Waiting on the World to Change

         I woke up in a hospital nine months ago. The doctors told me, I had been in

coma for twenty years, more than half my life. I was a medical phenomenon. During


those two months of recovery, I excelled in both speech and mobility rehabilitation. I

could tell the nurses to get me the fuck out of here, not pee myself, and throw a bird

at the annoying sick people.
       
        “Honey, you did good today,” a nurse said who entered the room and changed

 
my drip. “You must have some folks praying for you.” Today in Rehab, I had been

able to pick up a box with my right arm.


        Fuck, I wasn’t dreaming. I was still in this hell hole. “What day is it?” I asked.
       
        “You mean, what year?” she said, paging the doctor.
       
        “Did you tell her, about her parents?” the doctor whispered as he passed the 
nurse in the doorway.
       
        “I’m not paid enough to do that,” the nurse said.


He was a young doctor; he barely had any worry wrinkles. He might not have even

killed anyone yet. He looked at his chart as he spoke.
     
        “Well, Miss Wallace, your recover has gone exceptionally well.” I can’t move

my fucking body. I’m a fat doll, with a dirty mouth. Goodie for me. “Never before,

have we had a coma patient wake up and began speaking so well within such a

short time. Incredible, which is why we are discharging you today,” the doctor said

smiling.
       
        “Doc, do me a favor?”
       
        “Yes, of course.”
       
        “Let me go back to sleep, would ya?”
       
        “As soon as your paper work is filled out, you get to go home. Miss Wallace, I

have some . . .I saw your aunt in the lobby, I’ll go get her now.”
         

        My aunt Mildred entered the room. She wore blue stretch pants that matched

her vibrant eyes. Almost all of her rich, thick black locks had fallen out, but she still

walked upright, like a cane was stuck up her ass. James, an old friend, walked in

behind her. He was smiling, a sickening smile like the kids on “it’s a small world” do.

They looked aged, gray, fat.                                                     
       
        “Look who it is, Romeo,” I said.
       
        “Romeo?” James asked. His cheeks and chin were lined with gray stubbles,

his hair was still thick, but was salt and pepper now. The skin on his cheeks pushed

up into his eyes, obscured his vision as he smiled.
     
        “The doc tells me, you’ve kept me on the machine for 20 years. Oh, Romeo,


what would I do without you.”
     
        “You get to go home, now,” he said smiling.

        “Yeah, we’re going back to Cambodia. Did you hear that Mrs. Snobby Face? 

Well if you didn’t, you can just ask Mr. Know It All. He’ll fill you all in,” I yelled at my

parents two, old neighbors peering through the hospital window.

        “Where’s my mommy?” I asked my aunt. “Are you my mommy?”

        “In recovery my ass. Take the fool home already,” my aunt told Romeo.

The nurse and Romeo helped me into a wheel chair and rolled me out of my room

into the gleaming white-walled hall. A crowd had gathered outside. They suddenly

began to talk about the chances of rain for tomorrow as I was wheeled out of the

lobby into the sunlight.

        “Mrs. Bake-sale, Mrs. Sleep-around, Mr. Cigar man and the rest of my lovely

town folk, I wish to thank you for your thoughtful prayers. Without them, I’m sure I

would be star gazing on a nice bunny cloud, eating a cream cheese bagel. Much

obliged to you all!” I said to my meddlesome neighbors. They pretended I hadn’t

spoken, thanked God for my recovery, and issued hugs of congratulations to my

aunt.

        “James, you look so old,” I said as we pulled out of the hospital parking lot. “I

hope I don’t look that old.”

        “You look good, just as always,” James said.

        “I don’t think I can trust your opinion,” I said and laughed.

        “Can we stop for ice cream on the way home?” I asked. “I feel like I haven’t had

ice cream in twenty years.” I laughed again. “Does that boy we went to high school

with, what was his name, Cougar boy, you know the one who always went after

moms.”

        “No, I don’t think so,” he said.

        “I can’t believe how old you look, and Aunt Mildred too. She has no hair. She

should buy some wigs, and then she could go to a restaurant as brunette Mildred

and leave as blond Mildred with a free meal,” I said. “I can’t believe Mr. Know it all

and Mrs. Snobby Face and all the others came to the hospital. I would have thought

age would have instilled some propriety in them. Nothing ever changes, does it?”

        “Jane,” James said, “Jane, I need to talk to you.”

        “Don’t be so serious James. I just got out of the hospital. You wouldn’t want to

be the cause of a relapse,” I said.

        “Jane, it’s about your parents,” he said. His hands weren’t at two and ten.

        “What’s wrong with them?” I asked. “Have they started to go loopy? I know

they’re in the hospital, I out of the doc. They’ve gone loopy, haven’t they?”

        “Jane, they’re dead,” he said taking hold of my hand.

        “Sky diving?”

        “Jane.”

        “Mountain climbing?” I asked. “Running with the Bulls?”

        “Jane,” he said. “Shut up, Jane. Let me finish.”

