Another Big Event

10

Another Big Event

After the wedding, everyone felt let down, the way they always felt the day after Christmas, only worse. Nothing seemed interesting after so much excitement.

Grandpa Day had flown back to his sunshine and shuffleboard. Mr. Quimby was at work all day. Friends had gone off to camp, to the mountains, or the beach. Howie and Willa Jean had gone to visit their other grandmother.

“Girls, please stop moping around,” said Mrs. Quimby.

“We can’t find anything to do,” said Beezus.

Ramona was silent. If she complained, her mother would tell her to clean out her closet.

“Read a book,” said Mrs. Quimby. “Both of you, read a book.”

“I’ve read all my books a million times,” said Ramona, who usually enjoyed rereading her favorites.

“Then go to the library.” Mrs. Quimby was beginning to sound irritable.

“It’s too hot,” complained Ramona.

Mrs. Quimby glanced at her watch.

“Mother, are you expecting someone?” asked Ramona. “You keep looking at your watch.”

“I certainly am,” said her mother. “A stranger.” With a big sigh, Mrs. Quimby sank heavily to the couch, glanced at her watch again, and closed her eyes. The girls exchanged guilty looks. Their poor mother, worn out by Algie kicking her when there was so much of her to feel hot.

“Mother, are you all right?” Beezus sounded worried.

“I’m fine,” snapped Mrs. Quimby, which surprised the girls into behaving.

That evening, the sisters helped their mother put together a cold supper of tuna fish salad and sliced tomatoes. While the family was eating, Mr. Quimby told them that now that the “Hawaiian Holidays” sale with bar-gains in fresh pineapple and papaya had come to an end, all the ShopRite Markets were preparing for “Western Bar-b-q Week” with specials on steak, baked beans, tomato sauce, and chili. He planned to paint buck-ing broncos on the front windows.

Mrs. Quimby nibbled at her salad and glanced at her watch.

“And everybody will see your paintings,” said Ramona, happy that her father was now an artist as well as a market manager.

“Not quite the same as an exhibit in a museum,” said Mr. Quimby, who did not sound as happy as Ramona expected.

Mrs. Quimby pushed her chair farther from the table and glanced at her watch.

All eyes were on her.

“Shall I call the doctor?” asked Mr.

Quimby.

“Please,” said Mrs. Quimby as she rose from the table, hugged Algie, and breathed,

“Oo-oo.”

Ramona and Beezus, excited and frightened, looked at one another.At last! The fifth Quimby would soon be here. Nothing would be the same again, ever. Mr. Quimby reported that the doctor would meet them at the hospital. Without being asked, Beezus ran 170 for the bag her mother had packed several weeks ago.

Mrs. Quimby kissed her daughters.“Don’t look so frightened,” she said. “Everything is going to be all right. Be good girls, and Daddy will be home as soon as he can.” She bent forward and hugged Algie again.

The house suddenly seemed empty. The girls listened to the car back out of the driveway. The sound of the motor became lost in traffic.

“Well,” said Beezus, “I suppose we might as well do the dishes.”

“I suppose so.” Ramona tested all the doors, including the door to the basement, to make sure they were locked.

“Too bad Picky-picky isn’t here to eat all this tuna salad no one felt like eating.” Beezus scraped the plates into the garbage.

To her own surprise, Ramona burst into tears and buried her face in a dish towel. “I just want Mother to come home,” she wept.

Beezus wiped her soapy hands on the seat of her cutoff jeans. Then she put her arms around Ramona, something she had never done before.“Don’t worry, Ramona. Everything will be all right. Mother said so, and I remember when you came.” Ramona felt better. A big sister could be a comfort if she wanted to.

“You got born and Mother was fine.” Beezus handed Ramona a clean dish towel.

Minutes crawled by. The long Oregon dusk turned into night.The girls turned on the television set to a program about people in a hospital, running, shouting, giving orders.

