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TRAPPED ON PLANET LISKA
(Release Date: March 13, 2006)
1
Midnight, Sunday, 4 April 1999 – Toronto, Canada
“NO!”
The outburst jarred me awake.
Midnight!
Mom and Dad were arguing … again!
“But we have to tell her,” said Dad.
“No! Not, yet,” said Mom.
“Why wait?” said Dad.
“Think, David. Can you imagine what telling her would do to her?”
“We’ve prolonged it enough,” said Dad. “It’s time she found out.”
“What about her feelings … her schooling … her friends? Have you bothered to consider any of that?”
“I have, Clara, believe me, I have. There are other schools, and I dare say her friends will get over it … she will too. That’s life and this is my opportunity.”
“How can you be so inconsiderate?” said Mom.
“Let’s not argue about this anymore. I’ll break the news to her in the morning. That’s final.”
“Whatever you say, David, who am I to argue?”
I buried my head under my pillow to stop the crazy images forming in my head, and to muffle the gasping sounds I made as I wept. Was it because of me that my parents were going to divorce? (They hadn’t said the word, but that had to be why they were arguing.) Somehow, I would have to prevent Dad from telling me this shocking news. Somehow, I would have to prevent them from making a dreadful mistake.
Somehow….
Rays of sunlight, dancing a persistent jig on my face, woke me on the morning I dreaded—the morning Dad would break his bad news. People divorced every day, even Christians. It seemed the easy thing to do.
“I’ll dash off to school before Dad has a chance to talk to me.” I swung my legs off the bed with solid determination. “Ouch!”
A severe pain shooting through my body, flung me back against my pillow. I broke out in cold sweat, my breathing raspy. I felt as if a bulldozer was squashing my chest. I ached all over and struggled to cough. Perhaps it would pass if I rested for a second or two.
I must have remained in bed longer than I should, because Mom and Dad charged into my room.
“Leslie, darling, you’d better get up or you’ll be late for school,” said Mom, with a broad smile. How could she be so happy, knowing Dad was going to dump her?
“I don’t feel well. My insides are on fire.”
“Darling,” said Mom, “what’s the matter?”
“Probably the stomach bug,” said Dad.
“Poisoned,” I whispered.
Mom touched my forehead. “You’re burning up. You must have caught the flu.”
“It’s the twenty-four hour stomach bug,” Dad insisted. “My secretary was off sick last Friday.”
I have never had the flu, not even the common cold, and I certainly hadn’t swallowed any stomach bugs. “I’ve been poisoned,” I insisted.
“Don’t talk daft,” said Dad, his Welsh accent strong.
“I need my stomach suctioned. Can we use the vacuum cleaner?”
“You’ll be fine.” Dad kissed me. “I have to go … important meeting at the office.”
Good, I thought, no awful divorce news!
“Get dressed, Leslie,” said Mom. “We’re going to see Dr Sharples.”
Dr Bridget Sharples was our family physician. She was still single at fifty and remarkably beautiful in spite of the big black mole at the end of her nose. Faint crow-lines formed at the side of her eyes when she smiled. She was tall like Mom. Her ash-blonde hair was short and straight; Mom’s was long and wavy. She was more of a family friend than a doctor.
Her three examining rooms were painted in different colors—soft yellow (for adult patients), cornflower blue (for boys), and dusty pink (for girls). I sat on the examining table in the pink room, praying that she would crash through the white Colonial door and announce that I was as healthy as a prize pig at a farm auction and that there was no need to examine me.
Of course, that didn’t happen. She poked, prodded, and popped a thermometer into my mouth. She made me say “aaaaah” when she stuck a wooden paddle down my throat.
“Oh dear … tut tut … not good … oh my … this is not good at all!” She gibbered, shaking her head.
With my tongue still depressed, I said, “Daaa Shaables, ah ai gon ta dah?”
She didn’t answer. Maybe she couldn’t understand my garbled question.
“I’m done. You can get dressed, Leslie. I’ll have a chat with your Mom.” She breezed out of the room.
I hauled on my clothes, while staring into the mirror and saying “Aaaahhh.” I couldn’t see anything suspicious on my tongue and it was hard trying to peer down my gullet because my tonsils were in the way. I poked my index finger down my throat hoping to disgorge whatever was in my stomach. I gagged, but nothing came up. Tears spilled down my cheeks. I was hacking like a smoker with congested lungs when the door flew open. Dr Sharples, with her stethoscope dangling from her neck, and a manila file folder clutched in one hand, returned with Mom in tow.
“Are you hungry, Leslie?” Dr Sharples leaned against the examining table and laid the folder beside her.
“Hungry?” I blew my snotty nose into a tissue, before wiping the tears with the back of my hand. The thought of food turned my stomach. “No, I don’t feel much like food, Doc. I just want my stomach pumped.”
Dr Sharples laughed. “You haven’t been poisoned, dear. You’ll be relieved to know that you’re not going to die, either. You have all the symptoms—slight fever; runny nose; cough; decrease in appetite; headache—of chicken pox.”
Relieved? I was glad I wasn’t poisoned, but chicken pox? It served me right for playing nurse to my friend Ingrid’s baby sister two weeks ago. All the same, this was enough to stall Mom and Dad’s divorce plans.
