From Butt to Booty (30 page)

“And your paper?”

“Coming along nicely.” She smiles.

“Of course. Mr. Chapman?”

“Working on my paper, sir.”

“Very good. You are all obviously the most self-motivated group of students I’ve ever taught. So you’ll have no problem reading Conrad’s
Heart of Darkness
in addition to your plans.”

There’s a collective groan. At least I’ll have plenty of time to read.

“We’ll have a quiz on Monday. I suggest you use the rest of the period to begin reading.” He passes out the books and goes back to sit behind his desk and shuffle papers. I try to start the book, but I keep thinking about Clarice. I can’t help it, because that could have easily been me crying.

Here is the age-old battle of the sexes. Man means sex. Woman means relationship. Maybe not always. I think if I knew from the start that it was only sex, I’d be okay with that. I can’t see me wanting to settle down with every guy who makes me gooey. I mean, talk about limiting possibilities. But I’m not ready for sex as someone’s girlfriend, let alone sex as sex.

But are we, as the gentler sex, genetically programmed to be that way, or is it something society tells us we want? Are guys that much more unemotional and we’re that much more driven by emotions? Or is that how we’re supposed to act and mostly we flail around somewhere in the middle?

Do men ever want the relationship without the sex? And could I have both? Great sex for the sake of feeling good, and a great relationship for other reasons? Would I date a guy who didn’t want to have sex with me? Or would Maya get frustrated and put an end to that?

I pull out a pad of paper and work on my “Who Am I?” assignment.

Spring break has begun. I hate my family. We don’t go to Disney World or on a cruise. All of my friends are going places for spring break and I am stuck here, expected to work at the Donut King’s bidding. Expected to feed myself and clothe myself and clean the house for Mom’s dinner party.

Adam is with Tim. Clarice is with her older sister in Vegas. The older sister assured Clarice that she’d survive but that shows and sunbathing would quicken the pace.

Even Maggie has a date this week, with Jesse. Okay, so they’re studying for their bio exam together. Not really a date, but hey, it’s being in the same room with a penis person. That’s a date in some cultures.

And I’m stuck here listening to British rock—everything sounds better with an accent. Not that I’m stuck listening to it, but that I’m stuck, period. I want to go someplace new. Have an experience that’s unexpected and surprising. Encounter new people to broaden my horizons.

I can feel the spring break clock counting down. I’m wasting
precious seconds wallowing. I should paint my ceiling. With nail polish. I wonder how many little jars of enamel it would take to get the whole ceiling. Like pony skin on crack. Could be good.

I may not be allowed to paint my walls, but there’s no rule implicitly stating no painting the ceiling. I grab a jar of shimmery teal and climb up on the old navy-puke spread.

Hmm. I’m not quite tall enough just standing on my bed. I pull a couple of pillows over to stand on and begin painting, but it’s not the most stable of stances.

I jab at the ceiling with the little teal brush. I cover a rectangle of about three by two inches before my neck starts to hurt. I should be able to cover a full square by the time summer rolls around. Maybe if I work hard at it. I jump on my bed while I’m here. I’ve missed jumping on my bed.

“Gert! Gert!” Mom’s screaming. I drop the nail polish and it rolls under my bed, leaving a trail of teal goo.

I’ve never heard Mom’s voice sound so big. I run to the stairs, hoping she’s mad at me for something, but she sounds different. Scared. In pain. My heart races and my mouth goes dry.

I stumble down the stairs in an animal sprint.

Dad is half in his chair and half slumped against Mom and the floor. Like a rag doll. He’s sweaty and pale. He doesn’t look right.

I grab the phone. Dial 911.

Mom’s crying and screaming. I help move Dad to the floor since he’s already mainly there.

I don’t know what to do. Mom is going to hyperventilate. “Mom, you have to breathe.”

The calm voice on the other end of the line asks my dad’s symptoms. “What do you feel?” I ask him.

He gasps. “Pain.” His face is all gray and sweaty.

“Where?” I ask.

“Pressure.” He touches his chest.

“His chest. Left side with pain,” I repeat into the phone.

She tells me the ambulance is on its way.

I stay on the phone with her while Mom loosens Dad’s button-down chamois shirt. She’s frantic. Dad isn’t saying much. His face is all scrunched and his hands grab on to Mom.

“They should be outside your house now. Do you see the ambulance?” the calm voice asks me.

I throw the phone down and dash to the door. I fling it open. “In here! In here!” I yell as the medics race past me.

They do their stuff. I can’t really see, but Mom holds on to me like I’m the only thing standing between her and hell. Not a pleasant place to be. I’m sure I’ll have bruises. I can barely breathe. The room smells funny. I hear the television in the background like static.

I’ve never seen my dad like this. Correction, I’ve never seen anyone like this. I’ve never happened on a traffic accident or been at the scene of a crime. I know to call 911, but that’s where my expertise ends.

