China Knowles—Sunday Afternoon—The Gland
I’m China and I’m at the hospital and they are searching through my purse. This morning I had to beg to take Stanzi her lab coat, and they let me because Lansdale said it would help her.
I let them keep my whole purse at the security desk. I don’t need it.
I walk down the hall to Stanzi’s room and hope I’ll be the only one there.
And I am.
Her eyes are closed and she seems to be sleeping, so I sit down in the chair that’s nailed to the floor next to her bed.
“I’m sorry I never talked to you about it,” Stanzi says. It startles me.
“You’re awake.”
“Did you hear me? You were in pain. You were wronged. I should have talked to you about it. I should have helped you in ways friends help each other.”
“You did,” I say.
“I ignored it. You turned into a stomach. You wrote so many poems.”
“You did what you could,” I say.
“I’m sorry.”
“You really shouldn’t be.”
“I’m sorry for a lot of things,” she says. “I’m sorry for everything.”
She’s looking right at me and she’s not drooling anymore. Her arms are crossed over her chest and her lab coat is buttoned.
“They nearly didn’t let me bring that in this morning,” I say. “Said you could eat the buttons.”
“Why would I eat the buttons?”
“You’re in the psych ward. I guess they think you could do anything.”
“Last week, I flew in an invisible helicopter to a place that doesn’t exist,” she says. “How do I explain that to these people? How do I explain that I’m not the problem?”
“You might want to leave out the helicopter part,” I say.
“If I leave it out, then Marvin is right and the world is dumb.”
“Then you’ll be in here for a lot longer and people will think you’re nuts,” I say. I have no idea who Marvin is, but I don’t care.
“Not when I show them the helicopter.”
“Stanzi.”
“I am nuts,” she says.
“I have post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“Yes.”
“I’m obsessed with biology because I don’t know how to have fun. I’m obsessed with biology because I want to cure something I can’t cure.”
“What’s that?”
“Guilt,” she says. “I think I nearly have it figured out. Touch here,” she says as she touches a part low down on her neck. “Lower. Yes. Just there. That’s how to cure it. That gland right there.”
I am China, the girl who was once a weathergirl. I’m sitting in a hospital chair and my friend Stanzi is telling me how to cure guilt. As I massage this part of my neck, I feel better. I think Stanzi is a genius, but everyone else here will think she’s crazy. I don’t know how to tell her this.
“It’s okay,” she says. “I already know.”
“What?”
“That everyone here will think I’m crazy,” she says. “Don’t worry. I’m not really going to tell them about the helicopter. Or the cure for guilt.”
I wonder if I just said that out loud.
“No,” she says. “You didn’t.”
Mom and Shane have had a discussion.
When I walk in, they’re sitting at the kitchen table and my sisters are sitting in front of the TV in the den watching the Disney Channel.
I turn off the TV and tell Shane and Mom to join us in the den and I sit upside down on the couch. Little sisters do what big sisters do, so they do it, too. Shane has a look of concern on his face for me, but I smile and say, “Come on. Do it.”
Mom is the last to turn upside down, but once she does, she giggles a little.
“The world is upside down,” I say.
“It is,” Shane says.
“I think my head is going to blow up,” my sister says.
“It won’t blow up,” I say. “Stanzi told me heads don’t blow up. She’s a biology genius.”
“It really feels like it will,” she answers.
“Look at how different everything looks now,” I say.
“I’m dizzy,” Mom says. “How long do we have to do this?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
Once the girls are in bed, Mom, Shane, and I gather around the coffee table in the den and talk about how we’ll make this work.
Shane says, “I’ll go to school with you now.”
I say, “I’ll show you the best places to go during the drills.”
“Shane will have a room in the basement,” Mom says. “I talked to your father and he thinks that’s the best way.”
I ask, “Shane’s going to sleep in the dungeon?”
“I’ll redecorate it tomorrow. You’d be surprised what I can do in a school day,” she says.
“Stanzi talked today. She told me she won’t be back to school for a week or two. They’ll let her out soon, but she has to do group therapy or something. She seemed okay,” I say. “I’m glad she talked.”
“That’s good,” Mom says.
“Yeah,” Shane says.
“I think we should go to the police,” Mom says.
Shane stays quiet.
“The police won’t believe me any more than they can see Gustav’s helicopter.”
“Irenic Brown has a reputation,” Mom says.
“And so do I,” I say.
The three of us look at each other around the table.
“Shane showed me your website—the place where you met,” Mom says. “I can’t make sense of what I can do to help. I feel so guilty.”
I reach over and I put Mom’s hand on her neck in just the right spot. I tell her to rub it. “That should help,” I say.
“I called a crisis center,” she says. “I was going to call Katie about her therapist, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell her.” She looks despondent. “You’re my daughter,” she says. “This is a nightmare.”