Free Sister Slam and the Poetic Motormouth Road Trip by Linda Oatman-High

asked.
    â€œTemporary
    carsick-chick insanity,”
    said Twig. “You know
    we’re superglued at the hips,
    and at the hearts, too.”
    I tried to smile.
    â€œShould we take a bus
    to Banesville?”
    Twig suggested.
    â€œOr maybe it’d be best
    to take the train.”
    Shaky, quaking, scared awake,
    I called Jake, even though it was late,
    to get his advice.
    â€œSit tight,” he said.
    â€œI’ll be right there.”
    Jake must have raced, and his
    face was pasty white when
    he squealed and peeled
    to the curb, then leaped up
    the steps six at a time.
    â€œOh, my God.
    You have hives!” he said,
    touching my neck.
    I was a wreck,
    stressed breathless.
    â€œI’m glad you’re here,”
    I blubbered, then collapsed
    into Jake’s strong embrace.
    He stroked my face.
    â€œIt’ll be okay.
    We’ll pray, okay?
    No way that it won’t be
    okay,” Jake said.
    â€œYeah,” Twig agreed.
    â€œPops is strong.
    Nothing will go wrong.”
    â€œLet’s roll,” Jake said, taking
    control, which was my goal.
    We piled into Jake’s
    car and started
    on the far drive home,
    leaving the neon
    lights and taxi traffic
    of the city behind.
    In the dismal darkness
    of the Lincoln Tunnel,
    I blew my nose
    on a paper napkin
    I’d found on the floor
    of Jake’s car.
    â€œThanks for coming
    with me, you two,” I said.
    â€œWe’d be maggots
    not to go with you,”
    Jake said,
    and he reached
    over and squeezed
    my hand.
    â€œThis is what friends
    are for: to stick with
    you when life sucks,” Twig said.
    â€œLife does suck on
    occasion,” I said.
    When I was nine,
    and Pops told me
    that Mom had died,
    I’d thrown myself
    on my bed, hopeless and angry,
    banging my head
    and wishing that I were dead
    instead of her. I wore
    Mom’s flowered nightgown
    that night, and about a thousand
    nights after,
    holding tight to the scent of Mom.
    â€œIf Pops dies,” I said, “I won’t be able
    to handle it. It’ll kill me.
    I can’t go through it again.”
    We each melted
    into our seat-belted selves
    and rode in eerie silence
    until the knifelike
    sharp lights of the hospital
    whittled holes in the sky,
    carving, cutting through darkness,
    as I hoped with all my breath
    that my pops wasn’t dead.

Lesson 21
Never Let Doctors Blame You for Their Patients’ Problems
    It smelled like
    Lysol and dying
    flesh and wet diapers
    in intensive care,
    where defenseless
    people have to wear
    those senseless gowns
    that are all open down
    the back, exposing
    butt cracks and stuff.
    It was bad enough
    that Pops was in
    the hospital,
    but seeing him sleeping
    in that dress—
    pale and helpless—
    made me catch
    my breath.
    It felt like
    death, and
    hearses, and I
    accidentally
    cursed at a
    nurse clomping
    past, chomping
    on Starbursts.
    â€œQuiet! Holy
    hell! Can’t you
    tell people are
    trying to sleep
    in this bleepin’
    place?” I raged.
    Then I felt like
    an imbecile, because
    I made more noise
    than the nurse.
    Pops opened his eyes.
    â€œLaura,” he whispered,
    his words a wisp.
    â€œBaby. I was going
    crazy, waiting.”
    I cracked, and fritters of Sister Slam
    fell in fragments to the hospital bed.
    I kissed Pops’s
    creased cheeks
    nineteen times each,
    weeping like a freaking idiot.
    Pops’s face was tinted
    ghostly Coast-soap
    blue, and I didn’t
    have a clue
    what he was hooked
    up to.
    An IV, beeping machines,
    a tangled
    ivylike vine
    of wires, and lights
    like fires burning were all
    connected to Pops.
    There was a
    lighted road map
    of his heart
    on a screen.
    The room was dim,
    and we were lit
    by the red lights
    of Pop’s broken heart.
    The old geezer
    Doctor Proctor
    (known by everybody
    in Banesville)
    was wearing cruddy green
    scrubs with
    red blood blotches,
    and he was crotchety.
    â€œThe surgery went fine,”
    he snapped. Then he gave