Pretty Things Don't Break

by Lauren Jayne

  “What?” The thought of someone else telling me something about my best friend made me sick. “What are you talking about?”

  “She was driving drunk, and the judge told her she’d have to go to jail or treatment, so she’s gone. I happened to be running down by her house as she was leaving and she told me to tell you. Then she told me about Hawaii, and I told her I’d buy her ticket. I’m going to go to Hawaii with you!”

  I felt like someone had just punched me in the stomach. Being a person who didn’t know how to small talk and was very quiet if I wasn’t around my own people, I just stared at her big, brown, doll-like eyes as she took tiny bites of her Atavi.

  “We’ll have a blast! Carmen’s mom was able to change the ticket into my name. I’m so excited! I have to go home and pack; we leave in two days.”

  So off to Hawaii I went, with a relative stranger. When we arrived, purple leis around our necks, we made our way to our rooms. Our bags perfectly lined the sides of our rooms; clothes hung in each closet with shoes color-coded below them. While the slew of screaming, barfing graduates paraded through the corridors of the hotel, Jody and I retreated to our rooms to call our boyfriends, Ben and Stephen.

  The next day, while self-consciously walking down the beach, feeling like an enormous monster next to Jody, two guys walked up to us and asked to take a photo. I told them to stand together, and they said, “No, we each want a picture with you,” pointing to me. In a flurry, one boy jumped next to me, put his arm around my shoulder while his friend snapped, and in a blink they switched. Completely oblivious to what had just happened, Jody and I resumed walking down the beach.

  Back at home, I continued to contemplate my future. Being late to turn 18, I still had two long months to go before I could sign a lease on my own apartment. But Jody didn’t; she was twenty and needed a roommate.

  “Lauren, you have to move in with me. Do you know how rare it is to travel with someone and have no drama? We return each other’s clothes clean; do you know you are the only person on the planet I’d let wear my favorite Levis? We’re both neat freaks. We love to cook. And we are both weirdly responsible for our ages.”

  It took me about half a second to tell Jody that I’d move in, but my portion of the rent was going to be three hundred and fifty dollars. Jody already had one roommate named Jen, who made Jody and I look like slacker slobs. Rent for the three-bedroom house was a thousand dollars. I knew I needed a job, and fast. Not the kinds of jobs I’d had since I was fifteen, either, to pay for gas and lip gloss; I needed an adult job since I almost was one.

  Exactly one week to the day after returning from our senior trip, I was hired as the receptionist at Dean Witter, a stock brokerage house in Bellevue. My boss, Roxanne, wearing a dress belted around her tiny waist and heels that tip-tapped across our marble floors, was like a sergeant watching over her soldiers. She was kind, and during our interview she told me I could have a life-long career with them if I worked hard. On my first day, walking in with my navy slacks and matching sweater, I found my way to my seat behind the huge marble counter. Looking down at the blinking phone lines, there must have been eighty extensions. Roxanne sat with me and then behind me for two weeks until I knew exactly who each of those buttons belonged to.

  “Let me speak to the young fellow with the brown hair,” a man would say when I’d answer the phone, always before three rings; after three it rang over to Roxanne, and she made it very clear that a call should never, ever, ring to her desk.

  “Yes, let’s see, do you know his name?” I’d ask in my most polite voice.

  “He sits back in the corner, by the busty secretary.”

  “Ok, sir, I’ll connect you to Mr. Hanover; have a good day.”

  Pretty soon, with only the slightest bit of information, I could field twenty calls that always seemed to ring at once, putting each on hold before the third ring and then sending them out to their desired locations with an air of calm at all times while sorting mail, labeling mailings, filing paperwork, and greeting panicked clients.

  “You are the first and last face of Dean Witter; make it a pleasant one,” Roxanne said as she tapped by in front of my huge desk.

  On the second Friday, Roxanne handed me a piece of mail. Carefully folding down along the perforated lines like it said on the blue envelope, I tore it open and saw my first real paycheck. Within hours, I was at Nordstrom across the street buying my very own pearls with my first check.

  When I went to Carmen’s after work, she said, “Look at my working girl and your big-girl pearls; you are so official, you look like Coco Chanel.”

  Driving up to my apartment, I rolled down the window of my little blue Honda and waved at Bill, the security guard who stood post in a brown postal-looking outfit, even on his days off.

  “Hello, Lauren, nice day at work?”