I screwed up my face. “Spots! I’ll be marked for life … like a Dalmatian. Dr Sharples, are you sure I’m stricken with this infantile disease? This doesn’t happen to twelve-year-olds, does it?”
“Would it make you feel better if I told you I was forty-three when I had chicken pox?”
“Not really. I’m almost a teenager; I’ll be left with horrible marks all over my face and body.”
Dr Sharples laughed. “Not necessarily. Not if you resist the urge to scratch.”
At the mention of the word, I felt like doing just that.
“Mom, why did this have to happen to me … now?” My eyes watered. “Wasn’t I immunized as a baby?”
“I’m sorry, honey. You never caught childhood illnesses before; I thought you had a natural immunity.”
“But why chicken pox? Why couldn’t it have been my appendix?”
“Leslie, think of it as a holiday.” Dr Sharples hugged me. “You’ll have to be quarantined for at least seven days. That means no school!”
That bit I liked.
“Unfortunately, within the next day or so, red spots will appear on your body. I have instructions written down for you and your mom to follow. Just remember, no scratching—no marks. I’m sorry I don’t have better news.” Dr Sharples picked up her file.
“Yeah, me too!” I inhaled deeply, determined not to let the tears fall.
“Oh, and I might add, enjoy your dreams, in particular.” Dr Sharples winked.
Now that was a peculiar thing to say. Did people with chicken pox have unusual dreams? I was still pondering this as Mom started the car engine.
“Mom, did you ever have chicken pox?”
“Yes, dear … when I was four.”
“And did you have strange dreams?”
“Strange dreams? No honey, I don’t think so. Why?”
“Dr Sharples said I should enjoy my dreams.”
“She was just trying to be cheerful. I’m sure she meant nothing by that.”
But I wasn’t so sure!
“What does a girl with chicken pox do for seven days?”
“You can help me edit the new novel I’m writing … or you can read … watch your favorite videos … learn to sew. Whatever pleases you.”
“I don’t feel up to any of those things, Mom.”
“I know just the kind of books you’d enjoy.”
Mom stopped at the bookstore and bought The Chronicles of Narnia series. I was glad she didn’t mention the divorce. Maybe she was waiting for Dad to tell me. She looked so peaceful and happy, it was hard to believe she could be concealing something so devastating. Maybe she was in denial.
Tucked up in bed that night, I decided to read the first book in the Narnia series. When my eyelids began to close, I put the book down. “Please, God, don’t let too many spots appear,” I whispered, before drifting off to sleep.
By Tuesday afternoon, horrible red spots popped out everywhere. Luckily, only four materialized on my face, and one of those was just above my top lip. I prayed that they would completely disappear by the time I returned to school.
That night, I had a troubling dream. I dreamt that I was standing in the playground of a school I did not recognize, watching kids of my age, none of whom I recognized. I saw a boy, who looked like Porky Pig snatch another boy’s lunch box. Pretending that he was going to eat the boy’s lunch, Porky laughed, then emptied the lunch box into the garbage can. Three girls, whose faces I could not see, joined Porky. Together they taunted the boy. The boy looked helpless, and I could tell he was trying not to cry. I’m sure if he were bigger in size, there would have been a fight. One of the girls stuck a “kick me” sign on the boy’s back.
“STOP BEEING SUUUCH BULLLIES,” I yelled. My voice sounded like a tape recorder with weak batteries. I tried to run towards the bullies, but my legs felt heavy and sluggish. The bullies were charging into the building, dragging the boy between them. I followed, but when I reached their classroom, they had shut the door. I grabbed the doorknob. That’s when I awoke, sweating and angry. I wished I could have helped the unfortunate boy.
I spent most of Wednesday re-reading The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, paying attention to how the children got into Narnia to help the people. They climbed into an old wardrobe they found in an old house, and tumbled out the back into the strange land. I thought about Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. She was delirious. She clicked the heels of her red shoes, and found herself in that other world. She helped the people of Oz. But that only happened in books; I wasn’t delirious, didn’t have a pair of red shoes, nor did I live in an old house with a magic wardrobe.
After dinner (which was chicken soup, for me), I told Mom I wanted to go to bed early because I itched. She made me take a warm baking-soda bath then rubbed me down with Bacitracin ointment. I put on my blue, flannel nightdress with white polka dots, and a pair of Mom’s cotton gloves, to make sure I couldn’t scratch my chicken-pox sores. I snuggled under the bedcovers.
Sleep was instant. The dream about the young boy returned, but this time when I followed the bullies into the building, I was suddenly alone in the corridor. The coolness of the musty air made my face tingle. The closed classroom door was only two steps away. I looked over my shoulder at the rows of orange lockers lined up against the walls like soldiers, ready for battle. Rain splashed against the window at the end of the corridor. I covered the last two steps and placed my hand on the doorknob. Were the bullies waiting to pounce as soon as I entered? I turned the knob and pushed the door but …
I awoke!
This made me angry.
I flipped onto my right side, determined to recapture the dream … and control it. I would insist on opening that door. I would grab Porky by the scruff of the neck and give his behind a good hard slap, before hanging him on a coat hook to remedy his behavior. While he begged for mercy, I would make him apologize to the young boy. Yes, that’s what I would do because Porky made me so angry. With this conviction, I drifted off to sleep.
The dream resumed.…
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