Moonglow Page 6

  It takes me a few seconds to realize that I’m pacing my room like an animal, like my bedroom is a cage, not a sanctuary, and it’s a place from which I want to break free. But where would I go? I feel as lost as The Weeping Lady, straddling two worlds, at home in neither, and because I’m angry at the world I fling the picture frame against the wall. My aim is perfect, and it crashes into the center of the banner.

  For a second my father and I are caught in the mouth of the timberwolf and surrounded by fangs that have one purpose. My knees buckle because I instinctively understand what that purpose is: to devour, to destroy, and to kill.

  Chapter 4

  One look at Caleb and I forget the world can be anything but beautiful.

  Even from a side view, he is still one of the best-looking guys in school. In the entire town for that matter. He’s got extra long eyelashes (longer than any girl’s I know) that are the same shade of blond as his unkempt hair, brown eyes that make his blond hair look blonder than it actually is, and a superhero-style square chin. And unlike my brother’s, Caleb’s nose is perfect, regal looking according to Jess, which is why she’s dubbed him Prince Caleb. It’s a perfect nickname for a perfect boyfriend.

  In the beginning we took things slow, probably because we didn’t know we were in the middle of a beginning. We didn’t talk to each other at school; we hardly noticed each other despite the fact that the population at Two W is only slightly larger than the population of Weeping Water itself—and no, I’m not showing off my inferior math skills; we bus in kids from neighboring towns that are even smaller and more isolated than we are.

  Of course I was aware that Caleb was a starter on the football team, but he was a sophomore and I was a lowly freshman; there was no reason for our worlds to intersect. Until my dad made them collide.

  “What about that Bettany kid?” my father asked one night during dinner. “The one on the football team.”

  I had to think for a moment. “Caleb Bettany?”

  “Yeah, didn’t I read in the Three W that he won a prize in some math competition?”

  My precise response escapes me, but I’m sure I shrugged my shoulders and said something like, “Yeah, I usually skip articles on arithmetic.”

  “No, I’m sure of it; he won third prize,” my dad insisted. “He’d be perfect. I’ll look up his number tomorrow at the station and give him a call.”

  Barnaby couldn’t resist making a snarky comment. “Praised by the sheriff and the Three W in the same week. You might be out of luck, Dad; he probably disconnected his number to avoid the paparazzi.”

  I definitely know I laughed at that. The Weeping Water Weekly or the Three W as it’s more commonly known is our local paper, filled with all the town news and gossip, and has come out every Thursday since 1957, a fact proudly stated on the front page of each issue. Since the paper’s debut there’s only been one editor, Lars Svenson, who does double-duty as sole reporter, churning out issue after issue by himself on some ancient machine in the basement of his house.

  The article my father was referring to was undoubtedly written by Mr. Svenson, but was less an article and more a photo opportunity, just a picture of Caleb holding a trophy, surrounded by some official-looking men in bad suits and worse haircuts with a blurb underneath. When Caleb’s mother showed me the clipping, the first thing that struck me was his smile; it was genuine and not at all forced. This football player was proud to be receiving a prize that celebrated his intellect and had nothing to do with his athletic skill. So much for stereotypes. Luckily I keep them alive and thriving. Despite the progress my gender has made in what are known as the hard sciences, I do my part to uphold the statistics. I’m a girl, and I suck at math. Which is why my father had the brilliant idea to get me a tutor.

  The trophy Caleb won was for third place in the Nebraska State Mathematics Competition, justifiable cause for my father to think he’d make a suitable instructor to coach his daughter in the finer aspects of algebra. I had to agree with my father. Since they used math’s full and proper name in the title of the competition, I assumed it was a very prestigious event, and even though Caleb only came in third it was still an impressive showing. I never guessed he was übersmart in addition to being überathletic, but his prize was proof that he was worthy of the job. When I told Caleb this he laughed. Later on he admitted that’s when he realized he wanted to be my boyfriend as well as my tutor. I’m glad to report he excels at both. It’s not every guy who arrives within fifteen minutes when his girlfriend calls unexpectedly on a Wednesday night saying she needs a ride.

