Two Girls Staring at the Ceiling by Lucy Frank Page A

to me!
    “Yeah. Hey. It’s Shannon,”
    she calls into the intercom.
    “Could somebody please
    come in here and unhook me?”
    “Where you going?”
    “For a walk.
    “I’m supposed to be walking.
    So I’m taking a walk.”
    “What if Mom comes
    and you’re not here?
    No. Never mind.
    No worries. Go ahead.
    We’ll find you.”
    “For what?”
    “So you and I can …
    you know …”
    “Are you not hearing me?
    For what? A month from now
    we could pass each other
    on the street and never know.
    “And don’t gimme some shit about
    how sorry you are to be leaving.
    Cuz if it was me?
    And I was leaving you here?
    I’d be like, ‘Bye!’ ”
    “Yes. And I’d get it.
    Because we’re friends, you and me.
    And you’re not just my friend, okay?
    What Joyce, the nurse, said yesterday?
    About don’t be a hero?
    I don’t mean this to sound cheesy,
    but you really are my—”
    “YO! NURSE! KELLIANNE!
    ARE WE WALKING, OR WHAT?”
    I can’t remember
    feeling this glad
    to see my mom
    since the first week
    of preschool.
    “E xcuse me.”
    We’re just gathering up my bags
    when Kellianne walks through the door.
    “Shannon said don’t wait.
    She said something might be … you know …”
    Comes closer,
    drops to a half whisper:
    “About to happen. Gas-wise.
    “She thought it might not be that cool
    for you if she stuck around.
    “Oh, wait! That’s her,
    buzzing me now!”
    “D o not hug me.
    I don’t do huggy.”
    “Too bad.” I hold on
    till Shannon’s arms
    tighten around me.
    When she lets go,
    in purple pen I scribble
    my contact info on her hand,
    Dragon-eye her right back
    as I pass the pen to her.
    “Now I need yours.”
    A s Mom rolls
    my unnecessary mandatory wheelchair
    toward the elevator,
    I hear:
    “Do I need that brave little ‘you’re my hero’ shit?
    A, I may be short, but I am not little.
    B, no brave about it. You do what you do
    and you get through.
    Which I will do.
    “Now Job One’s done,
    it’s time to get myself cute again,
    get my driver’s license,
    get my daughter home with me …
    “And how’s she expect me to call her
    when she can’t even write the numbers
    so you can read ’em?
    “Hey, Kellianne,
    Is that a four or a nine?”

AFTER
    I n starry dark a girl
    sings while a boy
    strums his guitar.
    Her new running shoes flash
    as they jog through
    coppery October light.
    In a booth
    close to the bathroom
    in an old Chinese restaurant
    Two girls share
    pistachio ice cream
    with a little girl here for the holidays.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
    This book has been a long journey. I have many people to thank:
    Theresa Nelson, Susan Patron, and Virginia Walters, for believing in The Girls from the beginning, for patiently reading and rereading, cheering me on, and putting up with what must have seemed like endless whining.
    Deborah Heiligman, Patricia Lakin Koenigsberg, Elizabeth Levy, Roxane Orgill, and Erika Tamar, for their sustaining friendship, brilliant suggestions, and fine editing skills these many years.
    Phyllis Reynolds Naylor, for creating the PEN/Phyllis Naylor Working Writer Fellowship, and for her warmth and enthusiasm when The Girls received the award.
    My editor, Anne Schwartz, for believing that the early pages she saw could be a book, and then, with tenacity and great good humor, urging it into being and making it more than I’d dreamed. Stephanie Pitts, for her enormous care with the manuscript from beginning to end.
    I must also thank Richard Jackson, from whom I’ve learned so much, so happily.
    Chess and Shannon’s story is entirely fiction, but I’ve tried my best to get the medical details right and to accurately present what is known about Crohn’s disease at this time. For that, and so much else, I thank Dr. Scott Weber.
    There are no words for my gratitude to my husband, Peter Frank, for his incomparable editor’s eye and for encouraging, inspiring, and sticking with me. Through everything.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
    Lucy Frank won a PEN/Phyllis