The Meaning of Maggie (19 page)

He wiggled what he could wiggle. “Come on, girls. What are you trying to do? Kill me?”

Tiffany punched him in the stomach. “Not funny!”

Dad pushed us all away. “Everyone, calm down. I'm fine.”

I looked around the room: beeping machines, dripping bags, needles taped to his arms. He didn't
look
fine.

The doctor came in a few minutes later and told us what had happened. Dad had gotten an infection that turned into a bigger infection that had caused a seizure. They had him on all the right medicines now, but he'd have to stay at least a week to get the full round of drugs that he needed.

“There's nothing to worry about,” the doctor promised. “This is just what happens as the disease progresses. But we know how to treat this part.”

Dad squeezed my hand and said, “Doc, at least tell me you can get me medical marijuana.”

The doctor laughed but quickly became a doctor again and sternly said, “No.”

Then Dad got really tired so we went back to the waiting room so he could get some rest. It was way past all of our bedtimes.

Mom dug around in her purse for her keys. “You girls go home. I'll stay here with Dad.”

Layla crossed her arms. “We're not going anywhere, Mom.”

“Yeah.” Tiffany nodded. “As long as Dad's here, we're here.”

I got kind of excited. “We can build a blanket fort!”

Mom shook her head. “No. Just go home and get some rest. You can come back first thing in the morning.”

Layla refused. “No way, Mom.”

Tiffany did too. “We're not leaving you in this scary place.”

“Yeah, lady,” I said. “We're like the Five Musketeers.
⁶³
All for one and one for all.”

Mom finally caved. “Okay, go home and get what you need. Then come back and we'll figure something out.”

As soon as we got home, we rushed inside and grabbed everything we needed. I went to the pantry first and got the necessities. Little Debbies. Fruit snacks. Granola bars. Then I went to the fridge and found juice boxes and a bottle of mixer just in case Dad was serious about that cocktail. Layla took sleeping bags and Tiffany took pillows and I packed my PJs, a couple changes of clothes, and a few hundred pens.

But when Layla and I were ready to go, Tiffany was nowhere to be found. I went into Dad's bathroom and found her sobbing over the sink, hugging a bottle of Listerine.

Okay, I have to admit: At first, I was kind of relieved to see her crying. I felt like it gave me permission to do it too. But as soon as she saw me, her sobs turned to yells and she ordered me to leave.

I didn't leave. I stood there cautiously like I was standing in front of an angry bear that might charge me at any second. Since I didn't have any honey, I tried to calm her down with words. “Mom says everything's going to be okay.”

Tiffany was opening every drawer, looking for something. “Dad needs floss. Do you see any floss?” Dad didn't floss and she knew it.

“Dad doesn't floss,” I said carefully.

She slammed a drawer. “Well, he should! His teeth are going to rot out of his head!” She slammed more drawers like a crazy person.

“Tiffany, stop, you're freaking me out.”

“
You're
freaked out? You weren't even here! You didn't even see him!”

“Stop it! You're scaring me!”

Her eyes filled with more angry tears. “Good! Now you know how I felt!”

Layla came in and glared at us both. “Stop it, you two. Come on. Mom needs us.”

We walked back out through Mom and Dad's room and I saw what I'd missed on the way in: Dad's favorite Eric Clapton shirt ripped to pieces on the floor. Stretcher wheel marks in the carpet. Needle caps everywhere. And Dad's wheelchair waiting for him next to the TV.

Layla told us to go get in the car so we got in the car.

Tiffany immediately began fixing her makeup in the mirror. “Layla is taking this big sister thing way too far.”

“No kidding,” I agreed. “She's not the boss of us.”

And just like that, Tiffany and I were back on neutral ground. Until the next masking tape line was drawn down the middle of our room.

Five minutes later, Layla appeared carrying Dad's folded-up wheelchair and a giant bag of Hershey's Kisses. And not to be mean, but she had crazy in her eyes.

Tiffany rolled down her window. “Um, what are you
doing
?”

Layla opened the back door and crammed the chair and the Kisses next to me. “Dad's going to need his chair eventually. And he loves Hershey's Kisses. I leave three for him to have after lunch every day.”

