Fiction: An Excerpt from Love, Me

May 5, 1968
Dear Diary,
Welcome to my life, I am eleven. I live with Mama and Daddy and our collie, Mingus. We also live with a nuisance, our cat, Muffy.  We used to have Nina, she was my first dog, a Chihuahua. I like the way that word slides off my tongue…it's almost like a bad word: Chee Waaah Wuuuh. I loved her. Even when she chewed up the Venetian blinds. Twice.

I will tell you one thing about me every day. And I will learn a new word every day. I keep telling myself that I'll do that but I keep forgetting. Every day is a lot of days. ...

May 7
It rained today. Chickens and horses. Just for about ten minutes. Enough to see three million little balls of gleaming sun-dirt rolling down the street. My favorite song is “Sugar Pie Honey Bunch” by the Four Tops.

May 8
Uncle Baz stopped by – that's not news. He stops by almost every day. I make coffee for him and Daddy. Strong. "Like the Colombians," he tells me. I have two-tone arms.

Uncle Baz is teaching me Spanish. I played “La Cucaracha” today and he sang it ... it's about roaches. That's pretty gross singing about roaches but in Spanish it's not so bad.
I like old people.

May 10
I went to a specialist today. Dr. Ross, our family doctor, sent us to an ENT man. That's ear, nose and throat, I guess. Dr. Felspah, who looks a lot like Dr. Kildare if you ask me, took a culture of my throat. My tonsils are the size of Omaha. Plus they're on fire. That's why my throat's been sore. Dr. Ross says they have to come out and Dr. Felspah agreed. Aunt Toot (her real name is Pearl) says God would not put tonsils at the back of our throats if he hadn't meant for them to stay there. She gave me one of her concoctions: turmeric and ginger and honey.

yep, I feel better. No more sore throat. She says I have to take it for forty-five days, twice a day. Aunt Toot, who always wears moccasins, is trying her level best to talk Mama and Daddy out of "having your poor child splayed out on a cold table in a cold room like a mackerel, dead to the world while some white mens remove a part of her essence." When she left, Daddy told Mama that what Aunt Pearl needed to remove was that mustache of hers and all those old-fogy oils and ointments and herbs and whatnot in her remedy arsenal. That's what she calls her medicine satchel: "my remedy arsenal."

May 12
I stopped by the library today. Ol’ Tight Curls (Miss Devoe, the bane of my literary life) was nowhere to be seen. Glory Glory Hallelujah! G L O R I A in Excelsis Deo!

I checked out three books; they're all about having your tonsils removed: tonsillectomy.

The one that makes the most sense is the one written for little kids – which I am decidedly not – but anyway it says that after the surgery I can eat all the ice cream I want to! I've taken my last dose of Aunt Toot's curds and whey or whatever that stuff is. Bring me the ice cream or bring me death!

May 15
The only time I've been to the hospital was to visit Nanaan.  Nanaan is Louisiana French for godmother ... she’s also my aunt. They smell funny. Hospitals, I mean. Not bad, like nursing home funny. Like in different. I'll bet a blind man could tell he was in the hospital – just by the smell. And the thing is you don't even have to step inside before you know – the outside of it smells like hospital, too.

Mama bought me new pajamas and a new toothbrush for my stay.  I can't sleep ... it's 3:35 a.m. and I'm up trying to decide which books to bring. Little Women, of course, will go with me. I'm sleepy. 

May 16
All I remember is lying on my back looking at the ceiling. The doctor put a black mask over my face and asked me to count backwards from one hundred.  After ninety-nine, I was back here in my room.

My throat hurts! I don't want ice cream. I don't want anything. Not even that crushed ice they keep insisting I eat. I wish I'd listened to Aunt Toot.

I'm in a room in the basement by the boiler room with a lady who looks like a witch. Her name is Rose. She can't talk. Well, not like normal people anyway. She makes sounds, though ... jungle animal sounds ... deep and meaty like it's coming from the walls of her guts. Rattling, barking, grunting and groaning like it hurts. She keeps staring at me. Mama and Daddy are outside the room speaking with the nuns in hush-hush tones about moving me to an environment more suitable for a child. I wish they’d find another reference for me. Child? My good God! I’m five-foot-six.

