Susan's Room

Susan's room is exactly like mine. I mean, of course I don't have all of the birthday decorations, a half-eaten chocolate cake with chocolate frosting in the recessed space underneath the TV set, a matching set of red plastic plates, cups, napkins and forks waiting for guests to serve themselves. And it's backwards. It's rightways for her and her parents but it's backwards for me, a mirror image, sinks and doors and windows in places that make sense for others, but not for me. It's like Bizarro World without all the rough angles and frustrated super villains.

I gravitate to the cards and letters on her bulletin boards. I'm a complete sucker when it comes to reading what other people have written. When I was seventeen, eighteen, visiting Dad & Jane in Long Beach when they'd move to California for a few years, we went to the Labrea Tar Pits. Dinosaur bones, yeah, mud, concrete, tar, whatever the hell they sunk in. You can read about it. Rent the audio tape and listen to the droning narration as you looked around and didn't see anything exciting or dramatic about the slow deaths of creatures that had lived thousands of years ago. Except in the middle of the hallway, there, behind numerous glass display cases, local schoolchildren had written (and illustrated) letters of thanks. Their handwriting squeedged smaller as it got closer to the right side of the page. Creative rules dictated punctuation and capitalization, and the longer the word, the more likely it was spelled phonetically, but none of that mattered. Every letter was this stunning display of genuine thanks. There was palpable emotion behind the crayon drawings of T-Rexes scribbled halfway over with thick black strokes.

I read every letter. Dad and Jane were surprised, later, when they asked what I'd liked best about the Tar Pits and I launched into this half an hour description of David Ortega's letter, Jeremy's detailed Stegasaurus, and Beth! Walker's! Prolific! Exclamation! Points!

They were the only things in the whole place that were actually alive, the only things that captured my interest.

I move to Susan's bulletin boards, first, instead of to her bed, partly because I'm drawn to what other people write, always have been, curious what her loved ones would write to her, but also because it's the farthest point in the room from her. Truth is that I'm instantly awkward, suddenly ashamed that it has been a month and this is the first time I've ever visited. And I'm not even visiting, just answering an invite from her father by glomming onto the wall that separates our two rooms.

Not that I'm gonna walk up and down the halls, knocking on everybody's door, checking in checking up, but she's literally next door. I can't leave my room without walking past hers.

"But I'm sick," I tell myself.

"You're just laying around half the time anyway," I answer back.

"But I'm here to get better, not socialize..."

"Common courtesy, asshole. Her parents are going through a lot."

"My parents are going through a lot..."

"Selfish prick."

"f*** that," I yell back. "I'm going through a lot!"

"It's always got to be about you, doesn't it?"

Susan's mom interrupts. I'm just staring at the bulletin board, still, and she gently touches my shoulder.

"Excuse me," she says. "Did you want some cake? I'm sure Susan would like you to have some."

She sees me staring at the multicolored rectangles of paper on the wall, and must think that I've been eyeing the party food that's between the two bulletin boards.

"No," I say. "No thank you. I really can't eat anything."

She apologizes. There's this sadness behind her eyes. She says I'm sorry and it feels so very sad, more than it should, her hands folded together, eyes downcast.

"Do you want some for later? We could wrap some."

I know I'm not going to eat it. Thinking about it starts a minor chain reaction, from wanting to remember what moist chocolate cake tastes like -- licking frosting from my fingers, washing it all down with an ice cold glass of milk -- to my empty stomach grumbling, sending a brief, heaving warning to my brain.

I'm not going to eat a single bite, but I nod anyway.

"Please. Yes, please." I say.

Susan's mother had come prepared. She removes a serrated knife and a roll of Saran Wrap from a crumpled, well-used grocery bag on the floor. The knife edge is wrapped in foil. She cuts into the cake as if she's drawing a line, then a little wiggle, the smaller piece separated from the rest of the cake. She carefully balances a hefty slice on the flat of the knife, setting it onto one of the few large red plates remaining. Saran Wrap is doubled around the plate. She tucks it in. Creases the edges, both thumbs and forefingers starting at twelve o'clock, meeting again at six.

"It's good," she says. "I made it myself."