St. Clair (Gives Light Series) (22 page)

the room, so that only the anesthesiologist

remained behind. The abrupt silence didn't sit

well with me. I looked at Dad and Granny.

Granny's face was buried in a magazine. Dad's

face looked like the face of a statue: Everything

seems right, at a glance, but you look closer and

you notice the eyes are off.

The anesthesiologist stuffed a needle into my IV.

It's crazy how fast I felt sleepy.

"Skylar," Dad said.

Dad never called me Skylar unless he was serious.

He said something more to me--but what, I don't

recall. Seconds later I was sound asleep.

I wish I could tell you what the surgery was like,

but I was unconscious for all of it, so that's kind of

impossible. I'm sure it was really awesome; a

gang of strangers sticking hooks down your throat

sounds like the makings of an epic slasher flick.

I'll try to fill in the gaps.

Blood spurted out of the blond kid's mouth and

drenched the doctors' lab coats. Dr. Demain

stepped back and gasped. "Mon dieu," she said,

because Demain is a French word. "This

lifeform is hostile!"

The blond kid on the bed was actually a

Skinwalker. The Skinwalker ripped off his skin

and revealed his true and monstrous form.

"Beware the Skinwalker!" a little old Navajo

woman cried. And then I turned into a cat.

That's not an exact recount, but I think it's pretty

close.

All I know is that I woke up thinking: Skinwalker.

That lady who harassed Rafael was really cool. I

wonder if she was a Skinwalker...

"Cubby?"

I opened my eyes. The whole room was blurry,

although I could make out blue paint on the walls.

I saw Dad's opaque head hovering over me and

thought: Oh, God. The Skinwalker decapitated

him.

My vision corrected itself. That was when I

became aware of a deep ache at the base of my

throat. My throat was dry. I couldn't swallow. I

don't mean that I tried it and met resistance. I mean

that my brain suddenly didn't know how.

Intense stinging flitted across my stomach.

"How do you feel?" Dad asked.

I tried to pat his shoulder, but came up short.

Dad tucked a couple of pillows behind my back

and helped me sit up straight. I felt like a weight

was sitting against my stomach. Maybe I was

going to throw up.

"Your surgery went just fine," Dad said. "Patricia

was in here earlier. I didn't want to wake you."

I stretched my arm. A bag full of fluids was

feeding into my vein. Gross.

"I'll bet you're thirsty," Dad said. He got up from

his chair and rummaged around in a small cooler.

He handed me a styrofoam cup full of ice chips.

I stuck an ice chip in my mouth. I still wasn't sure

how to swallow, but the cool water came as a

relief.

"Skylar," Dad said, this time without meeting my

eyes. "Could I talk to you about something?"

That alarmed me. Why did he need permission?

Dad took his time sitting down. He reached for my

hand, but seemed to think better of it. His hands

rested on the armrests of the chair.

"I feel as though I owe you an apology," Dad

began.

I shook my head. I couldn't think of anything he

possibly had to apologize for.

"No, Skylar," he said. "I'm serious about this.

You became sick because Eli...because a man hurt

you. He had the opportunity to hurt you because I

walked out on you and your mother."

This again. Of course he walked out on Mom and

me. Mom cheated on him and I was the result. No

guy should have to put up with that. Besides, Dad

came back in the end. He didn't have to, but he

did.

"You don't understand. There was a time when we

were very good friends, he and I... A time when I

told him everything."

Dad swallowed. I wished I could swallow.

"When your mother told me about--the affair--of

course I ran my mouth off and talked to Eli about

it. And I can't help but wonder... The night he

chose the two of you; I've always wondered..."

I whistled, just to get Dad's attention. I wanted

him to stop. I didn't want to hear this. Wondering

never did anyone any good.

"I'm so--"

To my incredible relief, a knock sounded on the

open door.

It was Dr. Demain. She walked into the hospital

room with one of her peculiar, clenched smiles,

like she was showing off her teeth.

"Mr. Looks Over," she greeted. "Skylar. I trust I

find you well?"

I wiggled my eyebrows.

"I wonder whether you're ready to be fitted for

your radiation mask."

I looked at Dad.

"Can it wait?" Dad asked. "Just a little while.

Please."

"Cancer doesn't wait, Mr. Looks Over. I'll give

you ten minutes, after which I'll need you to leave

the room."

I watched Dr. Demain walk away. I wondered

what a radiation mask was.

I set my ice chips on the table next to the hospital

bed. I noticed for the first time that the walls were

painted to look like balloons against a blue sky. I

felt like laughing. Why was I in a kiddie room?

"Can you ever forgive me?" Dad asked.

Maybe if there was something to forgive. There

wasn't.

Granny suddenly shuffled into the room, looking

irate. "I brought the boy's flute," she said. "Oh!

You're awake."

She shocked me when she bent down and gave my

forehead a hasty kiss.

"Mother," Dad said. "I'm told the surgery went

well."

"Of course it went well. Skylar is a strong boy."

I made a muscle.

Robert knocked on the door and sauntered in.

"Yoo-hoo," he said. "I'm going to need you old

geezers to clear the room."

"Who are you calling old?" Granny demanded.

"Mother," Dad said wearily. "We'll be back,

Cubby. I'll see if I'm allowed to bring you some

ice cream."

