The Patient

7

The Patient

During the night Ramona was half awakened when her mother wiped her face with a cool washcloth and lifted her head from the pillow to help her sip something cold. Later, as the shadows of the room were fading, Ramona had to hold a thermometer under her tongue for what seemed like a long time. She felt safe, knowing her mother was watching over her. Safe but sick. No sooner did she find a cool place on her pillow than it became too hot for comfort, and Ramona turned again.

As her room grew light, Ramona dozed off, faintly aware that her family was moving quietly so they would not disturb her. One tiny corner of her mind was pleased by this consideration. She heard breakfast sounds, and then she must have fallen completely asleep, because the next thing she knew she was awake and the house was silent. Had they all gone off and left her? No, someone was moving quietly in the kitchen. Howie’s grandmother must have come to stay with her.

Ramona’s eyes blurred. Her family had all gone off and left her when she was sick. She blinked away the tears and discovered on her bedside table a cartoon her father had drawn for her. It showed Ramona leaning against one tree and the family car leaning against another. He had drawn her with crossed eyes and a turned-down mouth. The car’s headlights were crossed and its front bumper turned down like Ramona’s mouth. They both looked sick. Ramona discovered she remembered how to smile. She also discovered she felt hot and sweaty instead of hot and dry. For a moment she struggled to sit up and then fell back on her pillow. Sitting up was too much work. She longed for her mother, and suddenly, as if her wish were granted, her mother was entering the bedroom with a basin of water and a towel.

“Mother!” croaked Ramona. “Why aren’t you at work?”

“Because I stayed home to take care of you,” Mrs. Quimby answered, as she gently washed Ramona’s face and hands. “Feeling better?”

“Sort of.” In some ways Ramona felt better, but she also felt sweaty, weak, and worried. “Are you going to lose your job?” she asked, remembering the time her father had been out of work.

“No. The receptionist who retired was glad to come in for a few days to take my place.” Mrs. Quimby gave Ramona a sponge bath and helped her into cool, dry pajamas. “There,” she said. “How about some tea and toast?” “Grown-up tea?” asked Ramona, relieved that her mother’s job was safe so that her father wouldn’t have to drop out of school.

“Grown-up tea,” answered her mother, as she propped Ramona up with an extra pillow. In a few minutes she brought a tray that held a slice of dry toast and a cup of weak tea.

Nibbling and sipping left Ramona tired and gloomy.

“Cheer up,” said Mrs. Quimby, when she came to remove the tray. “Your temperature is down, and you’re going to be all right.”

Ramona did feel a little better. Her mother was right. She had not thrown up on purpose. Other children had done the same thing. There was that boy in kindergarten and the girl in first grade….

Ramona dozed off, and when she awoke, she was bored and cranky. She wanted butter on the toast her mother brought her and scowled when her mother said people with stomach flu should not eat butter.

Mrs. Quimby smiled and said, “I can tell you’re beginning to get well when you act like a wounded tiger.”

Ramona scowled. “I am not acting like a wounded tiger,” she informed her mother. When Mrs. Quimby made her a bed on the living-room couch so she could watch television, she was cross with the television set because she found daytime programs dumb, stupid, and boring. Commercials were much more interesting than the programs. She lay back and hoped for a cat-food commercial because she liked to look at nice cats. As she waited, she brooded about her teacher.

“Of course I didn’t throw up on purpose,” Ramona told herself. Mrs. Whaley should know that. And deep down inside I am really a nice person, she comforted herself. Mrs. Whaley should know that, too.

“Who pays teachers?” Ramona suddenly asked, when her mother came into the room.

“Why, we all do.” Mrs. Quimby seemed surprised by the question. “We pay taxes, and teachers’ salaries come out of tax money.”

Ramona knew that taxes were something unpleasant that worried parents. “I think you should stop paying taxes,” Ramona informed her mother.

Mrs. Quimby looked amused. “I wish we could—at least until we finish paying for the room we added to the house. Whatever put such an idea into your head?”

“Mrs. Whaley doesn’t like me,” Ramona answered. “She is supposed to like me. It’s her job to like me.”

All Mrs. Quimby had to say was, “If you’re this grouchy at school, liking you could be hard work.”

Ramona was indignant. Her mother was supposed to feel sorry for her poor, weak little girl.

Picky-picky strolled into the living room and stared at Ramona as if he felt she did not belong on the couch. With an arthritic leap, he jumped up beside her on the blanket, washed himself from his ears to the tip of his tail, kneaded the blanket, and, purring, curled up beside Ramona, who lay very still so he would not go away. When he was asleep, she petted him gently. Picky-picky usually avoided her because she was noisy, or so her mother said.

A funny man appeared on the television screen. He had eaten a pizza, which had given him indigestion. He groaned. “I can’t believe I ate the whole thing.” Ramona smiled.

The next commercial showed a cat stepping back and forth in a little dance. “Do you think we could train Picky-picky to do that?” Ramona asked her mother.

Mrs. Quimby was amused at the idea of old Picky-picky dancing. “I doubt it,” she said. “That cat isn’t really dancing. They just turn the film back and forth so it looks as if he’s dancing.” How disappointing. Ramona dozed while another cat-food commercial appeared. She awoke enough to watch a big yellow cat ignore several brands of cat food before he settled down to eat a bowl of dry food silently. That’s funny, thought Ramona. When Picky-picky ate dry cat food, he ground and crunched so noisily she could hear him from any room in the house, but television cats never made any sound at all when they ate. The commercials lied. That’s what they did. Ramona was cross with cat-food commercials. Cheaters! She was angry with the whole world.

