Room_ A Novel - Emma Donoghue [91]
I take off my shoes but not my clothes, I get in with Ma at last. She’s warmy soft, I snuggle up but carefully. The pillow smells bad.
“See you guys at dinnertime,” whispers Noreen and shuts the door.
The bad is vomit, I remember from our Great Escape. “Wake up,” I say to Ma, “you did sick on the pillow.”
She doesn’t switch on, she doesn’t groan even or roll over, she’s not moving when I pull her. This is the most Gone she’s ever.
“Ma, Ma, Ma.”
She’s a zombie, I think.
“Noreen?” I shout, I run at the door. I’m not meant to disturb the persons but—“Noreen!” She’s at the end of the corridor, she turns around. “Ma did a vomit.”
“Not a bother, we’ll have that cleaned up in two ticks. Let me just get the cart—”
“No, but come now.”
“OK, OK.”
When she switches on the light and looks at Ma she doesn’t say OK, she picks up the phone and says, “Code blue, room seven, code blue—”
I don’t know what’s—Then I see Ma’s pill bottles open on the table, they look mostly empty. Never more than two, that’s the rule, how could they be mostly empty, where did the pills go? Noreen’s pressing on the side of Ma’s throat and saying her other name and “Can you hear me? Can you hear me?”
But I don’t think Ma can hear, I don’t think she can see. I shout, “Bad idea bad idea bad idea.”
Lots of persons run in, one of them pulls me outside in the corridor. I’m screaming “Ma” as loud as I can but it’s not loud enough to wake her.
Living
I’m in the house with the hammock. I’m looking out the window for it, but Grandma says it would be in the backyard, not the front, anyway it’s not hung up yet because it’s only the tenth of April. There’s bushes and flowers and the sidewalk and the street and the other front yards and the other houses, I count eleven of bits of them, that’s where neighbors live like Beggar My Neighbor. I suck to feel Tooth, he’s right in the middle of my tongue. The white car is outside not moving, I rode in it from the Clinic even though there was no booster, Dr. Clay wanted me to stay for continuity and therapeutic isolation but Grandma shouted that he wasn’t allowed keep me like a prisoner when I do have a family. My family is Grandma Steppa Bronwyn Uncle Paul Deana and Grandpa, only he shudders at me. Also Ma. I move Tooth into my cheek. “Is she dead?”
“No, I keep telling you. Definitely not.” Grandma rests her head on the wood around the glass.
Sometimes when persons say definitely it sounds actually less true. “Are you just playing she’s alive?” I ask Grandma. “Because if she’s not, I don’t want to be either.”
There’s all tears running all down her face again. “I don’t—I can’t tell you any more than I know, sweetie. They said they’d call as soon as they had an update.”
“What’s an update?”
“How she is, right this minute.”
“How is she?”
“Well, she’s not well because she took too much of the bad medicine, like I told you, but they’ve probably pumped it all out of her stomach by now, or most of it.”
“But why she—?”
“Because she’s not well. In her head. She’s being taken care of,” says Grandma, “you don’t need to worry.”
“Why?”
“Well, it doesn’t do any good to.”
God’s face is all red and stuck on a chimney. It’s getting darker. Tooth is digging into my gum, he’s a bad hurting tooth.
“You didn’t touch your lasagna,” Grandma says, “would you like a glass of juice or something?”
I shake my head.
“Are you tired? You must be tired, Jack. Lord knows I am. Come downstairs and see the spare room.”
“Why is it spare?”
“That means we don’t use it.”
“Why you have a room you don’t use?”
Grandma shrugs. “You never know when we might need it.” She waits while I do the stairs down on my butt because there’s no banister to hold. I pull my Dora bag behind me bumpity bump. We go through the room that’s called the living room, I don’t know why because Grandma and Steppa are living in all the rooms, except not the spare.
An awful waah waah starts, I cover my ears. “I’d better get that,” says Grandma.
She comes back in a minute and brings me into a room. “Are you ready?”
“For what?”
“To go