Undiscovered Gyrl: The novel that inspired the movie ASK ME ANYTHING (Vintage Contemporaries) (12 page)

“I don’t know. I’m not a psychiatrist. Have you ever been in therapy?”

“Only in eighth grade.”

“Maybe you should start up again.”

I scribbled in the air with my cigarette. “Waiter? Check?”

This cracked him up.

When we said goodbye in the parking lot, Joel said “Take care” in a serious way, like he really meant it. I felt guilty I hadn’t asked him anything about himself all night. He’s the one who almost jumped off a dorm not me. But I did pay for the dinner so I’m not completely selfish.

Something ironic: I have no real friends left but in the past day, 3852 discrete viewers have read my blog and 32 sent me email. Only on the internet can a person be lonely and popular at the same time.

Here is another chance to get to know me better. You will never regret it!

Q.
Have you ever been searched by the cops?
A.
Yes, they found a pussy in my pocket.

Q.
Have you ever tried heroin?
A.
Once. I fell asleep.

Q.
Which do you prefer, the top or the bottom?
A.
Bottom if I trust the guy, top if I don’t.

Q.
Do you believe in the horoscope?
A.
Sagittarians never do.

Q.
Which is more advanced, your creativity or your memory?
A.
Both are fairly genius but I would have to say—Wait, what’s the question again?

Q.
Do you stay friends with your exes?
A.
Only if they can handle being around me platonically. So far it’s not happened.

Q.
If you’re stopped at a red light at two a.m. and no one is around to see you, do you run the light?
A.
No way. I am scared of authority.

Q.
What’s the main thing on your mind these days?
A.
Sex with Dan. Just once more. Paleeeze!

Q.
Do you pee in swimming pools?
A.
That’s the only place.

There are many more questions, but I will stop here. You’re welcome.

This is going to sound insanely superficial but I love Cole and no matter how much he cries or how many times he poos, I am always happy to take care of him but what if he wasn’t drop dead gorgeous? What if he was butt-fugly? Would I still love him as much? What do parents do when their babies are hideous? What happens?

Cole already looks like a gorgeous little jock. His shoulders are broad and he has the cutest bubble butt. Paul was a wrestler in high school. I’ve never dated a jock. Which is unusual. Usually the prettiest girl in school dates the sports hero but I’ve always preferred brains over brawn. Paul has both. Lucky Margaret!

This morning at approximately 8:30 a.m. I was brushing my teeth, thinking about nothing, when my phone rang. It came up restricted. The only person I know with a blocked number is my dad. I answered anyway. It was Affie crying so hard that she could barely talk. Affie never cries. The more
pain she is in, the bigger she smiles. I sat down on the toilet seat and waited for the terrible words.

“Your father, he … he … he slipped on the ice! He fell down the back steps! A terrible fall!”

My dad’s apartment is on the second floor and has wooden steps in back. I stayed calm and asked what happened. She said he slipped on the icy steps on his way down to the garbage cans and cracked his skull open. They rushed him to St. Francis around midnight for surgery. He is in a coma now. Could I come down right away? Nope, sorry, Affie, too busy.

Of course I could come! Dumb-ass!

I ran downstairs to tell my mom but she was gone for an early dentist appointment. I sort of panicked and ran around for a while, up and down the stairs for no reason. When I was finally on my way to the hospital I realized I had forgotten to put on my coat. I turned the heat on full blast and cranked up the ass warmer. Then I was like “Oh, yeah, I have a job.” I called Paul, told him what happened and said I’d be late for work.

“No, Katie, you’re not going to be late. You won’t be coming in at all. What’s happened to your dad is serious. Take as many days as you need.”

That’s when it hit me and I started crying.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said. “I’m so sorry you have to go through this. Call me if you need anything.”

He was so kind I started balling harder. I hung up and called my mom, but she didn’t pick up. She was still in the dentist’s chair. I texted her what happened. Pulling into the sunny hospital parking lot I thought “Wait, how could my dad slip on ice? There isn’t any.” It hit me that Affie was lying. He slipped because he was drunk! Affie constantly protects him which is the main reason he keeps her around. Once while she was pouring him like his twentieth beer of the day, I said “You know he’s an alcoholic, right?” She replied “All I know is that lately he’s the happiest I’ve ever seen him.” Happy with a liver the size of a basketball? Whatever, crazy lady.

