To distract herself, she thought about James. And f or som e reason what came to mind was the first time she'd seen James, the day he came to kindergarten. He'd been a pale, slight boy with big gray eyes and something subtly weird about him that made the bigger boys start picking on him immediately. On the playground they ganged up on him like hounds around a fox-until Poppy saw what was happening.
Even at five she'd had a great right hook. She'd burst into the group, slapping faces and kicking shins until the big boys went running. Then she'd turned to James.
"Wanna be friends?"
After a brief hesitation he'd nodded shyly. There had been something oddly sweet in his smile.
But Poppy had soon found that her new friend was strange in small ways. When the class lizard died, he'd picked up the corpse without revulsion and asked Poppy if she wanted to hold it. The teacher had been horrified.
He knew where to find dead animals, too-he'd shown her a vacant lot where several rabbit carcasses lay in the tall brown grass. He was matter-of-fact about it.
When he got older, the big kids stopped picking on him. He grew up to be as tall as any of them, and surprisingly strong and quick-and he developed a reputation for being tough and dangerous. When he got angry, something almost frightening shone in his gray eyes.
He never got angry with Poppy, though. They'd remained best friends all these years. When they'd reached junior high, he'd started having girlfriends all the girls at school wanted him but he never kept any of them long. And he never confided in them; to them he was a mysterious, secretive bad boy. Only Poppy saw the other side of him, the vulnerable, caring side.
"Okay," the technician said, bringing Poppy back to the present with a jerk. "You're done; let's wipe this jelly off you."
"So what did it show?" Poppy asked, glancing up at the monitor.
"Oh, your own doctor will tell you that. The radiologist will read the results and call them over to your doctor's office." The technician's voice was absolutely neutral-so neutral that Poppy looked at her sharply.
Back in Dr. Franklin's office, Poppy fidgeted while her mother paged through out-of-date magazines. When the nurse said
"Mrs. Hilgard," they both stood up.
"Uh-no," the n urse sa id, looking flustered. "Mrs. Hilgard, the doctor just wants to see you for a minut e-alone."
Poppy and her mot her l ooked at each other. Then, slowly, Poppy's mother put down her People magazine and followed the nurse.
Poppy stared after her.
Now, what on earth . . . Dr. Franklin had never done that before.
Poppy realized that her heart was beating hard. Not fast, just hard. Bang ... bang ... bang, in the middle of her chest, shaking her insides. Making her feel unreal and giddy.
Don't think about it. It's probably nothing. Read a magazine.
But her finge rs d idn't seem to work properly. When she finally got the magazine open, her eyes ran over the words without delivering them to her brain.
What are they talking about in there? What's going on? It's been so long....
It kept getting longer. As Poppy waited, she found herself vacillating between two modes of thought. 1) Nothing serious was wrong with her and her mother was going to come out and laugh at her for even imagining there was, and 2) Something awful was wrong with her and she was going to have to go through some dreadful treatment to get well. The covered pit and the open pit. When the pit was covered, it seemed laughable, and she felt embarrassed for having such melodramatic thoughts. But when it was open, she felt as if all her life before this had been a dream, and now she was hitting hard reality at last.
I wish I could call James, she thought.
At last the nurse said, "Poppy? Come on in."
Dr. Franklin's office was wood-paneled, with certificates and diplomas hanging on the walls. Poppy sat down in a leather chair and tried not to be too obv iou s about scanning her mother's face.
Her mother looked ... too calm. Calm with strain underneath.
She was smiling, but it was an odd, slightly unsteady smile.
Oh, God, Poppy thought. Something is going on.
"Now, there's no cause for alarm," the doctor said, and immediately Poppy became more alarmed. Her palms stuck to the leather of the chair arms.
"Something showed up in your sonogram that's a little unusual, and I'd like to do a couple of other tests," Dr. Franklin said, his voice slow and measure d, so othing. "One of the tests requires that you fast from midnight the day before you take it. But your mom says you didn't eat breakfast today."
Poppy said mechanically, "I ate one Frosted Flake."
"One Frosted Flake? Well, I think we can count that as fasting.
We'll do the tests today, and I think it's best to admit you to the hospital for them. Now, the tests are called a CAT scan and an ERCP-that's short for something even I can't pronounce." He smiled. Poppy just stared at him.
"There's nothing frightening about either of these tests," he said gently. "The CAT scan is like an X ray. The ERCP involves passing a tube down the throat, through the stomach, and into the pancreas. Then we inject into the tube a liquid that will show up on X rays."
His m outh kept moving, but Poppy had stopped hearing the words. She was more frightened than she could remember being in a long time.
I was just joking about the interesting scar, she thought. I don't want a real disease. I don't want to go to the hospital, and I don't want any tubes down my throat.
She lo oked at her mother in mute appeal. Her mother took her hand.
"It's no big deal, sweetheart. We'll just go home and pack a few things for you; then we'll come back." "I have to go into the hospital today?"
"I think that would be best," Dr. Franklin said.
Poppy's hand tightened on her mother's. Her mind was a humming blank.
When they left the office, her mother said, "Thank you, Owen." Poppy had never heard her call Dr. Franklin by his first name before.
Poppy didn't ask why. She didn't say anything as they walked out of the building and got in the car. As they drove home, her mother began to chat about ordinary things in a light, calm voice, and Poppy made herself answer. Pretending that everything was normal, while all the time the terrible sick feeling raged inside her.
It was only when they were in her bedroom, packing mystery books and cotton pajamas into a sm all suitcase, that she asked almost ca sually, "So what exactly does he think is wrong with me?"