eyes.
Janie clears her throat. “May we go?”
The doctor gives Janie a long look. He glances at Janie’s mother, who is looking down at her lap. Then looks at Janie again. “Of course,” he says softly. “Can you promise me something? Not just for your safety, but for the safety of others on the road—please, don’t drive.”
It won’t happen when I’m driving, she longs to tell him, just so he doesn’t worry so much.
“Sure. I promise. We don’t have a car, anyway.”
Mrs. Hannagan stands. Janie stands. The doctor stands too. “Call our office if it happens again, won’t you?” He holds out his hand, and Janie shakes it.
“Yes,” Janie lies. They walk back to the waiting room.
Janie sends her mother outside to the bus stop. “I’ll be right there.”
Her mother leaves the office. Janie pays the bill. It’s $120, pulled out of her college stash. She can only imagine how much a CAT scan would cost. And she’s not about to spend another cent just to hear somebody tell her she’s crazy.
She can get that opinion for free.
Janie waits for her mother to ask what that was all about. But she may as well wait for flowers to grow on the moon. Janie’s mother simply doesn’t care about anything that has to do with Janie. She has never really cared.
And that’s fucking sad.
That’s what Janie thinks.
But it sure comes in handy, sometimes.
June 28, 2005
There’s something about a doctor telling a teenager not to drive that makes it so important to do so. Just to prove him wrong.
Janie and Carrie go see Stu at the body shop. He sees them coming. “Here she is, kiddo,”
Stu says. He calls Janie “kiddo,” which is weird, since Janie is two months older than Carrie.
Janie nods and smiles. She runs her hand over the hood lightly, feeling the curves. It’s the color of buttermilk. It’s older than Janie. And it’s beautiful. Stu hands Janie the keys, and Janie counts out one thousand, four hundred fifty dollars cash. “Be good to her,” he says wistfully. “I started working on this car when she was seventeen years old and I was thirteen. She purrs now.”
“I will.” Janie smiles. She climbs in the ’77 Nova and starts her up.
“Her name’s Ethel,” adds Stu. He looks a little embarrassed. Carrie takes Stu’s oil-stained hand and squeezes it. “Janie’s a really good driver. She’s driven my car a bunch of times. Ethel will be fine.” She gives Stu a quick kiss on the cheek. “See you tonight,” she says with a demure smile.
Stu winks. Carrie gets into her Tracer and Janie slides behind the wheel of her new car. She pats the dashboard, and Ethel purrs. “Good girl, Ethel,” she croons. June 29, 2005
After the incident with Mr. Reed, the Heather Home director made Janie take a week off. When Janie shuffled and hemmed about taking that much time off, the director promised her shifts on July 4 and Labor Day, where Janie gets double pay. She is happy. Janie drives her new car on her first day back to work. She gives sponge baths and empties a dozen bedpans. For entertainment, she sings a mournful song from Les Misérables, changing the words to “Empty pans and empty bladders…” Miss Stubin, a schoolteacher who taught for forty-seven years before she retired, laughs for the first time in weeks. Janie makes a mental note to bring in a new book to read to Miss Stubin. Miss Stubin never has visitors.
And she’s blind.
That just might be why she’s Janie’s favorite.
July 4, 2005, 10:15 p.m.
Three Heather Home residents in their wheelchairs, and Janie, in an orange plastic bucket chair, sit in the dark nursing home parking lot. Waiting. Slapping mosquitoes. The fireworks are about to begin at Selby Park, a few blocks away. Miss Stubin is one of the residents, her gnarled hands curled in her lap, I.V. drip hanging from a stand next to her wheelchair. All of a sudden, she cocks her head and smiles wistfully. “Here they come,” she says.
A moment later, the sky
Janie clears her throat. “May we go?”
The doctor gives Janie a long look. He glances at Janie’s mother, who is looking down at her lap. Then looks at Janie again. “Of course,” he says softly. “Can you promise me something? Not just for your safety, but for the safety of others on the road—please, don’t drive.”
It won’t happen when I’m driving, she longs to tell him, just so he doesn’t worry so much.
“Sure. I promise. We don’t have a car, anyway.”
Mrs. Hannagan stands. Janie stands. The doctor stands too. “Call our office if it happens again, won’t you?” He holds out his hand, and Janie shakes it.
“Yes,” Janie lies. They walk back to the waiting room.
Janie sends her mother outside to the bus stop. “I’ll be right there.”
Her mother leaves the office. Janie pays the bill. It’s $120, pulled out of her college stash. She can only imagine how much a CAT scan would cost. And she’s not about to spend another cent just to hear somebody tell her she’s crazy.
She can get that opinion for free.
Janie waits for her mother to ask what that was all about. But she may as well wait for flowers to grow on the moon. Janie’s mother simply doesn’t care about anything that has to do with Janie. She has never really cared.
And that’s fucking sad.
That’s what Janie thinks.
But it sure comes in handy, sometimes.
June 28, 2005
There’s something about a doctor telling a teenager not to drive that makes it so important to do so. Just to prove him wrong.
Janie and Carrie go see Stu at the body shop. He sees them coming. “Here she is, kiddo,”
Stu says. He calls Janie “kiddo,” which is weird, since Janie is two months older than Carrie.
Janie nods and smiles. She runs her hand over the hood lightly, feeling the curves. It’s the color of buttermilk. It’s older than Janie. And it’s beautiful. Stu hands Janie the keys, and Janie counts out one thousand, four hundred fifty dollars cash. “Be good to her,” he says wistfully. “I started working on this car when she was seventeen years old and I was thirteen. She purrs now.”
“I will.” Janie smiles. She climbs in the ’77 Nova and starts her up.
“Her name’s Ethel,” adds Stu. He looks a little embarrassed. Carrie takes Stu’s oil-stained hand and squeezes it. “Janie’s a really good driver. She’s driven my car a bunch of times. Ethel will be fine.” She gives Stu a quick kiss on the cheek. “See you tonight,” she says with a demure smile.
Stu winks. Carrie gets into her Tracer and Janie slides behind the wheel of her new car. She pats the dashboard, and Ethel purrs. “Good girl, Ethel,” she croons. June 29, 2005
After the incident with Mr. Reed, the Heather Home director made Janie take a week off. When Janie shuffled and hemmed about taking that much time off, the director promised her shifts on July 4 and Labor Day, where Janie gets double pay. She is happy. Janie drives her new car on her first day back to work. She gives sponge baths and empties a dozen bedpans. For entertainment, she sings a mournful song from Les Misérables, changing the words to “Empty pans and empty bladders…” Miss Stubin, a schoolteacher who taught for forty-seven years before she retired, laughs for the first time in weeks. Janie makes a mental note to bring in a new book to read to Miss Stubin. Miss Stubin never has visitors.
And she’s blind.
That just might be why she’s Janie’s favorite.
July 4, 2005, 10:15 p.m.
Three Heather Home residents in their wheelchairs, and Janie, in an orange plastic bucket chair, sit in the dark nursing home parking lot. Waiting. Slapping mosquitoes. The fireworks are about to begin at Selby Park, a few blocks away. Miss Stubin is one of the residents, her gnarled hands curled in her lap, I.V. drip hanging from a stand next to her wheelchair. All of a sudden, she cocks her head and smiles wistfully. “Here they come,” she says.
A moment later, the sky
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