Room 555 Page 2

  “You must be our new volunteer. It’s been a long time since we’ve had any volunteers up here. And an even longer time since we’ve had anyone your age. I am excited. It’s a great way to introduce a young person to the life of a hospital. So do you want to be a doctor or a nurse?”

  “Hi. I…well…I like to dance.” OMG. How lame is that response? “What I mean is…I like to dance and wanted to volunteer at our local dance studio. But I kind of missed the deadline for handing in my application.” I try to laugh, hoping she finds me charming.

  Patricia’s smile gets bigger. “Not to worry. We will try not to scare you off then! Why don’t we start out slow? You can begin with the magazines. You see that rolling shelf over there?” My eyes follow her pointing finger to a small gray cart piled high with books and magazines. I nod while she continues. “You can go room to room and ask the patients if they would like anything to read. It’s a great way to introduce yourself too. I find it helps if you spend a few moments connecting with each of the patients. Most of them love getting visitors. And they won’t bite—I promise!”

  I feel my whole body relax. I can totally handle giving magazines out to people. No big deal. “Sounds good,” I say. “So are these people sick or recovering from surgeries or broken bones or what?”

  “Well, this is the geriatric ward. This is where senior citizens get appropriate support for their health issues. Those issues vary from patient to patient.” Patricia smiles and turns back to the computer. “Off you go then. We’ll see you back here in an hour.”

  Senior citizens. Old people who have issues. Like my gram.

  I turn around and march right back to the elevator. I push the Down button over and over, until it beeps and the door opens. As I step in, I look back. Patricia is watching me. I’m sure she must be disappointed. I haven’t even give the position a chance. But the panic racing through my body makes it hard to think clearly.

  The door closes. I slump against the wall of the elevator. On the third floor a couple gets on. They have just been visiting their mom and clearly don’t want to leave.

  “I wish I could stay with her all day,” says the man.

  “She must feel so lonely,” says the woman.

  I think about Gram. She is alone most of the time at the seniors’ home. Mom and Dad both work, and Jordan and I are at school. Dad usually goes to see her after work a few times during the week, but the whole family only visits on Sundays. The last time I visited was so long ago. I can’t even remember what Gram and I did.

  My chest heaves as we reach the main floor.

  Instead of leaving the elevator, I step back as new people get on. With my elbow, I nudge a dude who is invading my personal space. He’s not much older than me. He gets out at the fourth floor, but not before turning around and giving me an evil glare. I want to stick out my tongue at him, but don’t want to seem juvenile. So I just raise my eyebrows and shrug.

  The next floor is my stop. As I step out, Patricia looks up and smiles. I manage to give a weak smile back. I grab the gray cart and then head down the hall to the left. The first room I enter smells funny. I try not to imagine what is causing the odor. The old man in the first bed is asleep, snoring loudly. The second bed is empty, but the sheets and blankets are pulled back. Maybe the person will want something to read when they return. I plop a Popular Mechanics on the pillow.

  I continue down the hall to the next room. I have to plug my nose this time. It smells like someone peed the bed. An elderly woman in one of the beds is crumpled up in the sheets. Her eyes are open, but she is just staring at the ceiling. I can’t tell if she is alive. She doesn’t blink and doesn’t look my way when the wheels of the cart squeak.

  I rush out of the room so fast, I bang the cart against the door. This scares the person in the other bed, who moans as if in severe pain or scared to death. I don’t wait to find out. I scramble out of there and almost run into a man in the hall who is pushing a walker. His wrinkled butt is showing. I avert my eyes and head for the next room so I don’t have to see him shuffle down the hall.

  The only thing I notice before I roll into the next room is that the sign on the door says ROOM 555.

  Chapter Five

  As my heart rate slows down, I scan the room. I see two people in their beds. The bathroom door is propped open, and beyond it I spot a chair and table with flowers and cards. The curtains are open, letting light into the room. I guess that’s why the last room scared me so much. The curtains were closed, and it was dark. This room almost seems welcoming.