  I waved and smiled as I drove down to my covered parking spot. Walking into my apartment, it smelled like candles and a mix of all of our perfumes. Jody was standing in the kitchen sautéing chicken and asparagus. Jody, Jen and I all liked the same foods, so it made it easy to share cooking responsibilities. Mostly, it was Jody and me, as Jen pretty much lived with her boyfriend in North Bend, but wasn’t ready to say that she lived with him, so she paid rent here and showed up to do laundry on the weekends.

  Heading back to my room, I thanked God a million times; thank you for my room and my roommates, for my beautiful apartment, for my bed and my own bathroom, with my own towels. Looking around, everything was in its place: clothes neatly organized in the closet, photos of the girls and a few of Ben and I lining my dresser, and the sound of Jody’s music quietly humming in the background. Feeling a bit overwhelmed, I lay on my bed and sank into my moment of gratitude; I felt like the luckiest girl in the world.

  A year later, Jody and I knew we were undeniably meant to live together, and as I prepared to go back to school finally, Mom called and invited me to dinner at the house. This was a first.

  “Why don’t you come to the house around six?”

  Assuming I’d walk into a cold house and have to figure out what to make or where we should go, I was shocked when, on that brilliant fall day, I walked up our stairs and opened the door to something I’d never experienced before. When I cautiously put my key in the door, it was unlocked, meaning someone was already home. Warmth and amazing smells surrounded me like a welcome hug. Blinking a few times, I walked in. Mom was in the kitchen lifting the cover to the big black pan that held a perfectly cooked roast beef surrounded by red potatoes and carrots. In the kitchen, Dad was standing in a button-down shirt and slacks talking to Mom. Talking to Mom - not screaming or pounding or yelling - but talking in a normal, slow tone, one that I’d never heard come out of his mouth in my life.

  Dad said to me, “How’s work going? I’ve heard the market’s been on a tear.”

  I looked around the kitchen to see who he was talking to.

  Answering Dad, I turned around to see that Mom had set the table with forks and knives and napkins and glasses. We sat down at 6:30 and I listened as Noah, Mom, and Dad chatted like one of the families on TV. Dad asked me a few more questions and stood with his hand in one pocket, and his head turned as he listened to my answers.

  Then he said, “It’s kind of silly for you to pay rent since you’re going to start school at BCC. You should think about moving back in.”

  I had already figured out a way to do my courses and keep my job at Dean Witter, but Dad didn’t seem like Dad, and I left our house wondering what had happened.

  When I got to my car, it wouldn’t start, so Mom drove me home.

  On Rt. 156, just after the bridge, Mom turned down the radio in her BMW with her red fake nails and said, “You and Dad sure got along tonight. Why have you always hated each other so much?”

  Mom never started a sentence with anything other than “I,” so I tried to think for a second and really listen. Maybe all of her self-help books and seminars were finally working.

&nbs
p; “Mom, do you remember when you were calling your list on a Sunday night, and I came in with a fat lip and a bloody nose, and you threw a shoe at me?”

  “I had to work to keep food on the table and a roof over your head. But I guess it wasn’t enough for you; I guess I didn’t do enough.”

  “No, Mom, you did; but do you remember?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t fall down the stairs, Mom.”

  She looked at me and turned up the radio. I was willing to give her whatever she was able to take. If she’d pulled off the road, I’d have talked all night, but that was enough for her, so it was enough for me.

  As we pulled into my beautiful apartment complex, Mom said, “Let’s go shopping next week.”

  I said, “Ok, thanks for dinner and for the ride. Love you.”

  Seeming like part of a real family for the first time in my life, I went to bed grateful. At about nine the next morning, sitting at my desk, with my coffee less than an inch from my hand, a call came in that I cheerily picked up on the first ring.

  “Thank you for calling Dean Witter, this is…”

  “Lauren, it’s Noah.”

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Dad. They just took him to the hospital.”

  “Who?”

  “Dad – an ambulance – but they told Mom it was some kind of massive inner ear problem – hold on, that’s the other line.”

  Noah clicked over to the other call and, after moments of silence, all I heard were screaming sobs, and then what sounded like the phone falling to the floor.

  I grabbed my bag and headed to the hospital. Running into the emergency room, I saw Mom, and she quickly brought me to the back room. Dad was next to her on a gurney and when he tried to speak his tongue sounded like it weighed twenty pounds.

  All I heard was “irsty” in a barely recognizable tone; his tongue was stuck and hanging out; he couldn’t control it.

  He said, “Can’t see,” in garbled tones.

  “Mom, what is going on?”