Quickly they turned it off. “I hope Aunt Bea and Uncle Hobart are all right,” said Ramona. The girls longed for their loving aunt, who was cheerful in times of trouble and who was always there when the family needed her. Now she was in a truck, riding 173 along the Canadian Highway to Alaska.

Ramona thought about bears, mean bears.

She wondered if two pairs of white shoes still danced from the bumper of the truck.

The ring of the telephone made Ramona feel as if arrows of electricity had shot through her stomach as Beezus ran to answer.

“Oh.” There was disappointment in Beezus’s voice.“All right, Daddy. No. No, we don’t mind.” When the conversation ended, she turned to Ramona, who was wild for news, and said, “Algie is taking his time.

Daddy wants to stay with Mom and wanted to be sure we didn’t mind staying alone. I said we didn’t, and he said we were brave girls.” “Oh,” said Ramona, who longed for her father’s return.“Well, I’m brave, I guess.” Even though the evening was unusually warm, she closed all the windows.

“I suppose we should go to bed,” said Beezus. “If you want, you can get in bed with me.”

“We better leave lights on for Daddy.” Ramona turned on the porch light, as well as all the lights in the living room and hall, before she climbed into her sister’s bed.

“So Daddy won’t fall over anything,” she explained.

“Good idea,” agreed Beezus. Each sister knew the other felt safer with the lights on.

“I hope Algie will hurry,” said Ramona.

“So do I,” agreed Beezus.

The girls slept lightly until the sound of a key in the door awoke them. “Daddy?” Beezus called out.

“Yes.” Mr. Quimby came down the hall to the door of Beezus’s room.“Great news.

Roberta Day Quimby, six pounds, four ounces, arrived safe and sound.Your mother is fine.”

Barely awake, Ramona asked, “Who’s Roberta?”

“Your new sister,” answered her father,

“and my namesake.”

“Sister.” Now Ramona was wide-awake.

The family had referred to the baby as Algie so long she had assumed that of course she would have a brother.

“Yes, a beautiful little sister,” said her father.

“Now, go back to sleep. It’s four o’clock in the morning, and I’ve got to get up at seven-thirty.” The next morning, Mr. Quimby over-slept and ate his breakfast standing up. He was halfway out the door when he called back, “When I get off work, we’ll have dinner at the Whopperburger, and then we’ll all go see Roberta and your mother.” The day was long and lonely. Even a swim-ming lesson at the park and a trip to the library did little to make time pass.“I wonder what Roberta looks like,” said Beezus.

“And whose room she will share when she outgrows the bassinette,” worried Ramona.

The one happy moment in the day for the girls was a telephone call from their mother, who reported that Roberta was a beautiful, healthy little sister. She couldn’t wait to bring her home, and she was proud of her daughters for being so good about staying alone. This pleased Beezus and Ramona so much they ran the vacuum cleaner and dusted, which made time pass faster until their father, looking exhausted, came home to take them out for hamburgers and a visit to the fifth Quimby.

Ramona could feel her heart pounding as she finally climbed the steps to the hospital.

Visitors, some carrying flowers and others looking careworn, walked toward the elevators. Nurses hurried, a doctor was paged over the loudspeaker. Ramona could scarcely bear her own excitement. The rising of the elevator made her stomach feel as if it had stayed behind on the first floor.

When the elevator stopped, Mr. Quimby led the way down the hall.

“Excuse me,” called a nurse.

Surprised, the family stopped and turned.

“Children under twelve are not allowed to visit the maternity ward,” said the nurse.

“Little girl, you will have to go down and wait in the lobby.”

“Why is that?” asked Mr. Quimby.

“Children under twelve might have con-tagious diseases,” explained the nurse. “We have to protect the babies.” “I’m sorry, Ramona,” said Mr. Quimby.“I didn’t know. I am afraid you will have to do as the nurse says.” “Does she mean I’m germy?” Ramona was humiliated.“I took a shower this morning and washed my hands at the Whopperburger so I would be extra clean.” “Sometimes children are coming down with something and don’t know it,” explained Mr. Quimby. “Now, be a big girl and go downstairs and wait for us.”

