Should I Stay?

Chapter 6

There were a lot of things wrong with me.

Apparently, I have a collapsed lung. A reptured spleen. Internal bleedings of unknow origin. And most serious, the condition of my brain. I've also got broken ribs.The docters call me lucky. And sure I am. I could've ended like my Mom and Dad.

Right now, I'm in surgery, the docters have to remove my spleen, insert a new tube to drain my collapsed lung, and stanch whatever else might be causing the intern bedings in my body. There isn't a lot they can do about my brain.

''We will just wait and see,'' one of the surgeons says, looking at the CT scan of my head. ''In the meantime, call down to the blood bank. I need two units of O neg and keep two units ahead.''

O negative? I didn't even know that. It's not something I've ever had to think about before. I've never been in an hospital before, until now.

Blood. it is everywhere. It does not faze the docters one bit. The keep doing things with their insturments. I've really know idea what they're doing.

The surgeon, who wanted to listen to rock music during my operation, sweats a lot. One nurses has to even dab the sweat off of him. At one point, he sweats through his mask and has to replace it.

The operation goes on and on. I'm exhausted by now. I don't know how the docters can keep it up. They're still standing still, but it seems harder than running a marathon.

I start to zone out, but then I start to wonder about this state I'm in.

If I'm not dead -the heart monitor is bleeping along, so I assume I'm not- but I'm not in my body, either.

Can I go anywhere I want right now? Am I some kind of ghost? Could I transport myself to a beach in Hawaii? Maybe I can pop to the hall where Ed Sheeran is playing right now! Okay Lucy, now you're thinking like a stalker.

Can I go to Louis?

Just to try, I wiggle my nose. Nothing happens. I snap with my fingers. I'm stil here. Okay well I know now that I can't transport to Hawaii.

Ahh well, I decided to try somethig more simple. I just walk.

I walk into the wall, imagine that I'll float throught the wall and come out on the other side. Except what happens when I walk in to the wall is that I hit the wall.

A nurse come in the room with a bag of blood, and before the door shuts behind her, I slip through it.

I'm in the hospital corridor. There are a lot of docters and nurses in blue and geen scrubs walking around. A woman, her hair in a crazy blue shower cap, calls out, ''William, William''. I walk a little farther. There are rows of operation rooms, all full of sleeping people. If the patiens inside these rooms are like me, why can't I see them? I'd really like to meet someone in my condtion.

I follow a nurse through a set of automatic doubble doors. I'm in a small waiting room right now. Then I see two familiar faces.

My grandparents are here.

Gran is chatting away with Gramps, or maybe it's just her way of not letting emotions get the best of her. I've seen her do it before, when Gramps had an heart attack.

You can draw a a straight line from Gramps to Dad to Louis, altrough Gramps's wavy hair has gone from brown to gray and he is stockier than Louis, who is a stick, and Dad, who is wiry and muscular from working out at the Y. But they all have one thing in commend. They all have the same watery green-blue eyes, the exact color of the ocean.

Mabe this is why I find it hard to look at Gramps.

Juilliard was Gran's idea.

We go back to Doncaster sometimes in the summer, to a lodge that for one week is taken over by Gran's extended family. That's when I see the second cousins and great aunts and uncles whose names i don't even recognize. I have a lots family in Doncaster, but they're all from my Gramp's side.

Last summer, I brought my keyboard , that I'd got from my aunt, so I could keep practicing for an upcoming music concert. The plight wasn't that full, so the stewardesses let it travel in a seat next to me. Louis thought this was hilarious and kept trying to feed it pretzels.

At first, it seemed unthinkale, I mean do you see me going to Juilliard one day? no, me neither.

There was a perfect good music program at the university near us. Juilliard was in a whole different counrty. And it is really expensive. My Mom and Dad were intrigued with the idea of it, but I could tell neither one of them really wanted me to go to New York City. They had no idea whether I was good enough. In fact neither did I.

Professor McClain told me that I was one of the most promising students she'd ever taught, but she'd never mention Juilliard to me.

But the idea burrowed into Gran's brain. She took it upon herself to speak to Professor McClain about it, and my teacher took hold of the idea like a dog to a bone.

So, I filled out my applications, collected my letters of recommendation, and sent in a recording of my playing.

I didn't tell Harry about any of this. I'd told myself that it was because there was no point advertising it when even getting an audition was such a long shot. But even then I'd recognized that for the lie that I was. A small part of me felt like even applying was some kind of betrayal. Juilliard was in New York. Harry was here, in London.

He's not at high school anymore. He was a year ahead of me, and this past year, my senior year, he'd started at the university in town. He only went to school part-time now because The White Eskimo's was starting to get popular. There was a record deal with a London-based label, and a lot of traveling to gigs. So only after I got the creamy envelope with The Juilliard School and a letter inviting me to audition in it, I would tell Harry that I'd applied.

I explained how many people didn't get that far. At first he looked a little awestruck, like he couldn't quite believe it. Then he gave a sad little smile. ''Ed Sheeran better watch his back,'' he said.

The auditions were held in Sheffield. Dad had some big conference at the school that week and couldn't get away, and Mom had just started a new job, so Gran volunteered to keep me company. ''We'll make a girls' weekend of it. Take high tea's and go window-shopping in Sheffield. We'll act like tourists.''

But a week before we had to leave, Gran tripped over a rock and sprained her ankle. She had to wear one of those boots where you aren't supposed to walk. I said I could just go by myself. I could drive, or take the train, and come right back.

It was Gramps who insisted on taking me. We drove down together in his pickup truck. We didn't talk much, which was fine by me because I was so nervous. I kept playing with the good-luck talisman Louis had give me before we left. ''Break a leg,'' he'd told me.

The audition was grueling. I had to play five pieces: a Shostakovich concerto, two Bach suites, all Tchaikovsky's Pezzo capriccioso, which was next to impossible, and a movement from Ennio Morricone's The Mission, a fun but risky choice because everyone would compare it to the original one. I walked out with my legs wobbly and my hands wet with sweat.

''Shall we see the town?'' Gramps asked, his lips into a smile.

''Definitely!''

We did all the things Gran had promised we would do. Gramps took me to high tea and shopping, although for dinner, we skipped out on the reservations Gran had made at some fancy place and instead walked into Nando's, and ate there.

When we got back home, Gramps dropped me off and gave me a big hug. Normally, he was a handshaker, maybe a back-patter on really special days. His hugs were strong and tight, and I knew it was his way of telling me that he'd had an amazing time.

''Me too Gamp's,'' I whispered. ''Me too.''