        “You’ve gotten feisty while I’ve been away. They faked their deaths to outsmart

the IRS, right? They took their million dollars in unpaid taxes to Mexico. Have you

visited them yet? I hear it’s lovely this time of the year.”

        “It’s winter, Jane,” he said.

        “Precisely, their favorite season,” I said.

        “Jane they,” he said. He had pulled over into a McDonald’s parking lot. “They

committed suicide, a year after you . . .” Romeo was crying now. Long, rapid tears,

were pouring down his face. “I’m so, so sorry Jane.”


        I got out of the car and went into McDonalds. I went into the Women’s bathroom and waited. There was still one person in the stall. I kicked the trash can

against the bathroom stall. The woman came running out, toilet paper stuck to her

shoe. I broke every seat in the bathroom, clogged each drain with wads of paper and

let the sinks overflow. I broke the doors off the hinged and punch at the walls, leaving

a trail of red blood. I straightened my hair and walked back into the lobby. I ordered a

number two.

        “I didn’t think you were in a state to eat,” I said as I climbed into the car. I

opened my bag of grease fried goodness. “Don’t look at me like that Romeo. I can’t

have you barfing and driving at the same time.” I took a bite and as we drove down

the street, my stomach turned. I rolled down the window. I couldn’t help it. I threw up

and it hit the car next to us, and ran down the window. It looked like pink curdled

milk. “Bulls eye!” I screamed “It even looks like a J.”

        “What did you do that for?” Romeo asked me.

        “Just drive Romeo. Do as you’re told,” I said.

        I was discharged, but put under house arrest at my parent’s old digs. The doc

said it would be the best place for my continued recovery. Luckily it was dark out,

when we pulled into the drive way. I didn’t want to have to deal with Mrs. Clare Nosy

Robinson and Mr. Frank Knows Everyone’s Business Johnson today, or any day in

the future. I still was hooked to an IV; the doctor’s didn’t want a relapse, I hadn’t

been documented yet. I was still in a wheelchair too and I was rolled down the stone

path towards the blazing red door. It was the only light in the dark.  Romeo opened

the door and a freezing breeze shook our hands. It was if they were still home.

Romeo flipped on the lights. I blinked. Strange objects starred at me from every inch

of the house. I blinked twice more, still everything inside was the same, all wrong. I

smashed the wheelchair’s joystick down and sped into the bathroom, sweeping the

trash can up into my lap with my functional, right arm. I dumped the vanilla candles

off the mantle into it, a Persian rug, a picture of two old graying people and a scruffy

old mutt off the coffee table, a purple phone off the counter, and a twelve pound fish

hanging on the wall. I looked up. Urine oozed from the lamp in the corner, covering

the room in a yellowish glow. I wanted to cry. I rammed the wheelchair into the light,

flinging the metal fixture and myself onto the floor, bits of shining urine flying

everywhere, turning to sand, and littering the floor.

        “What are you doing?” Romeo asked. I scrambled to get the wheelchair back

on its wheels, but I didn’t have the strength, my coma had left me weak and

useless. His hand caught my wrist as I reached out to grab the TV stand and pulled

it away. “What in God’s name are you doing?”

        “Getting rid of these. . . Spring cleaning,” I said. I pushed with all my strength,

but couldn’t budge the wheelchair. He pushed me back onto my wheels. He still held

my wrist tightly. I picked up the trash bin and my hand reached for the joy stick.

        “And now?” he asked.

        “I’m taking them to the dumpster down the street.”

        “Give them to me,” he said. “Come on, give them to me. I’ll take care of them.” 

I handed over the bin reluctantly.

        “I want a funeral,” I said. I looked up and saw them, gray and old holding 

hands, sitting on the couch, not with a child between them, but with an old scruffy

mutt. She was wearing a pink collar with a silver letter J hanging from it.

        “You realize, your parents were buried, ten years ago.”

        “Twice, for good luck then.” I was supposed to be the one to bury them, dead

or alive, no one else.

        “I’ll call the priest tomorrow.”
         
        My phone had been disconnected all week. It had been ringing too much.

Friday I received word from the New York Ballet company, I hadn’t been picked for

the company. I was too old, too out of shape they said. I plugged the phone back in

to call for pizza. It rang not stop after that, bouncing on the table as it jingled.

         “Yes, Dad,” I said having heard that buzzing sound just one too many times.

        “I’ve been calling all afternoon, Mary Jane,” his voice cracking on the last word.

There was a dead silence. “How are you?”

        “Fine.” Only my lifelong dreams have been crushed, but I’m fine. Ever since I

was five years old, I told my parents, my friends, everyone, that I wanted to be a

ballet dancer. I wanted to dance the lead role in the Nutcracker, travel to Russia and

be amongst the best of the best, study under Dmitri Roudnev. I was getting closer to

my dream each day, with 25 hours of dance lessons, and hours, upon hours of

practice at home. I installed a bar in my room. Then the notice came on my 13th

birthday, I had received a spot to audition for the New York School of Ballet. After

one year of hard training, I could audition to be in the company. My audition was a

week from Monday. I was so very close, and then it all came crashing down.