Ramona’s eyes filled with tears of disappointment, but she found some pleasure in riding in the elevator alone. By the time she reached the lobby, she felt worse. The nurse called her a little girl. Her father called her a big girl.What was she? A germy girl.

Ramona sat gingerly on the edge of a Naugahyde couch. If she leaned back, she might get germs on it, or it might get germs on her. She swallowed hard.Was her throat a little bit sore? She thought maybe it was, way down in back. She put her hand to her forehead the way her mother did when she thought Ramona might have a fever. Her forehead was warm, maybe too warm.

As Ramona waited, she began to itch the way she itched when she had chickenpox.

Her head itched, her back itched, her legs itched. Ramona scratched. A woman sat down on the couch, looked at Ramona, got up, and moved to another couch.

Ramona felt worse. She itched more and scratched harder. She swallowed often to see how her sore throat was coming along. She peeked down the neck of her blouse to see if she might have a rash and was surprised that she did not. She sniffed from time to time to see if she had a runny nose.

Now Ramona was angry. It would serve everybody right if she came down with some horrible disease, right there in their old hospital. That would show everybody how germfree the place was. Ramona squirmed and gave that hard-to-reach place between her shoulder blades a good hard scratch.

Then she scratched her head with both hands. People stopped to stare.

A man in a white coat, with a stethoscope hanging out of his pocket, came hurrying through the lobby, glanced at Ramona, stopped, and took a good look at her.“How 180 do you feel?” he asked.

“Awful,” she admitted. “A nurse said I was too germy to go see my mother and new sister, but I think I caught some disease right here.” “I see,” said the doctor.“Open your mouth and say ‘ah.’”

Ramona ahhed until she gagged.

“Mh-hm,” murmured the doctor. He looked so serious Ramona was alarmed. Then he pulled out his stethoscope and listened to her front and back, thumping as he did so.

What was he hearing? Was there something wrong with her insides? Why didn’t her father come?

The doctor nodded as if his worst suspicions had been confirmed.“Just as I thought,” he said, pulling out his prescription pad.

Medicine, ugh. Ramona’s twitching stopped. Her nose and throat felt fine.“I feel much better,” she assured the doctor as she eyed that prescription pad with distrust.

“An acute case of siblingitis. Not at all unusual around here, but it shouldn’t last long.” He tore off the prescription he had written, instructed Ramona to give it to her 182 father, and hurried on down the hall.

Ramona could not remember the name of her illness. She tried to read the doctor’s scribbly cursive writing, but she could not.

She could only read neat cursive, the sort her teacher wrote on the blackboard.

Itching again, she was still staring at the slip of paper when Mr. Quimby and Beezus stepped out of the elevator. “Roberta is so tiny.” Beezus was radiant with joy.“And she is perfectly darling. She has a little round nose and—oh, when you see her, you’ll love her.” “I’m sick.” Ramona tried to sound pitiful.

“I’ve got something awful.A doctor said so.” Beezus paid no attention. “And Roberta has brown hair—” Mr. Quimby interrupted. “What’s this all about, Ramona?”

“A doctor said I had something, some kind of itis, and I have to have this right away.” She handed her father her prescription and scratched one shoulder. “If I don’t, I might get sicker.”

Mr. Quimby read the scribbly cursive, and then he did a strange thing. He lifted Ramona and gave her a big hug and a kiss, right there in the lobby.The itching stopped.

Ramona felt much better. “You have acute siblingitis,” explained her father. “Itis means inflammation.” Ramona already knew the meaning of sibling. Since her father had studied to be a teacher, brothers and sisters had become siblings to him.

“He understood you were worried and angry because you weren’t allowed to see your new sibling, and prescribed attention,” explained Mr. Quimby. “Now let’s all go buy ice-cream cones before I fall asleep standing up.” Beezus said Roberta was too darling to be called a dumb word like sibling. Ramona felt silly, but she also felt better.

