a blank page of Riley’s sketchbook.

  Aunt Maureen was next. Even in my cartoon-like sketches, there was a definite resemblance between mother and daughter.

  My dad (Uncle Mike to Riley).

  My mom (Aunt Paige to Riley). (I decided to give everybody regular-life hair, not hospital hair.)

  The dog. Of course, I kind of pictured Archie in my head like this:

  But I drew him like this:

  Jack took it all in. “Not bad. But where’s Riley’s father?” Jack looked at me. “Does she have one?” Good question. Did she anymore?

  “I’m not really sure. I mean, she has one, somewhere, I guess, but she hasn’t seen him in a few years.”

  “That doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to talk about him.” Jack stood up abruptly and made a beeline for the water cooler. The pale-green shirt was back—but he smelled like Tide, so at least it was clean. He filled a cup at the water cooler, sucked it down, and filled another before coming back over.

  “Don’t forget to draw yourself,” he said, relaxed again. If there had been a moment to ask about his father, it had passed.

  “She can just point to me,” I said.

  “What if she wants to talk about you when you’re not there? Isn’t that when you do the most talking about other people—when they’re not in the room?” My heart skipped a beat. Riley might actually have plenty to say about me when I wasn’t in the room. I wasn’t sure I wanted to help her with that.

  “Want me to do it?” he offered.

  “Can you draw?” I asked suspiciously.

  “Not at all,” he declared, without a hint of embarrassment.

  “I’ll do it myself.” Picturing my own face was really hard, but I gave it a shot. I thought I looked pretty random, but hoped the braid might be enough to make me recognizable, at least to Riley. For the record, I do not wear a ribbon in my braid—I’m not five. But without the ribbon, the braid looked more like a weird growth sprouting from the side of my face, and I did not want another pig straw on my hands.

  “You look like one of those Fisher-Price people,” Jack teased.

  “Whatever . . .” But he was sort of right: we all looked a bit like wooden peg toys with round plastic faces. Except Archie.

  “Okay, so you’ve got the people. Now you need words. What do you guys usually talk about?” This again?
We talked about everything. Okay, not true. We didn’t talk about bedpans, tissues, ice water, or her father.

  “Ooh, I know. Presidents, YouTube, and . . .” Could I really not name three things we talked about?

  “Presidents? Like current events?” asks Jack.

  “No, the dead ones, mostly.”

  “You guys sound like fun to hang out with.”

  “You and I talk about fish and doughnuts, which makes us sound pretty boring—and pretty weird, too!”

  “And we are not boring!” he announced. He surveyed the room, looking for inspiration. “Okay, let’s think. . . . What does she . . . like to . . . eat?”

  “Easy—french fries! But I don’t think we’ve ever had a conversation about french fries.”

  “Okay, if you couldn’t talk, what three words would you need the most?” Whoa, Jack was really taking this seriously.

  “That’s an impossible question.”

  “Let me see one of those things again,” he said, gesturing toward the stack of charts Monica had given us. He grabbed one randomly:

  “Try this,” he said. “Don’t say anything for a minute. But write down three things that pop into your head that begin with ‘I am’ or ‘I want.’ ”

  Huh? Weird. But I ripped out a piece of paper from the sketchbook for Jack and then we sat in silence. After one minute, I had:

  I am hungry.

  I want to go running.

  I want to meet your brother.

  Jack glanced at my list and stood quickly, tossing his own list onto the table as he walked away. “I gotta go. I forgot about something I have to do.” He always seemed to arrive—and depart—in a hurry. I read his list:

  I want a cheeseburger.

  I am a feminist.

  I want things to be different.

  I compared the two lists—I am, I want. Looks like Jack and I were both pretty self-centered—or can you help but sound that way when your sentences have to start with I am or I want? Was Riley having the same kinds of I am, I want thoughts?