Alice in Bed: A Novel - Softcover

Schine, Cathleen

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1250002400 ISBN 13: 9781250002402

Publisher: Picador, 2012

Synopsis

Stricken by a mysterious malady, college sophomore Alice Brody has suddenly lost the use of her legs. How does a bright, beautiful, and now immobile young woman proceed with her passions? As she convalesces in a Manhattan hospital, Alice finds herself attended by a motley group of visitors: indifferent nurses, doctors both good and bad, divorcing parents, and eccentric relatives. But Alice is a creature of many charms, whose wit can enchant those bearing even the worst bedside manner. With a captivating heroine of great comic depth, Cathleen Schine's Alice in Bed is balm for whatever ails you.

About this title

About the Author

Cathleen Schine is the author of The Three Weissmanns of Westport, To the Birdhouse, The New Yorkers, and The Love Letter, among other novels. She has contributed to The New Yorker, The New York Review of Books, The New York Times Magazine, and The New York Times Book Review. She grew up in Westport, Connecticut, and lives in New York City and Venice, California.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

 I 
 
For four weeks she had been living in her parents’ big bed—a king-size bed, extra long because her father was tall and had big feet. She stared at the ceiling and remembered lying on the bed as a child, groaning with impatience as her mother put on lipstick or talked on the phone. Every morning, before it was really light, she had trailed her father around the bed, stepping in the enormous talcum-powder prints he left on the carpet. She followed him to the closet where he kept his big shoes, to the bathroom where she listened to the buzzing of his electric razor, to the dresser out of which came the shirt cardboards he gave her to draw on. “Pack up your troubles in your old kit ba-a-a-a-g,” they sang with the radio.
*   *   *
“Am I delirious?” Alice asked.
“Feverish,” said her mother, dipping the washcloth into a paper cup filled with lavender water.
“I thought I might be delirious.” A delirium would at least seem romantic. “You’re sure I’m not delirious?”
Her mother said she didn’t think so and wiped Alice’s forehead with a washcloth. The lavender water smelled prim, like a biddy’s drawer of nighties.
“Drink lots of fluids!” her mother reminded her a minute later, handing her one of the soggy paper cups from the bedside table.
Alice put the cup to her lips. I have suffered brain damage, she thought listlessly. This water tastes funny. It tastes like ...
“Oh, Mom! This is lavender water. Ugh, it’s disgusting.”
“I’ve poisoned you! Oh, my God, I’ve poisoned you!” her mother cried, kissing Alice’s hands.
*   *   *
The pain came in hot waves, like acute embarrassment. It started in her hips and flowed in almost rhythmic bursts to her knees and feet, then to her whole body. She moaned loudly and wanted to stamp her feet in rage, but sometimes she couldn’t move them at all.
The night, the wet summer heat, and the strange pain would all hover and then slowly intensify at once. I must be delirious, she told herself. The nights were the worst, and her mother would stroke her forehead. A walker, somehow shabby in spite of being brand-new, stood by the bed; it was shabby the way only aluminum can be shabby. When she looked at it, she knew she was not delirious. The bathroom loomed six feet away.
Dear Katie,
My mother told me you finally went into the bin. Is it awful? I know I haven’t spoken to you since the day you threw the plate at me, but I have thought about you. Anyway, since that day—and you know all I said was “Hello,” I don’t know what you were so mad about—I seem to have gotten sick too.
About two weeks after I saw you, after I’d gone back to Sarah Lawrence, I was babysitting and I stood up to get the little brat a glass of water, and I fell down! I just fell down. Pain, pain, and more pain in my legs. The kid’s father helped me home, even though it was only across the street. I literally crawled—like a cockroach—into the bathroom, into bed, to the phone the next morning when it rang. Luckily it was a friend of my mother’s who wanted to know if I wanted a ride to Westport. She came and got me and helped me down to her car and drove me out, and I stayed there for a month, in bed.
The doctors had no idea what was wrong. First they thought it was an infection and they stuck a needle in my hips to see if they could draw pus out. They tried it twice: No pus. Then they put me in this rinky-dink traction. It looked like a late-night TV-commercial contraption—“It slices! It dices! It mashes! It whips!” They hooked me up in my own bed. Actually, my parents’ bed—my room is really damp. One of the walls is crumbling too (bad drainage, I think). Anyway, my poor parents alternated sleeping in the guest room and on the floor next to me. It was very odd because they had separated about three weeks before. My father therefore thinks the whole thing is psychological. He feels very guilty. Of course, he feels guilty anyway for dumping my mother. But I’m glad they finally got a separation. They’ve been fighting for ten years, so what’s the big deal? But I can’t say that to them. At least not to my father—he’s so solemn.
