Randi's Steps, Page 3

  Randi has been recovering in the intensive care unit for the past three days, and I haven’t been able to call her. Lying in a hospital bed doing nothing for that long must be a million times worse than having nothing to do at home. Maybe I can visit soon and bring something to keep her busy. But the idea of seeing the stitches on her head scares me. How will she look after brain surgery?

  Chapter 7

  Laurie must be as nervous as I am. I can tell since we’re not fighting about something by now. Usually, when she bites her fingernails and hums, I tell her to stop annoying me. And she tells me: You look stupid when you twist your hair. Then I say: You are stupid. We go back and forth, ping-pong style, name-calling, until Dad, the referee, threatens to pull the car over, and Mom quotes her favorite command from the Bible: Love your neighbor as yourself, and explains God means sisters too. This time we both just stare out the window.

  My family and I are on our way to Memorial Sloan-Kettering Center in Manhattan to see Randi. It’s been three long weeks since Randi had her operation. To cheer her up I’m bringing her some card games, a word puzzle book that comes with an invisible-ink pen, and a jewelry-making kit. My parents picked out a child’s bouquet of white mums with red pipe cleaner smiles and googly-eyes tied on to make them happy flowers. They remind me of the talking flower patch from the children’s show The Magic Garden—except these flowers are quiet.

  “You girls know that Randi had to have her head shaved for the surgery. Try not to look surprised,” says Dad. “She may be sitting in a wheelchair if she’s feeling weak. It was a major operation ... she’ll need some time to get her strength back.”

  We both nod our heads. I’m not sure I’m going to like this. I look at Laurie. She isn’t smiling. “Your hair looks real nice today.”

  Laurie’s eyes light up. “Thanks. I did the ponytail myself.”

  “Well, you’re getting good at it.”

  What will I say when I see Randi? How should I act? What if I stare and make her feel like a freak show? Or hurt her feeling

  “Did you hear that?’ I lean over the front seat, looking serious. “Sounded like a flat tire.” “No, I didn’t hear anything unusual…and how would you know what a flat sounded like anyway?”

  “Well, I heard something. We better go back and have the car fixed so it doesn’t break down in the city.”

  “The car’s fine. You’ll be fine. Stop worrying.” Dad winks at me in the rear-view mirror.

  “Your dad’s right.” Mom smiles and pats my arm. “Try to stop twisting your hair. It’ll fall out if you keep—.”

  “I know.” I sit back and fold my hands on my lap.

  Buildings taller than any I’ve ever seen tower over us now. I can guess that we’re almost there. Soaring skyscrapers reflect the cars moving bumper to bumper in walls as shiny as mirrors. Everything seems so overwhelming in New York City. Streams of people hurry, angry horns honk, intense smells of exhaust fumes and roasted peanuts mix together. It swallows me up. I’m glad we don’t live here.

  We pass the same Starlite Diner on First Avenue again as Dad circles the block five times, complaining more with each loop. Just when it seems that Dad is going to give up and head home—what I’m hoping for—a spot opens up and he zooms into it as if it’s going to disappear. So what’s the rush? I would rather go around the block fifty more times than go into a hospital.

  We gather our gifts, get out of the car, and march in silence to the entrance. Where is the children’s ward? I feel like a tiny mouse wandering through a huge, sterile maze smelling of beef stew.

  Before we reach room 907, Randi’s father appears in the hall wearing a doctor’s mask and lab coat. “Hello neighbors. Thanks for coming, Just call me Dr. Picconi,” he says in a muffled voice.

  Laurie and I chuckle at the face drawn on the mask—two goofy eyes and a big nose that moves up and down as he greets Mom and Dad.

  “You like my new face?”

  We nod.

  “Randi likes it too.”

  Why is he so cheerful? When he hugs me, I smell something stale, like yucky medicine. His shirttail is out and his hair isn’t combed. Did he drive here with the top down in his convertible?

  “Why don’t you sit down over there in Mickey Mouse’s lobby, and I’ll bring Randi out for a change of scenery. I just want to forewarn you—Randi looks a little different right now. She gets sick from her treatments and keeps losing weight…and hair. She chose to have it all shaved off instead of losing it in clumps. But she’s excited about seeing you guys today.”