For the next three nights, Ramona took a book to the hospital and sat in the lobby, not reading, but sulking about the injustice of having to wait to see the strange new Roberta.

On the fourth day, Mr. Quimby took an hour off from the ShopRite Market, picked up Beezus and Ramona, who were waiting in clean clothes, and drove to the hospital to bring home his wife and new daughter.

Ramona moved closer to Beezus when she saw her mother, holding a pink bundle, emerge from the elevator in a wheelchair pushed by a nurse and followed by Mr.

Quimby carrying her bag. “Can’t Mother walk?” she whispered.

“Of course she can walk,” answered Beezus. “The hospital wants to make sure people get out without falling down and suing for a million dollars.”

Mrs. Quimby waved to the girls. Roberta’s face was hidden by a corner of a pink blanket, but the nurse had no time for a little girl eager to see a new baby. She pushed the wheelchair through the automatic door to the waiting car.

“Now can I see her?” begged Ramona when her mother and Roberta were settled in the front, and the girls had climbed into the backseat.

“Dear Heart, of course you may.” Mrs.

Quimby then spoke the most beautiful words Ramona had ever heard,“Oh, Ramona, how I’ve missed you,” as she turned back the blanket.

Ramona, leaning over the front seat for her first glimpse of the new baby sister, tried to hold her breath so she wouldn’t breathe germs on Roberta, who did not look at all like the picture on the cover of A Name for Your Baby. Her face was bright pink, almost 186 red, and her hair, unlike the smooth pale hair of the baby on the cover of the pamphlet, was dark and wild. Ramona did not know what to say. She did not feel that words like darling or adorable fitted this baby.

“She looks exactly like you looked when you were born,” Mrs. Quimby told Ramona.

“She does?” Ramona found this hard to believe. She could not imagine that she had once looked like this red, frowning little creature.

“Well, what do you think of your new sister?” asked Mr. Quimby.

“She’s so—so little,” Ramona answered truthfully.

Roberta opened her blue gray eyes.

“Mother!” cried Ramona. “She’s cross-eyed.”

Mrs. Quimby laughed. “All babies look cross-eyed sometimes.They outgrow it when they learn to focus.” Sure enough, Roberta’s eyes straightened out for a moment and then crossed again. She worked her mouth as if she didn’t know what to do with it. She made little snuffling noises and lifted one arm as if she didn’t know what it was for.

“Why does her nightie have those little pockets at the ends of the sleeves?” asked Ramona. “They cover up her hands.”

“They keep her from scratching herself,” explained Mrs. Quimby. “She’s too little to understand that fingernails scratch.” Ramona sat back and buckled her seat belt.

She had once looked like Roberta. Amazing!

She had once been that tiny, but she had grown, her hair had calmed down when she remembered to comb it, and she had learned to use her eyes and hands. “You know what I think?” she asked and did not wait for an answer.“I think it is hard work to be a baby.” Ramona spoke as if she had discovered something unknown to the rest of the world.

With her words came unexpected love and sympathy for the tiny person in her mother’s arms.

“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” said Mrs. Quimby, “but I think you’re right.”

“Growing up is hard work,” said Mr.

Quimby as he drove away from the hospital.

“Sometimes being grown up is hard work.”

“I know,” said Ramona and thought some more. She thought about loose teeth, real sore throats, quarrels, misunderstandings with her teachers, longing for a bicycle her family could not afford, worrying when her parents bickered, how terrible she had felt when she hurt Beezus’s feelings without meaning to, and all the long afternoons when Mrs. Kemp looked after her until her mother came from work. She had survived it all.

“Isn’t it funny?” she remarked as her father steered the car into their driveway.

“Isn’t what funny?” asked her mother.

“That I used to be little and funny-looking and cross-eyed like Roberta,” said Ramona.

“And now look at me. I’m wonderful me!”

“Except when you’re blunderful you,” said Beezus.

Ramona did not mind when her family, except Roberta, who was too little, laughed.

“Yup, wonderful, blunderful me,” she said and was happy. She was winning at growing up.