 
        “No,” my parents said. “You can’t go to New York. You’re just a kid. You have

to finish school, go to college. Wouldn’t you like to become a doctor?”

        “No,” I said. But they didn’t listen. They wouldn’t let me go. So I went by

myself. I stole my mother’s credit card and booked a flight the night before to New

York City. The taxi took me from the airport right to the front door of the New York

School of Ballet. It gleamed in the sun, every one of its hundreds, thousands of

windows, beamed at me, and beckoned me forth.  I went inside and was greeted by

a receptionist; she led me to the back, to the dancers warm up room. There

sprawled on the floor, against the walls were a hundred dancers. Some my age,

some older, some too old, but they all understood, they were all like me, in love with

ballet. I stretched out, and changed into my leotard and Pointe shoes. I had one

chance to nail it, but I wasn’t scared at all. My blood was hot running through my

veins; I couldn’t keep a smile from my face. I had waited all my life to be here.

        "Miss Wallace, they’re ready for you now,” the receptionist said opening the

black steel door. I couldn’t see beyond it, only a bright light. I stepped through the

door, past the thick black curtains, and onto the center of the stage.

        “You are Miss Wallace, correct?” a man’s voice said. I could not see his face

or any other of the judges faces.

        “Yes, sir,” I said.

        “Then, are you ready Miss Wallace?” he asked.

        “Yes, sir.” The black door behind me swung open and smashed into the wall. A

hand squeezed around my arm and pulled me into the shadows.

        “Miss Wallace? Are you alright?” the man’s voice called.

        “Excuse us,” my father said, stepping into the light, “My daughter is not

allowed to audition for your school. She knows this and she disobeyed our orders.”

        “You scared us to death. We woke and you were gone, no note, nothing,” my

mother said holding tight to my arm and looking at my face.


        “I would encourage you to reconsider. Your daughter is what we call young

potential. Indeed my fellow judges and I have been looking forward to her audition

ever since she applied.”

        “I’m sorry, but she can not. I’m sorry, we wasted your time.”

        “I’m sorry, we wasted hers.”

        I wasn’t allowed to dance anymore. They took away my leotards, my shoes,

my tights, but I still practiced late at night in my room. They promised they would

give back my things if I did well in school, got straight A’s and so I did. When I

turned 17, I took my first ballet class after four years of not dancing. I had been

saving for the last four years, every Christmas, every birthday; every penny went to

my savings. At 17, I got a car and got to dance again. The whole next year, I worked

harder than ever before and on my eighteenth birthday, I went to New York and

auditioned.

        “Mary Jane, are you there?” my father asked. “Push a button if you can hear

me.” I pushed the star button and held it the whole time he spoke, “You don’t have to

be fine.”

        “I am," I said.

        “It’s okay to talk about it. We know you’re upset," my father said.

        “I got a job in Cambodia as an English teacher and I’m going to open my own

dance school once I save up some money.”

        “What about USC? You’ve been accepted into their Pre-med program. All your

hard work would finally pay off.” Your hard work, not mine.

        “My flight leaves in two weeks. I’ll be coming over to your house next week

sometime. There are still a few things I need to get.”


Wind swept over the phone and my father’s voice was far away as he said “You’re

throwing your life away.”

        “Don’t yell at her. It won’t do anyone any good,” my mother’s voice, muffled

too, crept through the covered phone. “She’s very upset right now. In a couple of

days, after the initial shock wears off, she’ll come home. We’ll send James to her;

he’ll talk her into coming home. Everything will work out you’ll see, but we can’t

push her right now.” Silence as my mother’s hand slipped off the receiver and her

voice grew loud and clear again “Hi, sweetie. Dad’s just run to get the door. I think

its aunt Mildred; she’s coming over for lunch today. We’re both very sorry about your

audition, sweetie. Don’t be sad, we’re here for you and so is James. We love you,

and we’ll talk to you soon. Good bye sweetie,” she said and hung up the phone.

        “Sure thing,” I said. I slammed the receiver down, pushing down hard even after

the call had ended. I only had to see them one more time. James came out of the

bathroom. He has picked me up at the airport, after I flew back from New York. I

wouldn’t let him take me back to my parents’ house, so we went to a hotel instead.
          “Jane, marry me,” he said. “Marry me, and we’ll go to USC together. I’ll take

care of you. We’ll start a family together and have our own practices. I hope we have

a daughter just like you.”
         “Fuck, James! I am never going to marry you. I am never going to love you.

Never! You only want to marry me because you’re supposed to. You don’t even

know me, what I’ve been through, what I want to do. I’m used goods, not your type. I

never have been.” I threw my purse over my shoulder and slipped my shoes on.
         “Bring that back to them, won’t you?” I said indicating to the suit case. “It’s all

there’s. Don’t be sad James, go back to them. It’s where you belong. Go back to

them and be happy.” I walked towards the door and stopped, turned and walked

back to James who was still sitting on the bed, starring at me. I kissed him on the

lips, quick, no tongue. “See, nothing. You’re not losing anything.” And I left.