  The lobby is one obnoxious mural. Everywhere I look, I see Mickey Mouse or one of his friends prancing across the walls in bold reds, yellows, and blues. This could become spooky if you stared long enough—too many eyes watching—just like home except cartoon eyes are worse. A few minutes later, I see Mr. Picconi pushing someone else in a wheelchair down the hall toward me.

  This isn’t my friend, Randi, my friend who could be modeling Macy’s dresses. This girl is skinny and pale, without any wavy hair at all. She looks fragile, like a dried leaf, in her wheelchair with tubes attached to her arms. I recognize her smile, but that’s it. She reminds me of an injured bird I once saw in our backyard.

  I smile back. Act normal ... don’t look shocked ... act normal. She’s still Randi.

  “Hi everybody. Do you like my new hairdo?”

  Mom is the first to speak. “It is so good to see you, Randi. We all miss you.” She gives her a warm hug. Dad and I follow her example, hugging Randi and telling her how much we miss her. The scene is too much for Laurie to handle.

  Dad looks at Laurie’s tears streaming down her cheeks. “I’m going to take your sister to the cafeteria and get some ice cream to bring back.” He ushers her away. I wish that he’d take me too.

  “Oh, good! Bring some back for all of us. I’m hungry.” Mr. Picconi hands my dad some wadded dollars.

  Randi pats her father’s belly. “You’re getting rounder.”

  “That’s okay. Round is good. I’m sure I could float better with extra blubber.” As Dad and Laurie reach the elevator, Mr. Picconi calls out to them. “While you’re there you could look for Rita and Michael. They’ll be happy to see you guys.” Mr. Picconi takes a step backward and lands with a thump on the grey vinyl chair.

  Did he mean to do that?

  Randi takes my hand with her tube-free hand and says, “Come follow me…I’ll give you a quick tour.”

  I struggle to look into Randi’s eyes and talk as if everything is the same, but I can’t trick my mind. Nothing’s the same. For the last few weeks and who knows how much longer, this is her home.

  “I have the funniest nurse, a male nurse! Sometimes he dresses up like a clown and hands out balloons. He always makes me laugh, telling his silly jokes. Too bad he’s not working today—I’d like you to meet him.”

  Randi introduces us to some other sick kids on her floor and tells me what’s wrong with each of them. How can Randi make friends so easily when she’s feeling lousy? She even knows the names of all the nurses.

  Randi rolls her chair over to the window and I push the IV pole. “Look at this view. Sometimes, when I don’t feel like talking to anyone, I sit here and watch the pigeons land on the ledge. I try to guess what personality each one has and give it a name that fits.”

  “What would you call that one?” I ask.

  “Hmm ... Fred. He looks like the funny one of the flock, doing that wobbly dance.”

  “You’re right. What about that one?”

  “I’d call her Danielle the Duchess. She looks like a princess, all shiny, but mean. Did you see her nudge Fred off the ledge? I bet she stares at her reflection all day and steals food from the baby pigeons.”

  “Yah, I wouldn’t want to belong to her flock. But I do like her name—Danielle.”

  “Me too. I got it from a story one of the evening nurses read.”

  Looking away from the pigeons and down to the street makes my head spin. “Wow, y
ou could get dizzy from this view! People look like bugs crawling around.” Someone tiptoes behind me.

  “Boo!” shouts Michael. Mrs. Picconi stands next to him holding two cups of ice cream.

  “Would you girls like some?” Mrs. Picconi holds it out to Randi who shakes her head. I love soft vanilla with chocolate sprinkles, so I take it.

  “Thanks.”

  “Here’s a napkin. You have to have it at the table over there. We don’t want to leave a mess for the janitors. They have so much to clean up already.” Mrs. Picconi adjusts Randi’s scarf and reties the strings on her hospital gown. After kissing Randi’s cheek, she leaves us and joins my mom over by the window. Michael goes in search of more mischief.

  We watch our moms talking. “I think she’s tired,” Randi says. “She sleeps here on a cot every night. I think my dad’s real tired too. He comes here every evening after work. Sometimes he can hardly walk straight.”

  I can imagine what Mom is saying to Mrs. Picconi—probably something about cancer to get the tears flowing and let her have a good cry. I’d rather talk about anything else, even the bad news that was blasting on the lobby TV about a disaster at the Three Mile Island power plant yesterday. That would be a good conversation starter—is the radiation going to reach Long Island? Is the world going to blow up? Or we could talk about something less explosive, like our favorite pizza. Is plain better than pepperoni? Please, no more talk about this stupid disease. No more tears. And please, Mom, no more comforting.