Late that afternoon Ramona was aroused once more by the doorbell. Was it someone interesting? She hoped so, for she was bored. The visitor turned out to be Sara.

Ramona lay back on her pillow and tried to look pale and weak as her mother said, “Why, hello, Sara. I’m glad to see you, but I don’t think you should come in until Ramona is feeling better.” “That’s all right,” said Sara. “I just brought some letters the class wrote to Ramona, and Mrs. Whaley sent a book for her to read.”

“Hi, Sara,” said Ramona with the weakest smile she could manage.

“Mrs. Whaley said to tell you this book is not for DEAR. This one is for a book report,” Sara explained from the doorway.

Ramona groaned.

“She said to tell you,” Sara continued, “that she wants us to stand up in front of the class and pretend we are selling the book. She doesn’t want us to tell the whole story. She says she has already heard all the stories quite a few times.” Ramona felt worse. Not only would she have to give a book report, she would have to listen to twenty-five book reports given by other people, another reason for wanting to stay home.

When Sara left, Ramona examined the big envelope she had brought. Mrs. Whaley had written Ramona’s name on the front with a floppy cursive capital Q and beneath it in her big handwriting, “Miss you!” followed by a picture of a whale and y.

I bet she doesn’t mean it, thought Ramona. She opened the envelope of the first letters anyone had ever written to her. “Mother, they wrote in cursive!” she cried, delighted. Although all the letters said much the same thing—we are sorry you are sick and hope you get well soon—they made Ramona feel good. She knew they were written to teach letter writing and handwriting at the same time, but she didn’t care.

One letter was different. Yard Ape had written, “Dear Superfoot, Get well or I will eat your eraser.” Ramona smiled because his letter showed he liked her. She looked forward to the return of her father and sister so she could show off her mail.

Bored with television and cramped from lying still so she would not disturb Picky-picky, Ramona waited. How sorry they would be to see her so pale and thin. Surely her father would bring her a little present, something to entertain her while she had to stay in bed. A paperback book because she could now read books with chapters? New crayons? Her father understood the importance of sharp-pointed crayons to someone who liked to draw.

Beezus arrived first with an armload of books that she dropped on a chair. “Homework!” she said and groaned. Now that she was in junior high school, she was always talking about all the work she had to do, as if Ramona did nothing in school. “How do you feel?” she finally got around to asking.

“Sick,” said Ramona in a faint voice, “but my whole class wrote to me.”

Beezus glanced at the sheaf of letters. “They copied them off the blackboard,” she said.

“Writing a whole letter in cursive is hard work for lots of people when they are in the third grade.” Ramona was hurt at having her letters belittled. She pushed Picky-picky off the couch so she could stretch her legs. The television droned on and on.

“I wonder what’s keeping your father,” remarked Mrs. Quimby, looking out the front window.

Ramona knew why her father was late, but she did not say so. He was buying her a little present because she was sick. She could hardly wait. “My class is giving book reports,” she informed Beezus, so her sister would know she had schoolwork to do too. “We have to pretend to sell a book to someone.” “We did that a couple of times,” said Beezus. “Teachers always tell you not to tell the whole story, and half the kids finish by saying, ‘If you want to know what happens next, read the book,’ and somebody always says, ‘Read this book, or I’ll punch you in the nose.’” Ramona knew who would say that in her class. Yard Ape, that was who.

“Here he comes now,” said Mrs. Quimby, and she hurried to open the door for Ramona’s father, who kissed her as he entered.

“Where’s the car?” she asked.

“Bad news.” Mr. Quimby sounded tired. “It has to have a new transmission.”

“Oh, no!” Mrs. Quimby was shocked. “How much is that going to cost?”

Mr. Quimby looked grim. “Plenty. More than we can afford.”

“We’ll have to afford it somehow,” said Mrs. Quimby. “We can’t manage without a car.”

“The transmission people are letting us pay it off in installments,” he explained, “and I’ll manage to get in some more hours as Santa’s Little Helper at the warehouse.” “I wish there were some other way….” Mrs. Quimby looked sad as she went into the kitchen to attend to supper.

Only then did Mr. Quimby turn his attention to Ramona. “How’s my little punkin?” he asked.

“Sick.” Ramona forgot to look pitiful, she was so disappointed that her father had not brought her a present.

“Cheer up,” Mr. Quimby half smiled. “At least you don’t need a new transmission, and you’ll feel better tomorrow.”

“What’s a transmission?” asked Ramona.

“That’s what makes the car go,” explained her father.

“Oh,” said Ramona. Then to show her father that her life was not so easy, she added, “I have to give a book report at school.”

“Well, make it interesting,” said Mr. Quimby, as he went off to wash for supper.

Ramona knew her father was worried, but she could not help thinking he might have felt sorrier for his sick little girl. Anyone would think he loved the car more. She lay back genuinely weak, exhausted by television, and sorry her father would have to work more hours in the frozen-food warehouse where, no matter how many pairs of woolen socks he wore, his feet were always cold and he sometimes had to go outside until feeling came back into his cheeks.

When her mother, after serving the rest of the family, said the time had come for Ramona to get into her own bed and have a little supper on a tray, she was ready to go. The thought that her mother did not think she was a nuisance comforted her.