May 17
That lady, my roommate, Rose, this room is her room. What I mean is she lives here. At the hospital. And Mama says I have to call her Miss Rose because she is a grown lady. A grown lady with plenty of baby dolls, let me tell you. Come to find out she can't hear either. Mama says so what? She can read lips and I'm to respect her and call her Miss Rose. I want Miss Rose to stay on her side of the room and to keep her eyes over there, too. Thank you very much. Mama stays with me all night. I'm not scared or anything of that nature, but I'm glad.

May 18
I still do not want any ice cream. Miss Rose is over there on her side of the room curdling her words ... that's what it sounds like, curdled milk ... sour ... spit it out ... nasty.

Sister Euphemia (they all wear penguin clothes) came in with Rose's meal. Rose, I mean Miss Rose, took one look at the plate, folded her arms high upon her chest, started flapping them like a pent-up bird and cried – not like a people's cry, but like one of Mr. Bunnie's pigs when he sticks them in the guts to make boudin and crackling ... that's the kind of wailing and moaning she was doing. Sister Euphemia kept pointing to the food and telling Miss Rose she had to eat her meal before she could have her rice pudding, but Miss Rose wasn't buying that story. The more Sister Euphemia talked, the more Miss Rose drowned her out. When Sister Euphemia took the fork and tried to stick the food in Rose's mouth, Rose sent the fork and the green beans flying. That's when Sister Euphemia hauled off and slapped Miss Rose. Hard too.

Did I tell you how big Miss Rose is? She's taller than Daddy. Sister Euphemia is one inch taller than a midget. I'm guessing ... I don't know how tall you don't have to be to qualify for midgetry ... let's just say she's shorter than short. Only reason she could even reach Miss Rose was because she was sitting down. They are both kind of old – probably been around for forty years or so. Sister started fussing with Rose's bed, not really making it, just flattening out the sheet. Sister’s words came out of her mouth like hungry bees; sharp and fast and on a mission to bite.

"It's a sin and a shame to waste food, Rose. Search the world over and you won’t find a luckier person than yourself. You have everything, Rose, everybody at your disposal – a nice warm bed, a room of your own (I guess Sister didn't notice that I've been in the room for three days almost), all the food you want. You have to watch how you treat people, Rose, especially those of us who provide for your well-being, your care. You're not a baby anymore. You’re a lucky girl, Rose, a very lucky girl."

When she got to the door she turned around and looked at Rose.

"Eat your meatloaf and mashed potatoes, sweetheart, I'll be back with your pudding."

Sister I'll Slap You From Here To Kingdom Come While Calling You Sweetheart wasn’t down the hall good before I took the metal cover off of my tray and offered my pudding and my ice cream to Rose. Miss Rose is definitely not a girl. She’s as old as Sister I’ll Hurt Your Feelings And I Don’t Care is. If not older.

Later Today
Miss Rose is under me. Right now – right this minute. After I handed her my sweets she took them and crawled under my bed. The sheet is hanging so it's like a tent for her. That floor is hard and cold so I gave her a blanket from my drawer. I scraped her food onto my plate – not to eat (we don’t eat hospital food) – to get rid of it before Sister I'll Bop You One If You Fool With Me saw it. And it worked because she left Miss Rose two rice puddings. I hope no one comes in here while she's under there eating because she makes more noise chewing than Mingus does lapping up water at his bowl.

Later Still
I must have fallen asleep. Mama's stuffed shrimp from Nell’s Café woke me right up. I want to check under the bed for Miss Rose, but Mama's standing right next to my bed, brushing my hair. I'm holding my hand over this so she can't see what I write. I can see dusk dark through a little window by Miss Rose's bed. Poor Mama is worried about Miss Rose since all sorts of people have come in here asking if we've seen her. Mama answered for us both – telling them I'd been asleep when she stepped out to get something to eat and asleep when she returned. Mama is very salty with these white people because of where they put me. If it weren't absolutely positively necessary to get my tonsils out we wouldn't be apt to put up with this humiliation, she keeps telling anyone who comes to visit. And this in a Catholic hospital, she'll say in her over-the-moon voice. "Catholics."