  Before I asked him to play chauffeur, I apologized for hitting him, and he accepted, no questions asked, like I knew he would. For a smart guy, he really is simple and uncomplicated. When I called him a little while ago he was finishing dinner and planning to write out a chemistry lab. But when I told him where I wanted to go, he said he’d come right over. Again, no questions asked.

  We drive in relative silence until he pulls his Chevy Equinox into the parking lot of The Retreat, then he asks his first question. “So, Domgirl, do you need me to come in with you?”

  Even though I think Domgirl sounds like “dumb girl,” it’s Caleb’s sometime nickname for me because Dom—the more popular shortened version of Dominy—is a boy’s name, and according to Caleb I’m too pretty for that. Now that’s my kind of logic.

  In response to his question I shake my head. “Do you mind waiting for me here?”

  Caleb isn’t put out; he knows my reasons and understands. He’s also come prepared. “No prob,” he says, reaching into the backseat to grab some books. When he raises his arm I smell a mixture of sweat and cologne, nothing too strong, just the normal guy smell. “Brought my chem book just in case.” Simple, but smart. And even directly underneath the near-blinding glow of the lamplight, wildly handsome. My heart flutters a bit, and I’m not sure if it’s because of him or the person I’m going to visit. Probably a little bit of both.

  We kiss each other on the lips, and while we’re still connected, he says in the low voice that he thinks is sexy, “The Sequinox will be waiting.” His voice is kind of sexy, but his comment is funny, and funny trumps sexy most of the time, so I laugh. His Equinox is silver, so of course Archie dubbed it the Sequinox, and, like most of the things Archie says, Caleb thought it was hilarious and the name stuck. I swear if Caleb didn’t kiss me the way he does, I’d set him up with the albino. They’d make a sweet couple.

  Walking away from his car, I notice as I always do that from the outside The Retreat looks like a regular hospital. But it isn’t; it’s the local sanitarium. Combination state-run mental hospital and nursing home, The Retreat is where people go if they’re insane, if they need electric shock therapy, or if they’re unlucky enough to be really old or really sick and have nowhere else to go.

  It’s built on several acres of flat land, and, tucked in the middle of a spray of bushes that serve as deliberate camouflage, is a weather-beaten sign made out of heavy-duty plastic that’s supposed to resemble wood. Engraved black letters spell out the hospital’s official title—SOUTHEASTERN NEBRASKA STATE INTENSIVE CARE CENTER AND NURSING HOME. The Retreat, my personal nickname for the place, sounds so much more inviting.

  The structure itself is more horizontal than vertical, made out of solid brick like a lot of the state buildings in town, and decorated with rows of windows, some normal sized, some floor-to-ceiling, but none functional. They merely provide light into the facility; they can’t be opened. The overall look is formidable, like a friendly fortress, which I guess is what a hospital is supposed to look like.

  Inside, the décor is equally foreboding and the fluorescent lighting in the main entrance area does nothing to enhance the look. The floors are made out of some kind of linoleum in a design that looks like a team of hyperactive kids dipped paintbrushes into cans of gray, white, and black paint and sprinkled them all over the floor. I’ve studied them for years and have never found any discernible pattern.

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p; Most of the walls throughout the building are gray, though some have a thick horizontal stripe of black that cuts the wall into two unevenly sized gray blocks. I’m not a specialist in color therapy, but I can’t imagine anyone thinking that the combo of black and gray creates a cheery atmosphere.

  The receptionist’s desk is bathed in an even more severe fluorescent light show and manned most of the time by a woman who should really stay out of the light. Essie looks like she’s past retirement age but still part of the workforce. Lucky for her the state’s employment standards are low, as she has not kept her job because of her uplifting disposition; she’s about as lively as the color of the walls. I guess she keeps trudging on due to financial necessity or the fact that if she stops working she might actually bore herself to death.

  “Hi, Essie, can I have a pass?”