  I push the cart in and notice that the woman in the first bed is doing some kind of exercise with her arms. She holds them at chest level and lets them sway out to one side and then across to the other. She sees me and drops her arms.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Oh, you didn’t startle me. I’m just not ready to show off my dance moves yet.”

  “Dance moves?” I ask as I roll the cart up beside her bed.

  She grins and leans toward me, as though she has a deep secret to share. “Yes. The ladies and I are getting ready for our Winter Showcase, and I don’t want to let them down. I plan to be ready to dance, even if it kills me.” Then she laughs again. I notice that the lower part of her left leg is not covered by a blanket. It’s wrapped in a brace. Her ankle looks swollen and red. She tries to lift her leg and winces with pain.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Shush. Of course I’m okay. Didn’t I just say I have some pretty hot dance moves to work on?”

  I don’t have the heart to tell her that the swaying she was doing did not look like any dance moves I have ever seen. She motions for me to come even closer. Her breath smells like fruit. There’s a glass of cranberry juice on her bedside table.

  “Did you see my physio therapist out there? I’ve been buzzing for him all day. They wrapped my ankle all wrong again. Look at it. It shouldn’t be like that.” It does look like the part of the brace around the ankle is twisted in an awkward way.

  “He says he used to be a ballet dancer,” the woman adds. “But don’t tell anyone. I think it’s a secret.” She grins again and then points at my cart. “What have you got there? Any poetry? Anything other than how-to books?”

  I haven’t really looked at the cart’s contents yet, so I can’t answer. I survey the top shelf. A few fashion and recipe magazines, but others are definitely the how-to type. The books on the lower shelf of the cart don’t look that interesting either.

  “Sorry, I don’t think there’s much here that would be interesting for you.” I think we have some old magazines in our garage she might like. I will try to remember to bring them in next time. “What kind of dance were you doing just now?” I ask.

  “Ah, you liked it, didn’t you?”

  I shrug.

  “It’s belly dancing. I’ve been doing it for years. And a smashed ankle isn’t going to stop me now.” She moves her leg like she is going to do a dance move but cringes with pain and rolls her head back down to her pillow. She waves me away. I don’t know what to say.

  The second bed has another woman, curled up asleep. There is a book open on her chest. It looks like it’s about World War II.

  “I…well…I have to go now. I hope… you feel better.”

  As I leave the room, I look at the names listed near the doorway. The dancing woman is either Jasmine or Yolanda. I finish my volunteer duties and head home.

  “Mom, do you remember where that pile of old magazines is? I couldn’t see them in the garage.”

  “Oh, I think your dad finally recycled them. Why? School project?”

  “No, my volunteer thing. Do we have any books of poetry?”

  “Not here, but there are plenty at work. Do you want me to pick up anything in particular?”

  “Nope. Just anything that has to do with poetry. Thanks.” My mom works at the library, so she has access to pretty much anything. I thought about asking her to get a book on belly
dancing but then decided it would be way faster to look it up on the internet. So after dinner I clear the table and do the dishes, then head to my room. Instead of working on my dance moves, I get sucked into belly-dance sites.

  I watch several clips on YouTube. Women in bright costumes are swaying their hips and doing wave movements with their arms. Sometimes they look like a moving ocean. Other times, when they raise their arms above their heads, they look like a live snake or a bird. The dancers do a lot of flicks and kicks with their legs. I think about the lady in room 555. How can she possibly do all this with a crushed ankle?

  I finally get off the computer and try to work on my routine. But all I can think about is what would happen if I got injured. How would I walk? How would I dance?

  Chapter Six

  On Wednesday after school I go with Kira to her volunteer session at the dance studio. I thought I would hang out in the reception area until she is done. But when she gets called away for something, I go exploring. I have never taken any formal dance lessons. I mostly watch dance shows on TV and loads of YouTube videos to get ideas. So I am super impressed with what I see through the windows of each studio.

