Helen's first day of her senior year turns out to be a lot crazier than she thought.
Featuring Helen, Reuben, Pete, Summer, and Principal Klein.
Summer and Helen met under the cherry tree on the
front lawn of Pleasant Valley High. The tree itself was only about seven feet
high, but its branches stretched out in a wide, low circle, making it an ideal
place to sit under at the end of the school day. From time to time, it was used
as a makeout spot in the spring. But it was an hour before the first bell on
the first day of school, leaving the front lawn gloriously empty. Helen’s
father had dropped her off early before going on to the diner, and Summer’s
parents wanted to be at Penn State for an early morning protest for the
decriminalization of marijuana.
“Can’t
believe we’re seniors,” Helen thought aloud.
“I
won’t ask where you’re applying,” Summer said. “Even my parents are getting
stressed about it. They want me to have a list.”
“Shapiro’s
supposed to be really good for studying French.” Helen paused. “And they have a
lot fewer binge drinkers than Penn State.”
“You
want to study French?”
“Why
not? I could teach. They also have a great dance and theater program.”
“I
guess I could do studio art.”
“Have
you thought about art school?”
“I
dunno,” Summer hesitated. “Art school people are kind of weird.”
Helen
arched her eyebrow quizzically. “Huh?”
“I
went on a tour of the Salvador Dali Institute this summer, and it seemed like
everyone spent their free time frowning and smoking cigarettes.”
“But
your parents smoke pot all the time.”
“That’s
totally different. The Dali Institute smelled like the girls’ bathroom near the
cafeteria, combined with turpentine. You could get can— you could get really
sick walking by.”
“Nice
save.” Helen smiled briefly to let Summer know she wasn’t offended.
“God,
I feel like such an ass. How’s your dad doing?”
“Okay,
I guess.” Helen felt her smile slip away. “He’s been kind of off lately.”
“I’m
sure it’s not… you know…”
Helen
pushed her hair back behind her ears, nodding. “I sure hope not.”
Just
before Summer could respond, or try to change the subject, Helen lifted her leg
onto one of the low tree limbs and pushed herself up with the other. Summer
threw her head back, watching Helen balance herself in the center of the tree.
As she leaned her back against the trunk and stretched her legs along two
forking limbs, she seemed to be staring at a point above Pleasant Valley, above
the Green Mountains. Above the clouds, even. Summer frowned. She recognized
that stare, but wasn’t sure if Helen knew how recognizable it was. Over the
summer, whenever her father yawned too deeply or tripped over a tangled garden
hose, she slipped into it. When some women would have reached for a bottle or a
smoke, Helen would find a lone tree or cloud and focus on it until someone
brought her back to reality.
“That
book O.D. was terrible,” Helen remarked
blankly. “I can’t believe it was summer reading for Honors English.”
Summer
nodded. O.D. was a first-person account
of a mother who found her teenage daughter dead in the bathroom with a used
syringe (heroin) in her hand. It was labeled as fiction, but a quick Google
search of the author revealed that he was the director of a drug rehabilitation
center just outside Penn State. His daughter, Meghan, had died of alcohol
poisoning in high school. The daughter in O.D. was named Meg. As Helen thought back on the book, she
tried to remember what happened in it besides Meg’s body being found, which
took up seventeen pages, and the police investigation. But all she could
remember was the terrible prose – series of short, clipped sentences followed
by run-ons that lasted for paragraphs. After reading the first two chapters,
she skimmed the rest of the book during her rest breaks at the diner.
“In
the last chapter, Meg talks about watching her parents on the day she died and
wishing she hadn’t gone to the party,” Summer told Helen.
“What?
I missed that.”
The
first bell rang, sending Helen in a rush back down the tree.
“Make
sure you mention it in class,” Summer reminded her.
The
girls threw their backpacks over their shoulders and started running down the
pathway to the front entrance.
“I
hope we don’t have to write about it,” Helen grumbled.
“You
know we will. That’s why I actually read it.”
“You
read the whole thing?”
“I
want to do well this term.”
As
they crossed through the front doors, Helen noticed the pungent fume of fresh
cigarette smoke and started coughing. Principal Klein grabbed Helen’s arm and
pulled her aside.
“I
just got here!” Helen protested. “I need to get to homeroom—”
“You
need to come with me,” Klein answered in a hushed, clipped tone. She paused
abruptly and turned around, coughing into her sleeve. “I can’t stand this
weather. It’s brutal for my lungs.”