Tiffany shook her head. “Well, it's a good thing you're bringing three thousand then.”

I laughed. Tiffany's meanness was actually pretty entertaining when it wasn't directed at me.

We rode back to the hospital in silence. Tiffany hugged Dad's Listerine bottle while I sat as still as possible, not able to move a muscle because of Dad's chair. I couldn't even reach the Hershey's Kisses.

Back in the waiting room, Mom had built us a blanket fort on the floor and was asleep in Dad's room in the chair next to his bed.

Tiffany stretched out her giraffe legs and fell asleep almost instantly. I thought of the disaster in Mom and Dad's room and hoped she was going to dream about something good, like being crowned Homecoming Queen or Prom Queen or whatever other kind of queen hot girls get crowned in high school.

Layla fell asleep next. It was weird seeing her because even in her sleep, she looked perfect. And she didn't look crazy or scared, not even a little.

When Mom came in to check on us I didn't want her to worry, so I pretended I was asleep too. She leaned over and kissed my forehead.

“Good night, Maggie.” Busted.

I opened an eye and looked at her leaning over us. I could see every freckle on her tired face. “Good night, Mom,” I whispered.

The next morning I was the last one up. Mom must've already had a bazillion cups of coffee because she was buzzing with energy.

“Good morning sunshine.”

“Good morning.” I yawned. “How's Dad?”

She picked up my pillow. “Well, there's nothing on TV, his butt hurts from sleeping on that hard bed, and his hair looks terrible. But other than that, he's much better. Wanna go see him?”

I nodded yes, pulled on my shoes, and walked through the maze to his room, blindfolded by Mom's hand.

Sunlight glared through the blinds and painted lines across Dad's face. He poked at a bowl of Jell-O with a fork.

“You gonna eat that?”

He pushed it toward me. “It's all yours.”

I took a closer look at the bowl of Jell-O. It was orange, not red. “Nah, I only like the red kind.”

“Me too.”

Mom went into the hall to talk to the nurse and left me alone with Dad. I thought it was going to be weird to be alone with him, but it wasn't. Despite all the machines and bags and smells, he was still just Dad.

We talked about politics and music and why red Jell-O was better than orange Jell-O
⁶⁴
and then Mom reappeared with my book bag.

“Your sisters and I are going down to the cafeteria. Want to come?”

I almost said yes until I saw Dad's face. He looked so down and I knew I couldn't leave him alone, even if I was dying for some red Jell-O. He'd been alone in that cold and terrible room long enough.

So I stayed and made myself comfortable in the world's most uncomfortable chair. When I took out my new leather journal, Dad smiled.

“Oh good. She gave it to you. You know, I picked that out myself.”

I turned back the cover to the first page and wrote my name. “Did you really pick it out?”

“Actually, your mother did. But it was my idea.”

I gave him a look. “Was it really your idea?”

“No, but your mother gets credit for everything.” He laughed his cool guy laugh that usually made me feel better.

But right then, I didn't feel better. Which I didn't understand, because if Dad was feeling better then so should I, right? I wasn't sick. I didn't have scary things in my arms and nose.

But I felt terrible. I felt lost. Dad looked different to me now.

Sure, his face was the same, just with more stubble. And his eyes were still blue, just a little less bright. But he was hard to recognize and not just because he wasn't wearing a rock 'n' roll T-shirt.

Dad had always said he was an adventurer. A dreamer. Which made his new state of sick all the more terrible. It was like he was a free spirit who was no longer free.

I felt like begging him to tell me everything was going to be okay. That he was going to be okay. I needed to hear it from him. I needed to know he was going to be there for every single important thing. I needed
him to hear my speech as high school valedictorian where I planned on quoting Abraham Lincoln
⁶⁵
and Neil Young.
⁶⁶
I needed him to be there for every single victory. Every single prize whether it be Nobel, Pulitzer, or Cracker Jack.

I needed my dad back. The adventurer. The dreamer. The free spirit.

He cleared his throat. “Hey Mags.” I looked up at him and he took a deep breath. Every single blanket piled on top of him rose and then fell with his words. “I'm
really
sorry.”

I thought about yelling. But I didn't.

I thought about crying. But I couldn't.