I can’t even do that right, as I realize I’ve left the calm voice hanging on the phone. I grab the phone as the paramedics get Dad on a gurney and wheel him out the door. “Sorry. Sorry,” I say into the dead air. I hang up.

“Gertrude, I’m riding with your father in the ambulance. You’ll have to call Michael. He’s teaching today, maybe we should wait to call him.”

“What hospital?” I’m already moving to grab the car keys. I need to be there. I can’t be left home.

“Memorial. Don’t you dare drive.” Her face takes on an
inhuman expression of panic. “Ask Mrs. Nelson next door to bring you.”

I can barely stand up. I put down the keys and watch as they put Dad and Mom in the back of the ambulance and close the doors. I must have an expression of terror on my face because one of the medics pauses to look at me. “You did the right thing calling. Giving him the best shot. It’ll be okay.”

As if. How does he know it’ll be okay? He doesn’t know that.

I speed dial Mike’s cell. Wait for his voice. Tears stream down my face. I feel so helpless. So alone. It goes right to voice mail. Crapping buttocks, he’s in class. I tell him to call me.

I look around the room. I need someone to tell me what to do. What do I do? I don’t know.

I grab Mom’s phone book and dial Heather’s cell. Praying she has it on in the middle of preschool.

She answers and I start sobbing. Really crying hard. The kind of crying that makes snot run freely and makes it impossible to talk. “What’s wrong?”

I try to tell her in gasping bits and parts. She must understand enough because she says, “It’s going to take me a few minutes to get coverage. I will call your brother’s TA and have him meet us at the hospital. I will come pick you up. Okay? Why don’t you pack a bag of your dad’s pajamas and his toothbrush and stuff, okay? That would be helpful.” She speaks slowly and enunciates each word.

I mumble. Thank God Heather is able to think.

I scurry up the stairs to my parents’ bedroom. Rooting around in Dad’s underwear drawer has never felt this—well, I’ve never actually done it, so that tells you something.

Soon I have a large duffel bag packed with everything Dad
likes. Including the
Sports Illustrated
that came in the mail yesterday that still has the clear plastic wrapping on it. I can’t make decisions; I grab everything I think he wants.

I’m standing at the front door with my coat on, clutching my backpack (I might need something later—what, I don’t know, but I want it). I walk the length of the living room.

Looking at the clock.

Looking out the window.

I wonder if Dad is dead.

Or in surgery.

Or Holy-Mother-of-the-Ratings, being attended by attractive but stupid residents like on TV.

Heather pulls up and I’m out the door before she even has her foot on the brake.

“What exactly happened? Have you heard details yet?” she asks as I stuff the duffel and my backpack in her backseat.

“I don’t know. Mom kept saying heart attack. The medics wouldn’t comment on what they thought was wrong with him.” I’m shaking. She has to help me put the seat belt on.

“Okay. We’ll go see. I talked to your brother. He’s on his way. He’s going to meet us at the hospital.” She holds my hands. Hers feel hot.

“Okay.” I nod. Fear claws at my guts.

Heather glances at the duffel bag Dad could use to travel around the world on foot, but bless her, she doesn’t comment on how ridiculous I am. “Got everything?”

“Maybe.” I’m sure I forgot something seriously important.

“We’ll be okay.” She starts the car and we drive to the hospital in silence.

The hospital is chaotic. We go in the emergency room entrance
and look around for my mom or Michael. We don’t see anyone we know, but there are lots of sick people, and bleeding people with towels wrapped around their heads or hands. It’s really kinda creepy. I feel faint.

Heather takes my hand and we go to the front counter. “We’re looking for our father. He was brought in by ambulance.”

“Name?”

I look around, trying to identify the stagnant odor assaulting my nose. I don’t pay too much attention to Heather and the gal in really old faded scrubs. Isn’t that what they call those professional pajamas?

The waiting room is huge. White-gray, with weird abstract paintings and more uncomfortable chairs than I have ever seen in my life. It’s the world’s largest graveyard for dead, decomposing furniture. The tables are scuffed and the laminate is coming loose like that gum you can get in rolls. I don’t know what’s worse—the waiting room or the fact that I’ve been sitting here long enough to recognize that laminate can start coming off the particleboard underneath it. Definitely the amount of time.

My mom is arguing with Heather. “But they don’t get enough sleep.”

“Betsy, please calm down, you’re going to make yourself sick. The doctors are doing the best they can.”

“But they don’t get enough sleep. The average doctor in a hospital gets three hours of sleep in a twenty-four-hour period. Can you imagine? Three hours, when the human body needs at least eight to ten to function fully and completely.”

“Mom—” I try to save Heather from having this conversation for the fifth time.

“They said it. On
Dateline
, or
Primetime
, or one of those other shows. They reported it. Doctors in Denmark average eight point seven hours each night. I wish we were in Denmark. He’d have better care in Denmark.”