  We play card games until Dad announces that it’s getting late. He wants to start driving home before rush hour. I feel sad leaving Randi, but I’m glad we’re leaving. The hospital smells of stale food, sickness, and sadness.

  Chapter 8

  On Saturdays, Mom goes to a pottery class with her friend, Mrs. Torelli, Joey the Quarterback’s mother. Laurie and I tag along and paint pre-made statues with Mrs. Torelli’s daughter, Isabelle. Since our moms started the class a month ago, Isabelle and I have become friends. We even signed up to take gymnastics class together starting in July. Carpooling to gymnastics with Isabelle will be fun. Her parents drive a Cadillac and always blast the music loud enough to make the car dance.

  Since Randi is still away, I’ve been free to play sports with Isabelle. We play tennis, softball, or gymnastics every day after school. Somehow, I’m having a good time while Randi is in the hospital having the worst time of her life. Wanting to have fun seems wrong, so sometimes I pretend I don’t have a sick best friend.

  Isabelle lifts a simmering spoonful of sauce from the pot to taste. “Mmm. My mom makes the best homemade spaghetti sauce, ‘a recipe straight from Italy,’ she always says.”

  “That smells so much better than the sauce my mom makes, straight from the jar, on the rare night she serves spaghetti. My mom makes dishes like shepherd’s pie.”

  Isabelle scrunches up her nose. “What’s that?”

  “Shepherd’s pie sounds like a dessert, but it’s not. Ground beef is slopped together with peas, corn, and gravy, buried under a mashed potato blanket. Nothing like a pie.”

  Isabelle’s house is squeaky clean and a bit haunted house-ish. The chandeliers glow dim. The gold brocade draperies are closed. Soft velvet cushions cover her couch and ornate statues guard the corners. Perfect for a ghost story. Her tidy home with deep cherry wood furniture smells of lemon.

  Usually her mom stays home and cooks or rests on the couch watching soap operas unless she’s out shopping. Her dad works late, and Joey is at football practice. Isabelle and I rattle her house when we walk through the doors.

  We head straight to the TV in the den. Isabelle introduced me to Asteroids, now my favorite video game, and I’m hooked. I love sending my mind into outer space to destroy incoming meteors as if I could save the world. Sometimes, like today, Isabelle tries to bribe me to stop playing. “I’ll make you a vanilla milkshake if you shut off the game.”

  I give in for ice cream.

  While slurping the last of the shake, Isabelle surprises me with a question. “What will you do when Randi gets out of the hospital? Will you hang out with her or me?”

  The truth pops out of my mouth before I can stop it. “I’ll have to see her sometimes.”

  Isabelle frowns, so I back pedal. “Maybe I can see her every other day—go back and forth playing with both of you. Unless you want to come with me to her house.”

  “I don’t like Randi. I mean, not that I don’t like her. It’s just she’s strange, and I wouldn’t want to hang out with her. You have to make a choice between us.” Isabelle turns her back to me. Is she crying?

  What I want to say is: You don’t even know her. She’s not weird. She’s nicer than you! But the words stay locked in my mind.

  I still have a couple of weeks before I have to deal with the problem of choosing friends. How will I tell Isabelle that I want to see Randi because she is still my best friend? I don’t want Isabelle to hate me either. Being in the middle is the worst.

  On Mondays, Isabelle stays after school for band practice, so I choose a bus seat in the first row, next to Kimmy, a girl in Randi’s class.

  Before the bus even starts to move, Kimmy starts talking, barely takes a breath, and I regret my seat choice. Kimmy is like a fly buzzing in my ear. I have a strong urge to swat her.

  “Have you seen Randi in the hospital yet? Our class decorated a giant card for her. Do you know how she’s doing?”

  “I went to visit her a month ago.” For the first time, Kimmy is quiet. “She looked terrible. She had no hair and looked so skinny since she’s been losing weight. And can you believe she only weighs forty pounds now?” I add, hoping to shock her with my news.

  “That’s not so skinny,” Kimmy retorts. “I weigh forty pounds too.”