Just as long as Dad didn't make it himself, I

thought. I grinned.

Dr. Demain came back into the room just as Dad

and Granny were leaving it. I sat up against the

pillows behind my back. I felt fine, I thought.

Woozy, but fine.

"Patricia," Robert said, "can he have ice cream?"

"Give him time. We only just installed the

stomach pump."

The blood drained from my face. Robert and Dr.

Demain talked between themselves. I lifted the

paper-thin quilt off the bed and peered underneath

my hospital gown.

A clear, plastic feeding tube was sticking out of

my belly button, the brand new incision taped shut

while it healed. The top of the tube was capped

off, the PEG neck surrounded by a rubbery pump.

Hello, old friend, I thought dismally.

"Please lie back, Skylar," Dr. Demain said.

The last thing I wanted to do was lie back; but I

didn't have a choice. Robert took the pillows out

from under my head and pulled a mesh cap over

my hair. I lay on my back, pain in my stomach,

pain in my throat, and waited.

I jumped when Dr. Demain started stretching a

small square of plastic across my face.

"Lie still," she said, sounding decidedly less

patient. She gripped my shoulder until I felt the

nerve trickling out of my body.

I don't know what that plastic stuff was, but the

way Dr. Demain wrapped my face up in it, I felt

like a New Year's gift, or a modern-day mummy.

The texture was cool and sticky and melded to my

skin in a way that made me want to scratch all my

flesh off. Dr. Demain stretched the plastic around

my lips.

"Say 'Aah,' " Robert instructed.

I briefly wondered whether he'd lost his mind. He

prodded my arm and I realized he was serious. Of

course I couldn't say "Aah"--I couldn't say

anything--but I opened my mouth. Or tried to. The

plastic straining against my lips hurt like a son of a

bitch.

Robert stuffed what felt like a piece of styrofoam

into my mouth. I was afraid I might gag on it, so I

quickly clamped down with my teeth. As it

happened, that was his intention.

"Shh," he said. "Calm down, sweetie. It's okay."

Please let it be over, I thought.

It wasn't over. Next came the most horrifying part

of the fantastic experience. Dr. Stout unrolled a

long sheet of mesh and pulled it tightly over my

face and throat.

My breath caught, and I wasn't sure whether it was

psychological, or actual hyperventilation. The

mesh bit my eyes and pressed down on the plastic.

The combination of mesh and plastic dug into my

skin. I felt like I was in a cage. I guess I was, in a

way. My face was squeezed in a vicegrip. The

blood pounding in my ears was so loud, I

wondered that Dr. Demain didn't comment on it.

I think Robert picked up on my panic. I felt his

hand on my arm, still and steady. "I've seen that

boyfriend of yours," he said. "He's a real cutie.

How come he didn't show up for moral support?

School's out for winter break, isn't it?"

I hadn't actually told any of my friends about--you

know. This. I didn't want the fuss.

"I bet you wish you could talk back to me," Robert

said. "Well, I wish it, too. You poor thing, I can't

imagine not having a voice... I'd
really
be up the

creek without a paddle. I'm so gabby it's a crime.

There was a medical study a while back. Late

nineties? Turns out they can transplant a larynx,

but they can't transplant vocal cords. Vocal cords

are thinner than human
hair
. Try to move them

from one body to another and they'll rip. But hold

out for a miracle. Medicine's getting better every

day."

I didn't realize Robert was distracting me from the

unpleasant ordeal--not until Dr. Demain peeled the

mesh and the plastic off of my face and I felt that I

could breathe again. I sat up so fast, I banged into

Robert's forehead. "Ow!" he said.

"I don't think your body is ready for radiation just

yet," Dr. Demain said to me. "Perhaps by

tomorrow. In any case, this mold should suffice

for the mask."

I ripped the surgical cap off of my hair. Robert

carried the mesh mask out of the room, Dr. Demain

following. I was alone.

I hope this doesn't sound pathetic, but I didn't like

being alone. I never have. I wished Dad and

Granny would come back, even if only for a

moment. I wasn't sure whether they were still in

the building. It wasn't as though I could call for

them.

I spotted my plains plute on the table next to my

bed. Comforting warmth washed over me. I was

fine, I thought. I was fine as long as I could make

music. I lifted the flute to my lips and started to

play.

Nothing came out.

Later I would find out that your throat and your

lungs are situated to your vocal folds. So I guess

the problem was that my throat didn't know what it

was doing when it was missing a huge chunk of its

ordinary structure. At the time, though, I didn't

know any of this. I didn't know what was going

on. All I knew was that I felt helpless. Really,

really helpless.

I felt like I was six.

I don't know if you've ever had radiation therapy

before. I sure hope not. But if you have, you know

how annoying it is to sit under an X-ray machine,

day after day after day, with an unbearably tight

mask pinching your face. You start to feel like

Hannibal Lecter, or The Punisher.

And if you've ever been an inpatient for treatments

like those, or treatments of any sort, then you know

how mind-numbing it is to be confined to the

hospital with nothing but a radio to keep you

company.

That's not to say that Dad and Granny didn't visit

me. They did. Granny even spent a whole night at

my side. But just because I had cancer didn't mean

the rest of the reservation stopped thriving. With

Christmas close at hand, and New Year's after that,