The Descendants Read Free

wish you would talk to her,” I say. “I want you to do that before we leave. I can get you a soda. I’ll give you some privacy. You can talk in private.” I stand up, putting my arms over my head and stretching. I feel bad as I look down at Joanie. I have so much mobility.
    “You want a diet something?”
    “Do you think I’m fat?” Scottie asks.
    “No, I don’t think you’re fat, but Esther loads you with sugar, and I’m going to put you through a little detox, if that’s okay. Things are changing around here.”
    “What’s detox?” She lifts her stringy arms over her head and stretches. I’ve noticed her copying things I do and say.
    “It’s what your sister should have done,” I mumble. “Be back in a flash. Don’t go anywhere. Talk.”

 
     
    2

     
     
    I WALK INTO the hall, which is quiet. At the central reception area, there are nurses and receptionists and visitors waiting for the nurses and receptionists to look up and acknowledge them. Every time I pass the other patients’ rooms, I tell myself not to look in, but I can’t help myself; I look in the room next to Joanie’s. It’s the popular patient’s room, and it’s usually filled with family, friends, balloons, leis, and flowers, as though he’s accomplished something by ailing. Today he’s alone. He emerges from the bathroom barefoot and holding his hospital gown together. You can tell that on the outside of the hospital, he’s a tough sort of guy, but the gown makes him look delicate. He looks at a card on the table, then puts it back down and shuffles to bed. I hate get-well cards. It’s like telling someone to have a safe flight. There’s really not a whole lot you can do.
    I continue toward the central area and see Joy and another nurse walking toward me. Joy personifies her name beautifully.
    “Mr. King,” she says. “How are you today?”
    “Wonderful, Joy, and you?”
    “Good, good.”
    “Good,” I say.
    “I saw you in the paper today,” she says. “Have you made your decision? Everyone’s waiting.”
    The other nurse nudges her and says, “Joy!”
    “What? Me and Mr. King, we’re like this.” She puts her middle finger over her pointer finger.
    I continue walking toward the store. “Mind your own business, young lady.” I try my best to sound carefree. It’s embarrassing how much strangers think they know about me, and how many people, my cousins especially, are waiting to see what I’ll do. If they only knew how little thought I’ve given the matter. After the Supreme Court upheld the trust’s distribution structure, making me the largest shareholder, I just wanted to hide. It’s too much responsibility for one man, and maybe I feel a bit guilty, having so much control. Why me? Why does so much depend on me? And what did the people before me do in order for me to have so much? Maybe I subscribe to the idea that behind every great fortune is a great crime. Isn’t that how the saying goes?
    “Bye, Mr. King,” Joy says. “I’ll let you know if there’s anything in the paper tomorrow.”
    “Great, Joy. Thank you.”
    I can tell that other patients are wary of this banter I have with Joy. Why do I get acknowledged? My name probably augments their jealousy—the way it sounds: Mr. King, as if I’ve requested they call me this at Queen’s Hospital as some kind of joke. Patients don’t like that I’m somebody, but don’t they realize that you don’t want to be somebody in a hospital? You want to be nobody, in and out and forgotten.
     
     
     
    THE SMALL STORE is filled with things that show we care: candy, flowers, stuffed animals. These are the things that make us feel loved. I go to the fridge in the back to get the diet sodas. I feel proud of my no-sugar-soda rule. I’ve never had a rule so specific with my children besides “No, you can’t have that.”
    Before I check out, I flip through the cards. Maybe there’s one that Scottie can give to her mom that will do the talking for her.