  She looks up from her celebrity magazine as if her head is connected to her neck by a rusty hinge. “What room are you going to?”

  The same room I’ve been going to for the past four years. “Nineteen.”

  Like she does every time, she writes the number on an index card and hands it to me. The only difference with our routine is that today’s card is green. They rotate colors so you can’t save your card and come back with it another day; that way there are never more than the allotted number of people in a room at one time. It’s about as high-tech as The Retreat gets in terms of its customer service.

  I haven’t even turned the corner of the receptionist’s desk and Essie’s neck has lowered back down; once again she’s buried in her magazine. Reading about the lives of the rich and famous is obviously much more important than making the lives of visitors pleasant and less nerve-wracking. But in Essie’s defense she probably thinks I’m used to the routine by now. She’s wrong.

  The only real patch of color comes from the hallway. The long, narrow stretch—that I’ve dubbed The Hallway to Nowhere—is lined with faded gray doors on either side, the same color as the gray on the walls, but outside each door is a chair made out of purple fabric, more orchid than purple pizzazz if I remember my Crayola crayons correctly. The cushions on the back of the chair, the seat, and the armrests are all the same shade; the rest of the chair’s frame is silver chrome. They’re from a standard issue, industrial-strength office furniture collection, but they’re better than nothing. I contemplate sitting on the one outside of Room 19, but before I can commit I see Nadine.

  “Dominy,” she says, a bit startled. “Hi.”

  “Hi, Nadine,” I reply, not nearly as startled, but not particularly thrilled to see her roaming the halls either.

  We stare at each other for a few seconds, but since we’re not close friends it seems longer. I blink my eyes, and when I open them my focus zooms in on a cluster of pimples on her chin. Zits for me are like Japan to Jess, sort of a weird obsession. I think it’s because my skin so far has been pimple-free. But I’m not a fool, and I know that puberty is unkind and unpredictable; I could wake up tomorrow with a face that looks like the “before” photos in a dermatologist’s office.

  Nadine’s pimple cluster reminds me of a mountain range—snow-capped peaks towering above a reddish-brown valley. It’s disgusting and fascinating at the same time. If she were Jess I’d trace my finger all over it like her chin was a topographic map and I was interested in geography. But Nadine isn’t Jess, so I keep my hands to myself.

  “Haven’t seen you here for a while,” Nadine finally says.

  “No real need to come,” I respond. “Never any change.”

  Nadine fiddles with her clipboard, switching it from one arm to the other, and clicks her pen a few times nervously before smiling. The smile is not genuine like Caleb’s from his award ceremony photo, but the situation is much different, so I cut her some slack. At least she follows up her attempt at friendliness with honesty. “No, there isn’t.”

  And she follows up her honesty with an old nursing home chestnut: “At least no news is good news, right?”

  Wrong. But again I cut her some slack since I caught her by surprise. Visiting hours are almost over, and even when I used to come regularly, it was usually right after school or on the weekends. A weeknight visit at this hour is unusual for anyone; for me it’s extraordinary. This rare circumstance finally hits Nadine, and her eyes bug out despite her extensive volunteer training to always conceal emotion.

  “Did someone call you to come?” she asks. “I wasn’t told there was an emergency.”

  I wave my hand in front of our faces, and the green index card I’m holding creates a little breeze between us. “No emergency, just felt the need.”

  Now her response is genuine; she’s relieved that a patient isn’t going to die on her watch. Nadine may only be a volunteer, but she considers her position a step toward her ultimate goal of becoming a nurse and then, of course, ruler of The Retreat. That last part is merely assumption.

  “Oh that’s good to hear.”

  Another boring platitude and I’m reminded how similar Nadine and Napoleon are, which makes sense since they’re twins. They both spout these clichés that are perfectly acceptable and ones that everyone uses, but for some reason out of their mouths the clichés come off as phony and even a little condescending. Maybe it’s their East Coast accents; they’re not wildly exaggerated, but Nadine and Napoleon do speak differently than most of us. And I’m not above condemning someone based on how he or she speaks.

