Ms. Zephyr's Notebook (11 page)

November 22

Jacquie H-M.

10:14 a.m.

(Abbie, you'll be happy to know that I have had a chance to cool down somewhat from my earlier note to you. As usual, your advice is sound. Thank you for suggesting that I write this. I feel much better for having done so.)

Journal entry: A Plea to Logan

Dear Logan Kemp,

This morning after I read your note to Abbie I was very angry. I had a strong urge to wipe away your customary smirk with the swift blow of a bedpan to your face. Instead, however, I sat down and really tried to think through why you upset me so much.

I know more about you than you think I do. I know how much you love rugby. I know that you had a crush on Mary Margaret Johnston last year. (For your information, Mary Margaret herself told me about this, during Hip Hop Dance class after school. She seemed quite pleased about it, however, I believe you were wasting your time. In the end, she told me she prefers a more cerebral type. Sorry.)

I know how much you hate, loathe, and despise the disease that has attacked you. And I know how much your stomach hurts. I've seen you running to the bathroom.

But you don't know anything about me. And that's my problem.

I'm pretty sure you don't care, either. But on the slim chance you do, here's a newsflash.

My stomach hurts, too. It hurts every time I look at food. If I have to eat something, it starts to hurt from the time I even smell the food. It hurts going down. It hurts when it hits my stomach. And yes, it hurts when I bring it back up again. (Except this last bit has so much relief involved it makes the hurt seem less, for some reason.)

I know that food is fuel. I understand that my behaviour is destructive. I can see that my health might be affected someday. But it still hurts.

Some pain is worth the price. I get that. I've seen you steal chocolate from the gift shop downstairs. And just so you know, I've kept a running tally. I've counted seven candy bars, which means you've probably stolen at least double that. You are most certainly what my father refers to as a slippery character and how you can steal from those sweet old people I do not know. It was no surprise to me when they banned you from the premises. And I'm not even going to attempt to address the question of why you steal in the first place when you have so much money of your own. Who knows what makes you do these things?

Remember that time we were doing math and you were sneaking raisinettes? I said you'd be sick. And I was right. I've never seen anyone attached to an IV pole run as fast as you did to the rest room. But you know what? Other people hurt, too. And I am a
person
, not a weirdie.

You take medicine to get better or at least to help with your pain. I do too, but it doesn't work. And that art therapist with her huge glasses and wild theories gives me no help at all. The only thing that actually makes me feel better is talking with Abbie. I want to spend my time doing that and NOT putting so much energy into ignoring your mean remarks. So cut it out, will you? I deserve that much, I think.

Jacqueline

November 22

Logan K.

Before noon, can you dig it?

Hey Abs,

You in some kind of meeting? I can't find you anywhere. So don't have a stroke, but I've got all my work done for the day. Beat the lunchtime rush, that's my rule. Journal, math, even that science write-up that Mr. Shima sent from school. Not bad if I do say so myself.

I walked by Kip's room earlier. Sleeping in, the little slacker. Trying to get out of homework is my guess. Maybe I'll go give him a hand so I can use his laptop when he's done. Still haven't heard back from the team about the tryout dates. My gut is almost back to normal. I'm sure I'll be ready to try out whenever they need me.

Later!

Logan

November 25

Jacqueline H-M.

9:11 a.m.

Good morning, Abbie. Hope you had a great weekend.

Actually, the truth is that this isn't really a very good morning at all. You missed a lot when you were away visiting your family. As you probably know by now, poor little Kip was rushed to surgery after he rejected his kidney. His mom sat crying on my bed for hours on Saturday, but by Sunday he was doing pretty well. He has to be hooked to a machine for regular dialysis every day, since he no longer has even a single working kidney to clean out his blood.

But now that Kip is feeling better, I am trying to find something to feel thankful about. Today is one month until Christmas and four days until my birthday — both exciting. Maybe soon I'll be back at school. I'm hoping Adine has been eating way too much and by the time I get back to school she'll look like a little pink pig with an apple in her mouth.

I'm going to think more about this thankfulness essay before I write it, Abbie. Will have it to you before deadline, though, for sure.

Jacqueline

November 25

Jacquie H-M.

11:36 a.m.

I'm back, Abbie. And I've thought about being thankful. But I have to say that thankfulness just isn't my cup of tea today. I am thankful that Kip is better and all that, but I mean, let's get real for a minute. Sometimes (and I can't believe I'm saying this) Logan is right. Look around you. If you were a kid having to live in the hospital, how thankful would YOU be?

Remember the history assignment you gave Logan and me last week about the rise of communism in Europe? I don't know if he even read the pages you gave us — I did see him sleeping in the lounge with a copy on his face, so maybe he did. But I read it, Abbie and it's made me think. Marx and Engels put a few words down on paper and they pretty much changed the shape of history forever. And today when Medusa was taking my blood pressure for the four hundredth time I decided that now is the time for me to take action.