From
her last time in Klein’s office, Helen knew better than to talk back without
being asked first, so she gritted her teeth, waiting for the cigarette smell to
fade.
“Don’t
worry, Helen, you’re not in trouble,” Klein insisted, but her tight smile and
continual wringing of her hands was disconcerting.
Helen
crossed her arms across her chest and narrowed her eyes skeptically. “What’s going
on, Ms. Klein?”
“God,
I wish I had a cigarette,” Klein murmured, biting her lip. She pulled open her
top desk drawer and snatched a pack of gum, tossing a piece into her mouth.
“Want one?”
“No
thanks.”
“Like
I said, Helen, you’re not in trouble for anything. Actually, Mr. Griffin wrote
me personally to tell me how happy he was with your performance last year
despite everything.”
“Oh.
That’s nice. Well, I better go to French. I’m taking AP this year, and I want
to stay on top of things.” Helen pulled her backpack and purse up off the floor
and started pawing through her books in search of her French notebook.
“That’s
not why I had to see you, Helen.” Klein sighed, rubbing her forehead. “I really
hate this part of my job.”
Helen
put her bags down and scooted her chair closer to Klein’s desk.
“I
just got a call from Pete Sardelis. It’s your father. He… he found him passed
out in the kitchen and called 911. He told me he’d drive you to Westwood right
about now. I’m sorry.”
Helen
looked out the window and saw Pete’s green stationwagon and left Klein’s office
without saying anything.
“I’ll
call your teachers and explain everything,” Klein told her office door as it
swung shut. “Shit. Poor girl.”
Before
she got in the car, Helen looked at Pete’s face, as if she expected him to tell
her it was all a mistake, like the time she fell in gym class and the school
nurse told her father it was an altercation. But his frown sunk lower when he
saw her, and he stared at the dashboard when he unlocked the passenger door.
“He
said he didn’t want me to call,” Pete told her when he started the car, “but I
think he did. Last time I saw him like that was when your mother died.”
“So
he woke up.”
“Yes.
But he was so cold and clammy. I knew something was wrong.”
“So
did I.”
***
Pat
had just sent a patient to the OR when she saw the paramedics direct Reuben
Fiennes to a wheelchair. The triage nurse assigned her to him within seconds.
Even though it had been several months since she saw the Fiennes girl, she remembered
Reuben because he had reminded her so much of her husband. Kind and
well-meaning, but a little slow on the uptake, and terribly quiet. Nervous. She
had grown so used to raising her voice with hungover Penn State frat boys and
bikers who didn’t understand the purpose of helmets that it surprised her to
see a grown man quiver when she hollered. She reminded herself to speak more
softly when she took his history.
“Reuben,”
she said, stepping in front of his chair to unlock the brakes. “I’m taking you
to bed 3. I’m Pat.”
“My
daughter gained back every pound,” he stammered.
“I’m
happy to hear that. Good for her.”
“I’m
sure she’ll be here soon.”
“Okay.”
Pat went back behind him to wheel him to bed 3. “Reuben, I need you to change
into this hospital gown.”
Reuben
nodded weakly. He had only been given enough time to button up his shirt halfway
and zip his pants before being kicked out of the ambulance, and had just
finished buttoning his shirt when Pat wheeled him up to the bed.
“I’m
going to take your blood pressure and temp and get you set up for an EKG.”
A
head popped in through the curtain. It was Janet. “She’s here,” she said.
“Already.”
“Send
her in,” Pat said. “EKG’s almost done. Can you get me some purple and blue
tubes?”
Janet
nodded.
When
the blood results came back, Pat looked up Reuben’s past results to see if
there were any trends. She noticed that he had blood work done every month
since last October.
“Shit,”
she murmured.
Janet
tapped her shoulder. “Pat!” she whispered. “You know the rule about cursing
around patients…” With that, she ran back to the nurses’ station.
Reuben
shifted uneasily, watching his IV tube move with his hand.
Helen
stepped up next to Pat. “Is it really that bad?”
“It’s
not good,” Pat remarked dryly, pointing to the screen. “Reuben, your white
cells are high. I’m going to page your oncologist and see what he wants to do.”
“Shit!”
Helen spat.
“Leni,
don’t talk like that around the nurses,” Reuben intoned.
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