My mom called as I was getting into the elevator and she was a total wreck. This surprised me because I always thought she stopped loving my dad about two seconds after I was born. She said she wanted so badly to come to the hospital but it would be unfair to Affie. Which is true. My dad’s still in love with my mom. Affie knows it.

When I walked into the waiting room, the first thing I saw was a demented street person. It took me a few seconds to realize it was Affie, wearing gray sweats, pink fuzzy slippers and a Greenbay Packers T-shirt. She wore no makeup and her hair looked stiff and dead. She ran over to me. Her eyes were bulging. She whispered “If they ask, say that we’re married or they won’t let me see him!” Before I could say don’t worry, a doctor walked up and introduced himself. His
name was Dr. David Clarkson. Sweet smile, soft voice, bald but not old.

On the way in to see my dad, Dr. Clarkson warned me that he was in “grave condition” and to prepare myself for the worst. I tried to but I failed. I could not believe how bad my dad looked! His whole head was wrapped in bandages and he was surrounded by tubes and machines. (Thank god Aunt Dorothea pays his medical insurance!) Dr. Clarkson said that when he fell an artery in the sack around his brain ripped open and started to bleed. The surgeon managed to “evacuate the clog” and stop the bleeding, but right now there was nothing else they could do for him. I’m not sure what I replied. When he turned away, I walked over and touched my dad’s wrinkly little hand. It was burning hot. His eyelids were twitching like he was dreaming. Of what? The magical day I was born? The day he taught me to ride a bike? A cold beer?

I whispered “You in there, Daddy? Can you hear me?”

As usual, no reaction.

In the afternoon Dr. Yi, who Clarkson said is one of the best neurologists in the country, took me and Affie into a little room where they had my dad’s scans all lit up on a box. He showed us where the blood was. It looked like a big white hurricane near the middle of his head that was squishing his brain into the sides of his skull. I asked if they could
drain the blood somehow, and he said that was impossible because it would destroy too much of his brain. He said right now they were just hoping his vital signs would get better. He said to page him anytime if we had questions or needed to talk. I started to cry. He gave me a few pats on the back.

They kicked us out at 8:00 p.m. When I got home my mom forced me to eat macaroni and cheese and I went straight to bed. I was so wiped out I was sure I’d fall over like a sawed tree. Instead I just laid there staring up at the ceiling. My heart beat so fast it hurt. Even though I’ve known his death was coming for a long time, I’m not ready to lose my dad forever.

I got up to write all this down. Not just for you guys but so someday my kids can learn how their grampy died.

It’s 2:23 now. I am so tired I feel like throwing up. I have to be at the hospital first thing. There’s nothing worse than having insomnia when you know you have to get up early the next day. Wish me luck.

Your wishes didn’t work. I figure it is better to be typing than staring at the ceiling. I just emailed Paul to tell him I
wouldn’t be coming in tomorrow. I also googled “fractured skull” and “brain hemorrhages.” That was fun. Now I am sleepy again, but I know that as soon as I turn off the lights I will feel wide awake. Torture!

It’s snowing outside. The sky is black. Usually snow on the ground makes me happy. Right now it seems creepy and dangerous. Like a murderer is out there waiting.

I’m not religious but if you are, please pray for a miracle, because that’s the only thing that will save my dad. Oh and one more thing. If your father is still alive, even if he is a major fuck-up, call him and tell him you love him. Even if you think you don’t mean it.

I was about to leave for the hospital when I got the feeling that my father was already dead. I called and the nurse told me he was the same so there was no need to hurry. I drank an obscene amount of coffee and devoured two bowls of oatmeal with bananas. Then I answered some of your emails. Just the sweet thoughtful ones. Now it is time for me to go again.

The worst email I got teased me for writing “balling” instead of “bawling.” Did you really think it was necessary
to correct my spelling when my father is dying? I will say it again. I am the world’s worst speller. If spell-check misses it, then so do I!