More So ...
Sister Slaps People Till They're Black and Blue has been in the room four times. I play possum. Mama is sleeping in the chair by my bed. Daddy will relieve her and keep watch over me tonight. In our family we always stay the night with the patient. Mama says if the hospital people don't see you caring for your people they'll do even less to help you. And sometimes the hospital can make you sicker than you were before you got there. I know that's how I feel. This whole experience is not at all what I read about and looked forward to. I'd like to take that tonsillectomy book and rip the pages out one by one or rename it: The Biggest Fattest Lie Ever Told.

It’s Really Late
Rose was snoring. I had to wake her up before she woke up Mama. Getting her to come out from under my bed was no easy job. I gave her a napkin and pointed to my chin. I shook my head “no, not there” and then she shook her head no, and I just took the napkin from her because we didn't have time for all this playing around – she knew what I was trying to get her to do. So I took the napkin and wiped the spit off her mouth myself. Rose grabbed my wrist and shut her eyes tight, tight, tight. Then she opened them and went straight to her bed.

Evening Has Fallen
You would have thought President Johnson was in town the way folks reacted when word got around that Rose was back in her room.

Mother Superior, with her jangling keys, came straight to me and asked me if I knew anything about Rose. She can't talk, I told her, and she can't hear either. Mother Superior wanted to shoot me. I could tell. So I told her that Rose was distraught after Sister Euphemia hauled off and slapped the living daylights out of her and started crying. I didn't have to say a word after that so I didn't have to lie and I didn't have to give up Rose. Before I learned from Mrs. Perfect English (Mama) I would have said I didn't have to give Rose up. Which to me still sounds better, even if it's not acceptable in our house.

May 20
I'm going home today! Yeah! Yippee! Daddy already took the flowers people sent me to the car. Rose has been silent all morning. She won't even look my way. I want to pitch my jigsaw puzzle into the garbage, God knows I hate that thing. But I don't want to hurt Daddy's feelings. He got it from Pryce's Drug Store and Dr. Ulric will want to know how I did with it. He's the only person I know whose name begins with a "u." Me, I like Zs. I'm going to name my children Z names. X is downright too crazy, but Z is very nice, it falls softly, Z ... very alluring. Zelphia. That’s my great-grandmother's name. Kind of country that ... but still very nice.

May 23
Houston Gerald, that’s Mama’s favorite godchild, except he’s a man, not a child, is staying with us for two weeks for R&R (that’s rest and recuperation). He can play the piano like Rachmaninoff. He’s tall and handsome to the ninth degree. He has very good manners and a suitcase full of cold creams and stuff. He irons his shirts better than Mrs. Handy, our ironing lady, does Daddy’s shirts. And he taught me how to make blintzes. That’s the thinnest pancake you ever want to eat, just don’t let him hear you calling them pancakes.

He has become good friends with Mr. Wells, my piano teacher, who acts as though he will lie down in the middle of the street and pray for a car to run over him when I hit a wrong note. I used to have a crush on him when I first started lessons with him. I emphasize “used to”! Anyway, Mr. Wells has a sister named Jersey. Mama and Daddy keep telling Houston Gerald to spend some time with Jersey. “You need female company,” they say. Jersey thinks she’s foxy. I can just tell. There’s not a mirror around that she has not lingered on or done a double take like in the picture shows. And she walks like she’s in the movies, too. She plays piano, but can’t stand to teach people who are not serious. How would she know unless she taught them? I think she’s too fast for Houston Gerald. Nobody asked me what I thought, but if they did that is what I’d tell them. Plus she hides smoking a cigarette. She’s a grown lady, why is she hiding? Now when Mr. Wells is sick or something she will very reluctantly take his place; she doesn’t give a green fig what I play. Jersey will even leave the room and let me hit all the wrong notes I want. “Yeah, good,” she’ll say, “keep practicing, I’ll be right back. Start on Valse Bleu, I’ll be right back.” Back door opens, car in the driveway starts. I’m at the picture window looking at her back out. I find a Glamour or McCall’s and read until I hear her coming back. I wonder what Houston Gerald is in need of R&R from? •