So I slept for a month in the soggy bed. It was so humid there. And I sweated a lot because I had a fever. I used to get mildew on my shoes in the closet, so I thought I might see some green moss growing on my legs, but it didn’t. I probably have some kind of arthritis—that’s what they tell you when they can’t find pus and they really don’t know—so the damp probably made it even worse.
The bathroom was four steps from the bed—I know because I counted—and I had to use a walker to get there. Sometimes I put heating pads on my hips and knees, and then, since they didn’t work, I put ice packs on, and then, since they didn’t work, I put the heating pads back on. It helped to pass the time, and improve hand-eye coordination.
My father snored on the floor and jumped up yelling, “Whah? Who?” every time I made a sound, and every time I moaned, my mother flew in from the other end of the house. I don’t know how they heard me.
I’ll have to take incompletes in all my courses, and I was supposed to go to Florence with Cindy this summer, but that’s obviously off. She felt guilty, too, because she’s still going, so she came and spent a weekend. She tried to entertain me by dancing around wearing only ice bags and singing Carmen Miranda songs. She was moderately successful.
I had a fever—about 102—the whole time, so the doctors decided I better go into the hospital. The ambulance looked like a station wagon. Very painful journey on stretcher to station wagon. Felt like groceries when stashed in the back. Screamed a lot.
Everyone thinks I’m a hysteric. Except my parents, of course. I guess no one can really imagine being so sensitive to pain. It does sound excessive—I mean, the cracks in the floor between the linoleum tiles hurt me as the stretcher rolls over them.
So here I am in the hospital. In New York because the doctor is supposed to be good. There were cigarette butts in the corner of the room and they still don’t know what’s wrong with me. They won’t give me any drugs because I’m a teenager.
I’ll write again when I have some more cheerful news. Will you write to me? I know this is a very self-centered letter, and centered around a not tremendously interesting self at the moment—I mostly cry, scream, and try not to pee since it hurts to walk to the bathroom—but it is a letter nevertheless.
Love, Alice
Curtains hung around one of the beds like sheets drying in an alley. One woman stared at her suspiciously from inside an oxygen tent. Another sat up in bed, suddenly shy, arranging Kleenexes and glasses on her bedside table as if she were tidying up for an unexpected guest.
Alice was afraid someone would vomit or die. She tried to smile politely. What if they snored, or coughed all night? She felt intrusive. She hated them.
“Isn’t the view magnificent?” the lady next to her asked, pointing down to the street. It was clogged with traffic. Faint honks occasionally drifted up. “I’ve just had surgery. Well, I never was robust.” She sighed. She began describing her dead husband—pink skin, sparkling blue eyes, white hair—and then began to sob.
“Oh,” she suddenly cried out, “my friends have tried to fix me up with a few dirty old goats in Florida....” Her accent, which had been full-blown genteel, like a posturing homosexual, suddenly assumed a leering quality and Alice wondered with horror what this frail old lady might go on to recount. But “none of them measured up to my darling,” she declared loyally in her former tone.
“That’s good,” Alice said respectfully.
The woman on the other side had fallen asleep. The lady in the oxygen tent was obscured by the reflection of the setting sun, but Alice was sure she continued to stare at her with uncompromising suspicion.
Alice rang for a nurse. When a great big woman stomped up to her bed, Alice asked for her shot. She waited in the dark until she realized it had been a long time since the nurse had left and then rang again.
“Okay, okay,” said the same big nurse. She handed Alice a little pill.
“Shot,” Alice said, groaning and writhing. “My doctor prescribed shots.”
“Shot? You can’t have no shot. You asked for a pill. You don’t get no shot.”
“Shot. I get a shot, I want a shot.”
“Do you see a needle here? I don’t have a shot, I have a pill. And that’s what you’re getting.”
“Shot.”
“Don’t you tell me,” said the nurse. All Alice could see in the gloom was her beefy hands. Hands holding a small paper packet and a paper cup. “I opened the paper this pill is served in. What do I do with it if you don’t take it?” demanded the nurse.
“I’ll take it later. Just get me the shot now. I haven’t had one all day. I’m allowed to get one every four hours.”
“We will have to throw it away,” declared the outraged nurse, dropping the white pellet in the wastebasket. It made a tiny ping, and the nurse left. She brought back the shot, which she administered with vigor.
The woman with the dead husband vomited all night. It seemed to Alice that she dramatized the incidents a little, making loud retching noises long before and after the actual event.
Then the woman in the oxygen tent died, discovered by the male nurse when he came to t...

About this edition

• Publisher: Picador
• Publication date: 2012
• ISBN 10: 1250002400
• ISBN 13: 9781250002402
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 240