The longest day ever at the hospital. My dad got another scan. Dr. Clarkson said his condition is “very grave.” He is negative and repetitious. I am starting to dislike him. Affie was beyond insane. Shouldn’t I be the one going insane? I might lose my father, the only one I’ll ever have. Affie is losing a decrepit drunk boyfriend who stunk up her apartment and treated her like an annoying slave. Affie whines nonstop and talks about him like he’s some sort of genius who would have written amazing sports biographies if only he hadn’t been cursed with a bad wife and a weak liver. I reminded her that his liver wouldn’t have been weak if he hadn’t drunk three six-packs a day his whole life. She says I know nothing about depression and how terrible it is to be married to a woman who castrates you. I wanted to reply that my mom only castrated him because he hardly ever worked and cheated on her like a thousand times. But I didn’t. Somebody has to be mature.

In the afternoon Affie found an Indian doctor she trusted named Dr. V. D. Ghosh. He is tall, skinny, married and
handsome. He put my dad on a different antibiotic. He says his condition is “velly glave.”

All day I kept thinking how amazing it is that a body as devastated as my dad’s can survive this long. Imagine if he had taken care of himself. He might have lived to be 108 instead of 54.

Dr. Ghosh asked if my father had ever signed papers indicating his wishes in circumstances like these. In other words did he want the plug pulled? Affie said softly and calmly that there were no papers that she was aware of. But the second he left the room, she freaked out and dug her nails into my arm. Her crazy eyes were as big as walnuts. “You must promise me, little girl, that you will never let them kill your father, no matter what! No matter what!”

I felt like punching her in the dot. I told her that as far as I was concerned they were legally married so it was totally her decision. Like that’s a choice I would ever want to make about my own dad!

Thank you for all your prayers. I hope somebody up there hears them. I doubt it but you never know.

Before I went to bed I called the Spooners to update them on my dad’s condition. I assumed I would get their voice mail, but Paul picked up and we talked for over an hour. He really made me laugh telling me stories about the temp nanny they hired to replace me. Her name is Alma and she is sweet but really dense. Cole is teaching her the alphabet! He said they miss me terribly and that when I am not there it’s like a day without sunshine. It is wonderful to be appreciated.

Paul also informed me that Barrack Obama lost the New Hampshire primary election today. It turns out we both really like him and want him to be president. I asked if this means Hillary will win now.

He said “Not by a long shot.”

I said “I’m sorry if it makes me a bad feminist or something, but her ass scares the crap out of me.”

He laughed and said “That’s how I feel about her husband.”

I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to answer any of your recent letters. My father died Wednesday morning at 2:26 a.m.

Affie called and said “He’s gone, Katie. He’s gone.” She wasn’t crying at all, which was weird, because that’s all she’d
been doing since the accident. Maybe her religion has taken over and she is happy knowing that any second now he will return as a moth or a raccoon.

In a way I am relieved he’s dead. I am sorry if that sounds harsh, but I knew he wasn’t going to get better, and there was no way Affie would have had the courage to pull the plug. I could not have done it either. Not to my one and only dad. So it’s probably better that he died peacefully this way rather than live on as a vegetable.

The viewing wake is in one hour. I have heard that it is a good thing to have an open coffin because it makes the death more real. Otherwise, if you never actually see the corpse, you dream about the person for years to come. In your dreams they are always alive and you realize that you were misinformed and that they never really died. When you wake up and discover that you were only dreaming, it messes you up for days.

An open coffin is the most heinous thing ever. My father looked like the shriveled puppet version of himself. I don’t know if they drained his belly or what, but it was totally flat, and the brown corduroy suit they put him in was about three sizes too big. They removed his head bandages, but to
cover up the surgery scar and shaved head they put him in a weird gray wig and the stupid hat he wore whenever he went to the horse track. When I walked up to the coffin I knew everyone was staring at me so I didn’t let on how grotesque I thought he looked. I knew this was the last time I would ever see him. His brown-yellow fingernails were dried and cracked. There was a tiny bit of white hair on his Adam’s apple that they missed when they trimmed his beard. One of his cuff links was on backwards or maybe his sleeve had just gotten twisted around. I leaned down, pulled back the brim of his hat and kissed his forehead. It was cold, like kissing a marble statue in the winter. Your dad is your big hero and then one day he is a freezing puppet lying in a box. Wow, life sure is charming.