  I guess condemn is a harsh word. I let out a deep breath so it looks as if I’m doing a self-help exercise to prepare myself to enter Room 19, but it’s really to remind myself that at least one of the Jaffe twins is cool. From the little bit I know, Nadine’s friendly, smart, and driven, all noble qualities, and more than that Jess and Arla like her, so I vow to myself right here and now to give her a fair shot.

  I glance at my watch; it’s a quick gesture, offhand, but it prompts Nadine to touch me. Well, touch my watchband, but I flinch when I see her fingers glide over the smooth powder blue band and fall onto my wrist. It’s a fleeting moment, but odd in a way that I can’t explain. Other than a slightly sticky sensation, probably the result of Nadine’s being overly reliant on hand sanitizer, there wasn’t anything creepy about her action. But something about the connection, of Nadine’s fingers on my flesh, feels deliberate and makes my spine twitch. Maybe it’s because I’m very close to exiting The Hallway to Nowhere, and part of me would rather stand still then keep moving. The other, more take-charge part of me, takes over.

  “I better get inside before Essie hunts me down for loitering,” I lie.

  Nadine leans in close to me, and I fight the urge to lean back. “The world as we know it could begin to implode, and Essie still wouldn’t get off her chair until her shift is over,” she whispers. “Stay as long as you need to.”

  This time I’m prepared for contact, but none comes. Obviously, our relationship hasn’t entered the touchy-feely stage, and our brief encounter truly was accidental. Nadine just smiles and starts to walk down the hall, the clicking of her pen creating a steady counter-rhythm with the squeaking of her sneakers. Suddenly, I’m overwhelmed with the desire to follow her to wherever she’s going, go on “rounds” with her, visit some other patient that I don’t know, but Nadine turns right at the end of the hallway and disappears. I miss my chance. Guess I’ll have to visit my mother as planned.

  The room smells like it always does—a mixture of antiseptic cleanser and cheap perfume, both compliments of the hospital staff. If my mother’s sense of smell is working at all, I can’t believe the appalling aroma hasn’t roused her from her coma by now. I reach into my shoulder bag and take out the small bottle of Guerlinade, the perfume my mother always used to wear, and spray a very tiny amount of the scent into the air like I always do. I only spray a little bit, because my father gave this bottle to my mother shortly before she fell into her coma, and it’s rare and expensive. But whoever made this stuff knew what they were doing. Even after all these years it’s as fresh as the first ti
me I smelled it, a delicate blend of lilacs and powder. When my parents were going out to a party, she would spray a little extra on her body and I’d walk right behind her inhaling her scent and make believe I was floating on my own private cloud over a field of flowers. Originally I sprayed it in her room because I thought she might be able to smell it and it somehow would act as a link to bring her back to me from wherever she’s hiding out. Now, I just spray it so I can remember how the air smelled when she was alive instead of sleeping.

  I’ve been coming to The Retreat since I was six years old, and I still can’t relax. My mother’s been in this particular room for the past four years, so by now you’d think that there would be some level of home-away-from-home, but every time I come here it’s like I’m coming for the first time. The sight of my mother lying motionless in this hospital bed, covered in thin white sheets stamped with the facility’s official name in blue ink, ink that’s faded from being washed a thousand times to erase germs, blood, and disease from the endless parade of patients who check in either voluntarily or because they no longer have free will, turns my stomach.

  So what that she looks as beautiful as I remember, as beautiful as she does in her wedding picture, the one in the ornate gold frame on my father’s bedroom dresser. So what that she looks like she’s sleeping or dozing off in front of the TV. Looks don’t matter, not in my mom’s case. She’s in what countless doctors and specialists have diagnosed as an irreversible coma, the aftereffect of a possible stroke. Possible, because all the kazillion tests those same countless doctors and specialists performed on her all came back inconclusive. The only thing the brilliant medical practitioners can agree on is that even though she’s my mother and she’s right here for me to touch, she’s farther away from me than if she were dead. If only she were that lucky.