  The first one has five little girls and one boy doing ballet. When they slide down into the splits, I have to laugh. That move took me a long time to master because I’m not naturally flexible. I had to train my muscles. These kids do it without even thinking about it.

  The next room is full of a bunch of girls about my age. The sign on the door says Jazz. I watch the girls do a lot of complicated steps with jumps and raised arms. They look like they’re enjoying moving to the music, but it’s not really my thing.

  The last room has two guys and a girl doing hip hop. I am mesmerized by them. There are at least three moves I have never seen before. I try to copy them as they repeat their steps over and over.

  “Cool,” says Kira. She’s come to join me at the window.

  “Do you think we can add something like that to our routine?” I ask.

  “We can try! How about we meet tomorrow after school?”

  “Can’t. Have to do my volunteer hours.”

  “Oh, right. Well, we’ll find a time. But I better get back to my shift. See you at school tomorrow?”

  “Sure,” I answer. I’m not really ready to leave the studio yet, but I don’t want Kira to get in trouble. So I head home and try to recreate the moves I saw in the studio. They are like a mix of stop-and-drops, with big arm crosses. But they are super-fluid moves. When I watched the girl at the studio do it, her back was arched and her head was closer to the floor. I try three times and lose my balance and fall to the floor every time. This is going to take some work!

  The next morning I remind Mom that I have my volunteer shift at the hospital after school.

  “Oh, right! I checked out a few books for you to take with you. But you are responsible for returning them by the due date.”

  “Okay, Mom. What did you get?”

  “Well, I wasn’t sure what you wanted, so I chose a few different ones. John Keats, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Robert Frost. How’s that sound?”

  “Great, thanks,” I say as she digs out the books from her library bag. I’ve never heard of any of the poets, but I hope the woman in room 555 has. I look at the stack in my arms. I realize there are four books. One is about Emily Carr. She’s a painter.

  “Mom, why’d you get this one?”

  “Oh, you know how your Gram loved painting? Well, one of her favorite artists is Emily Carr. I thought you might like to read up on her so you two have something to talk about. What do you think? Maybe you can join us this Sunday?”

  I don’t know why the idea freaks me out so much. I don’t answer Mom. I jump up from the table, grabbing the poetry books and stuffing them in my backpack. I swing the pack over my shoulder and head for the door. I hear Mom call out, “Have a great day!”

  I still don’t reply. I’m worried that if I do, all the words in my head will come flying out. I want to tell my mom I can’t go see Gram on Sunday. I don’t think I could handle it if Gram doesn’t remember me. I don’t think I can handle watching Gram get weaker and weaker.

  Of course, it’s pouring rain outside. At least it makes the tears running down my face less obvious. When I get to school, I keep my mind off Gram by really paying attention in my classes. Something I never do.

  I’m surprised to realize I’m looking forward to heading to the hospital for my shift. I hope the woman in room 555 likes the books I’m bringing for her. We have to write about our volunteer experiences, so I have decided I will focus on her.

  I don’t bother with the cart when I step off the elevator. I just head straight to room 555.

  Chapter Seven

  The two women are chatting with each other as I enter the room. The first time I met her, the belly dancer’s hair was a mess. This time she is sitting up in bed, and her blond hair is curled. She has some light makeup on, almost as if she was expecting a special visitor.

  “Oh, hello again,” she says. “I was just talking with Yolanda. Did you know she was a bomb girl during the war? She worked in Ontario with explosives. Such a dangerous job! Isn’t that amazing?”

  I guess it is pretty cool. But I don’t say that—I just nod.

  The woman pats her bed for me to come closer. “I’m Jasmine,” she says. “I didn’t catch your name last time.”

  “My name is Roonie, short for Macaroon. My grandmother gave me that nickname, and it stuck.”

  “Roonie! I love it. And I’d like to meet this lady. She sounds pretty smart!”

  I smile at Jasmine’s words, but my heart sinks. She can’t meet Gram. Gram is in the care home. Jasmine doesn’t look too mobile right now, either. But somehow, her words comfort me. She is right. She and Gram would probably get along. She seems as youthful as my gram was before she got sick.