I thought about running away. But honestly, I was sick of running.

I thought about thinking. And how I needed to do more of it.

Even if that seemed impossible because I already thought so much. But I needed to change my thought trajectory to get closer to how I could help Dad. And Mom. And Layla. And maybe even Tiffany. And all that thinking led to one thought: Fixing Dad didn't have to just mean curing him. Fixing Dad could mean a million things. And right now it meant I should just be here for
him. Even though I was so many adjectives like scared, sad, confused, tired, and yes, even hungry. I should also be one more adjective.

I should be brave.

So I stood and pulled up my bootstraps. I reached up to him and wrapped my scarf around his neck. And then I said to him the four words I so desperately wanted him to say to me.

“Dad—it's gonna be okay.”

His face was confident even though his voice was shaking. “It's definitely gonna be okay, Mags.”

The rush of hospital cold hit my neck and I went back to the chair and back to the open book waiting for me. Right now seemed like as good a time as any to start my very first chapter. But my mind went blank.

“I'm not really sure what to write. What do you think?”

Dad took a long sip of juice and thought about it. “Well, I think you're supposed to write what you know. So what do you know?”

That sounded too daunting. I knew way too many things. It would be impossible to narrow them down.

I held the book for a minute and thought about it. “What would you write about?”

He gathered all of his thoughts and thoughtfully said, “I'll tell you in ten years.”

I pictured what we would be like ten years from that moment. I was going to know so much about Dad that I could write a whole book just about him. I would know
all of his inside jokes and I would know what the hippies wrote in shaving cream on his car on his wedding day and I would know every single Neil Young song, even the B-sides, bootlegs, and rarities. I would know so many other things that he would finally tell me in ten years.

But right now, I could only write what I knew RIGHT NOW. So I uncapped my pen and wrote the first thing that popped into my head.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

My dad won't stop beeping.

My mother is a big believer in thank yous. So here we go
.

Thank you to my super agent Marietta Zacker for seeing something in this story long before there was anything to see. I'm not sure why the universe spun you in my direction but I'm so very grateful that she did. I look forward to sharing many more stories with you wrapped in red ribbons.

Thank you to my big deal editor Ginee Seo for pushing me with all her might. You make me unbelievably nervous, which makes me work harder, dig deeper, and eat snacks I shouldn't. Thank you for being unmerciful.

Thank you Taylor Norman for being my Crow Family. Our cosmic connection is strong and hopefully even after you reach the very top, you can still hear me ka-kaaing from down below.

Thank you Amelia Mack and Anja Mulder for putting all your talent, gumption, and goodwill into our cover. Thank you Julie Romeis for first bringing me into the Chronicle family. And thank you to the Chronicle family for making me one of your very own. 680 Second Street definitely houses the most talented brains and eyeballs this side of the galaxy.

Thank you to my family for letting me tell our story. Thank you to my mom. You're terrible at cutting bangs but you're an incredibly cool, strong, courageous, and beautiful woman. I hope I'm just like you when I grow up. Thank you to my sister Rayna for answering my desperate phone calls. You're always so encouraging and helpful even while your children are screaming in the background. I totally get why you were Dad's favorite. Thank you to my sister Alison for paying me ten dollars every time you skipped school. We could not be more different. And not just in bra size. But I love you. No matter how many times you lock me out of our room.

Thank you to my brave husband, Ted. You always said I would fall head over heels in love with you after this book was finally finished. But the truth is I've been madly in love with you since you sat on the floor of Elegant Mr. Gallery and showed me your Micro Machines collection so many moons ago. I've just been playing it cool ever since. I look forward to a lifetime of pizza eating contests with you.

Thank you to my dear and bearded friend Rob Calabro who gave me the gumption to collect my memories into something more. You are truly the most talented person I know. I would hate you if I didn't admire you so much. Thank you Alexa, well, for every single thing. It's official, you're the nicest. Thank you, Cyndi Harvell, for scoring the sound track to this book and the life that inspired it. And my warmest gratitude to the handful of friends and family who have read this story along the way. I will return the favor in hugs and milkshakes. Except for Schermer, I owe you pie. And Julie, I owe you frozen yogurt. And Jess, I owe you cheese.