The Communist Manifesto basically outlined Marx's idea that if people work as hard as they are able and take only what they need, then society can run without the need for wealth or poverty. It was a pretty good idea when you think about it, but it seems that there has been some trouble ever getting it to work properly.

We don't really have a problem with wealth and poverty here in the hospital, but we do have some other BIG problems. I've decided the answer to our problems is a Sick Kids' Manifesto. I have an enthusiastic supporter in Kip, who agrees with me wholeheartedly. Now, if I can only get Logan to pay attention we might all benefit.

So far, this is what I have:

EVERGREEN HOSPITAL
SICK KIDS' MANIFESTO

A spectre is haunting this hospital. The spectre of totalitarianism. Too many nurses and doctors are taking too much power over the proletarian patients. And the parental bourgeoisie just look the other way.

We, the Proletarian patients, DEMAND ACTION.

Okay, so that's what I have so far, Abbie. I'm not quite sure what action we will actually demand. For myself, I would prefer a little inaction for a change. Less interference in my personal space. But action will be taken — I guarantee it. I just need to think it through a little more.

Oh, and by the way, one of the things I AM thankful for is that you are willing to listen to me. That weird art therapist is always wanting me to embrace my inner child or admit to some terrible family secret. I'm trying
to grow up here, Abbie, not revisit my inner child. And my worst family secret is that my mother didn't make it as a movie star when she moved to California in her youth. Pretty bad, huh?

Jacqueline

November 25

Logan K.

Before noon.

Why I am Thankful
by Logan Kemp

I am thankful because my gut is improving and a couple of days ago the doctors even started using the word remission. I didn't even know what remission meant until today — always thought it had something to do with cancer, I guess.

I am really thankful that it looks like I'll be able to come off the IV line (aka the Useless Contraption) pretty soon. The nurses have already given me a few hours off it here and there. But being off Useless will mean I am one step closer to getting out of here and back onto the rugby pitch. (We play even if it snows. You've gotta be tough to play rugby.)

I am thankful that the little kidney kid is okay, too, though he is still pretty sick. The nurses might seem
tough around here but, let me tell you, they are totally harsh in ICU. I couldn't even sneak in to give the kid a few Skittles. Still, I managed to wave the bag at him through the window as an incentive to get better. I'm sure he saw me.

Weird Cleopatra was on my case about the Skittles, too. She ranted at me for five minutes about not offering Kip temptation. What's life without a little temptation, for crissakes? Personally, I think she wanted them for herself.

Okay, I know this piece is supposed to be about thankfulness, so here's a good one for you, Abbie. I am thankful I am not as weird as Cleopatra.

I thought she was weird before, but this is the worst. Yesterday when I was finally allowed to unplug from Useless for an hour, I went out to the courtyard. You know it, right? It's not really enclosed, more like a letter C. Anyway, when I got down there I stretched out on a bench in the sun to catch a few rays. (Lucky I did, because it looks like snow out there today.) Anyway, after a few minutes I heard something so I opened my eyes and who do you think was down there skulking about? Weird Cleopatra was creeping along, face practically on the ground, pockets stuffed with plastic bags. How she even managed to get out of the ward is a mystery to me.

I was lying on the back of the bench facing the other wall so she didn't notice me watching her through a slit in the bench. Abbie, the chick was picking up dog crap. Yeah, you read that right.

Okay, I know she's got control issues but what kind of neat freak cleans up the hospital grounds after the local dogs? I think she's got a new obsession with dogs. Did you see that journal entry the other day? Ten pages about her stupid dog. I love dogs, but ten pages? I hated that dog by the end. (Oh, and by the way, I figure you must have hated it, too, since I notice her little dog essay has disappeared from your notebook. Way to go, Abs!)

So, to wrap up, I am thankful that one day when I get a dog it will not be as weird as Cleopatra's dog.

Logan

November 25

Logan K.

Sometime on a crappy snowy afternoon.

Just so you know, Abbie, cancel all the stuff I said I was thankful for. I am thankful for nothing. Evergreen High School stinks and the rugby team stinks and the biggest stink of all comes from a coach who would stab one of his most focussed players in the back.

I'm going to bed.

Logan

This had to be the stupidest idea he'd ever had. Reading his own words on paper made Logan feel sick. He hadn't known — really known — how hard it was for Cleo back then. Even the note to Abbie from Cleo's teacher showed things were bad. But she wasn't the only one with problems.

The loss of his position on the rugby team still felt like a physical blow. Logan took a deep breath as the bus lurched forward after yet another stop. He turned his breath against the glass of the window but the cold still defeated him. Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, you just can't win.

A few stops back he'd held his palm to the window until the feeling had completely left his fingers, but in the second or two before the window frosted over his palm print, he had still been unable to see any kind of place sign or landmark. Clearwater was the last stop on the night's run, so there was no danger Logan would fall asleep and miss it. And stupid idea or not, Cleo was out there somewhere. There had to be a way to make things right.