  “And what do you have there?” Jasmine asks, looking at the books tucked under my arm.

  I hand her the three books of poetry. She lights up. “Ah, Coleridge is one of my favorites. How did you know?”

  “I didn’t. My mom picked them up at the library. I have to return them or she will be after me. So please don’t lose them.”

  “Oh, I won’t. They are precious books, and I will take care of them. Thank you for doing this, Roonie.” Jasmine turns to the bomb girl. “Yolanda, isn’t she a good girl?”

  I cringe at the words. Yolanda nods.

  “So, Roonie, tell me more about yourself. What do you like to do? What are you passionate about? What makes you happiest?”

  I kind of love her questions. They allow me to go right to my favorite thing. “Well, I am really into hip-hop dancing.” To demonstrate, I do a jolting chest pop. I think it is the best one I have done yet. Too bad it wasn’t caught on camera.

  “Hmmm,” Jasmine says. “That looks very similar to something belly dancers do. Can you show me again? And what other kinds of moves do you do in hip hop?”

  “Well, there are a lot of freestyle moves, so you can’t really pin it down to one shape or one move.”

  “Kind of like poetry,” says Jasmine. “One dance might be like free verse and another like a Shakespearean sonnet. Would you say the style closest to your dance moves might be like… slam poetry?”

  Wow. I did not expect someone of this woman’s age to be so cool. I do a few shuffle-slide steps while pushing my arms down to the floor. When I look up, Jasmine is grinning.

  She sits up in her bed and tries the same arm moves. I want to laugh, because she actually isn’t bad. But I don’t want her to think I’m laughing at her, so I just smile. “Pretty good,” I say.

  “Well, maybe I should add that move to my daily routine! I have been doing my dance moves every day. Well, at least the upper-body motions. I am still struggling with my leg.”

  I look at her leg and am happy to see that the brace has been adjusted and is on properly now.

  “My therapist told me today that if I don’t feel any pa
in, there won’t be any gain. So he made me do my leg lifts with weights on. Well, look at how much my ankle has swollen now!”

  Yikes. Her ankle looks like a blood orange sticking out through the hole in the brace. Jasmine lifts the blanket and shows me the bruises all down her lower leg.

  “That’s not right,” I say. “Can’t you tell them it hurts?”

  “Well, I just want to get better and go home soon.”

  “I understand,” I say. “I hear the food isn’t so great.”

  “No, it isn’t. And it’s hard to sleep at night…” Jasmine drops her voice down to a whisper. “Yolanda snores. A lot!”

  I chuckle. I can relate. When we go camping in the summer in our tent trailer, I just about die. My dad snores so loudly, I am sure he keeps the whole campground awake.

  “Why can’t you go home now?”

  “I live down by the water, and there are too many stairs to climb to get to my house. And inside my home, I have to be able to manage three more sets of stairs. My bedroom is on the third floor. I can’t manage that right now, and I live by myself.”

  I feel a lump fill my throat, and it becomes tough to swallow. I would not want to be alone with a smashed ankle and hundreds of stairs to climb.

  “Can’t you get someone to help you?”

  “Well, I need to heal first. But I am making plans to move to another place soon. The only bad thing about that is, I won’t be able to see you anymore, Roonie.”

  “Aww. This is only our second time hanging out. But it does seem like we’ve known each other for longer.”

  “Enough of the mushy stuff,” Jasmine says. “Let me tell you about something funny that happened today.”

  Just then a nurse comes. She’s here for Yolanda. She looks at my badge and rolls the bed out into the hall. She puts her hand on my shoulder and says, “Thank you.”

  “Okay, are you ready for my story?” asks Jasmine.

  “Yup, but hang on one second.” I follow the nurse out and ask if I can get Jasmine an ice pack for her foot. The nurse points me in the direction of a small room. I pull an ice pack out of the freezer. When I give it to Jasmine, she smiles and nods for me to pull up a chair beside her bed. I slide it over and plop into it.