  Her comment irritates me, and I’m glad she gets off at the next stop. Why did I answer Kimmy and gossip about Randi like I was handing out the latest newspaper for anyone to read? What if Michael had heard us? I would’ve felt horrible. Good thing his mom picked him up today.

  I kick the door open and drop my backpack on the floor.

  “You okay? Come help me bake a cake,” Mom calls from the kitchen. “And you can lick the beaters.”

  “What’s the cake for?”

  “Oh, I just felt like cooking something sweet for my sweetie.”

  I try not to cringe.

  “How was school today?”

  “Okay, I guess. I got a 93 on my math test.” That’s all I tell her.

  “That’s wonderful, honey. I’m so proud of you.”

  She wouldn’t be so proud if she knew how I gossiped about Randi today. I wonder if Randi has a hidden side. The only flaw I can see in Randi is the one she can’t help.

  As we sit down for dinner, Mom can’t contain her secret any longer. “Guess what I heard this afternoon?” She doesn’t wait for us to guess. “Randi’s coming home tomorrow, just in time for her birthday. You girls are invited to her party on Saturday. Mrs. Picconi said it will be a casual party, just family and her closest friends over for deli sandwiches and cake. That gives us two days to find a special gift.”

  “Wow, that’s great!”

  I should be excited. And I am…I think. But now I have to decide: But now I have to decide: how can I be loyal to my old friend and keep my new friend? Someone’s going to be mad at me—I’m sure.

  Randi has been in the hospital for almost two months, and I’m used to life without her. That sounds cruel, but it happened. Tomorrow, she comes home. How do I rewind my life and go back to the way it was?

  Chapter 9

  I don’t like April weather. It’s too confusing. Cloudy, sunny, breezy, rainy, warm in the sunshine, cool in the shade, hot wearing long sleeves, cold wearing short sleeves. The breeze gives me goose bumps when I take off my sweater. When I put it back on, I sweat. Just as the weather can’t seem to make up its mind, I’m having trouble deciding what to wear today. If I wear a dress to Randi’s party, I might be chilly or overdre
ssed. But my pants are all ugly, old, or ripped. What about color and comfort? White might get stained. Some shirts have scratchy tags. Whatever I choose—I’m not ready for today.

  “What time is it?” I wait for Dad to lift his face from the Agatha Christie mystery novel.

  “Well, let’s see. It’s five minutes later than the time I just told you. It’s 1:30.” He rests his book on the corner of the oak coffee table that Laurie decorated with permanent red marker lines at age two. “Why don’t you sign the card and we’ll go over to the party in about twenty minutes. It will come sooner if you stop watching the clock or stop making me watch the clock.” Dad returns to his book and I return to clock watching and tracing the red lines with my finger.

  I haven’t been in Randi’s house for two months—since the day before her operation. Now things are different, more than just her looks. I doubt she knows I’ve been playing with Isabelle almost every day while she was in the hospital, unless her mother noticed and told her. This is the first time I’m keeping a secret from Randi. I’m not about to mention Isabelle today, her first week back. I’ll just keep my mouth shut.

  Michael greets us at the door, blowing a party horn, and wearing a pointy, red party hat. Pink and purple streamers drape across corners. Matching balloons dance around every room. In addition to the Happy Birthday sign is a Welcome Home sign hanging at the entrance to the kitchen. Billy Joel songs fill Randi’s house with a familiar sound. Is everything going to be back to normal soon? Can we play together like we used to? Am I still her best friend? Is she still my best friend? I look around for Randi, clutching her present to my chest.

  Mrs. Picconi takes Mom’s hand. “I’m so glad you came. It means a lot to Randi.”

  I hope Mom doesn’t say something to make Mrs. Picconi cry. Remember, Mom, it’s supposed to be a party.

  “We’re just thrilled that Randi’s home. Francie has been counting the days.”

  Yes, I guess I have. But not for the reason Mom thinks.

  “Come in. Help yourselves to sandwiches in the kitchen. You remember my parents and my brother Joe and his wife, Barbara.” As I’m peering into the other room, Mrs. Picconi puts her arm around my shoulders. “Randi will be down soon. She’s feeling nauseous today.” Then she calls Michael over. “I’d like you to hand out the hats and horns to all the kids and have them wait at the bottom of the stairs. As soon as you see Randi, blow the horns and scream happy birthday.”