  “Dad was getting ready for work; he was shaving, and he yelled out, ‘Mom, I can’t see.’ I ran into the bathroom to help him out; I was putting on my shoes to bring him in when he handed me the phone and said, ‘911.’ They told me it was a problem with his inner ear that caused him to lose his balance, equilibrium, and eye-sight.”

  “Why can’t he talk?”

  “We don’t know.”

  A few minutes later, Dr. Chin, a short, tiny Asian man, walked in.

  “May I have a word with you outside?”

  We all moved to the room next to my dad’s.

  Dr. Chen said, “You should call his relatives. We are going to try and stop the bleeding, but we won’t know until after the surgery.”

  “They said it was an ear infection,” my mom said, confused.

  “From our preliminary scan we found bleeding in the brain stem; that’s why he’s lost his vision and speech. We will do everything we can, but we need to get him back to surgery now.”

  Not wanting to be gone too long, we all walked in and stood next to Dad. The fear in his visionless eyes brought tears to mine. He looked up at me, unable to speak. Mom, Noah and I were all holding his hands, trying not to scare him, as he had no idea what was going on. Dr. Chen’s nurse told us to say goodbye and that it was time. As she wheeled him away, he dropped our hands and turned his head in our direction. As he disappeared from sight, standing in the empty emergency room behind a curtain, Mom started to sob.

  Noah said, “We need to call Grandma and Grandpa, and they can tell Uncle Terry and Diane and Uncle Arnie.”

  Mom said, “I’ll call Booboo and Milton and Hope.”

  Within a few hours, our corner of the waiting room was full. Hope had flown in from WSU, where she’d been going to school for almost eight years. The Forman family was there, sitting on the edge of the couch, wondering what they could do to help.

  When Grandma and Grandpa walked in, wearing fancy clothes, I asked why they were so dressed up.

  “It’s Rosh Hashanah today, honey; we were on our way to temple when your mom called.”

  I had no idea what she meant but knew this was no time for questions.

  Noah asked Mom, “Didn’t Dad just have his forty-year-old checkup? I thought he told me they’d checked his brain too.”

  “They did,” Mom said.

  I listened as Mom kept telling the story to people as they trickled in.

  “We are supposed to go to Maui for our 22nd wedding anniversary in a few weeks,” she added this time.

  After eleven hours of surgery on his brain, the double doors opened, and Dr. Chen walked down the dark corridor towards us.

  “He’s in a coma. The bleeding was more extensive than we’d believed it to be. He had what is called an AVM, an arteriovenous malformation. It is a tangling of the tiny veins, and his was in the brain stem; it has been there since he was formed in utero.”

  At that moment, I looked up at Grandma, whose tears wouldn’t stop falling. The look on her face said, “this was my fault.” I shot her a reassuring glance that said, “how could it be?”

  “But they said his brain was perfect at his check-up; they did a scan,” Noah said, like somehow, if the doctor knew this, Dad would be OK.

  “Some people can go their entire lives and never know they have it. Others’ erupt without much damage. There is a chance that he will come out of this, but it is slim, and we won’t know until or if he wakes up.”

  That was all I needed to hear.

  Hope and I walked into his hospital room, pulled back the light yellow sheet covering Dad, still with his eyes closed and peaceful, more peaceful than I’d ever seen in my life. A tube in his throat, wires, and beeping contraptions hooked up to every part of his body; he was still and calm and looked like a sleeping angel. On either side of him, we held his warm hands.

  “Dad, it’s us; Hope flew in from school to see you. Can you hear us? I think you can and Dad, I know you’re going to wake up. Mom keeps talking about you going to Maui with her and taking her to have plate lunch at Sushiya; you know how you can’t upset Mom.” Hope and I laughed while tears rolled down our cheeks.

  Every time night fell, and the lights went low in the hallways, I crawled onto the couch in our corner of the ICU waiting room and thought about Dad and what it would be like when he woke up. I dreamt about him waking up and saying, “What happened? I don’t remember anything.” And I would say, “You had an accident, but you are OK now; you’re going to be OK.”

  I dreamt about taking him to therapy, where he’d learn to walk again and speak again. I dreamt of the conversations we’d have.

  He’d ask me, “What did I used to call you? Sweetie? Doll? Honey? Or something really silly?”

  “You don’t want to know,” I would reply.

  He’d say, “I can feel you are not being honest with me; I need you to be honest. If I don’t know what kind of dad I was to you, how can we move forward? We have a chance at a new life, a better life; you have to talk to me.”

  He’d say in my dreams, “I have to know; how will I know how to take care of you, how to love you, if I don’t know your favorite color or your favorite ice cream flavor; if I don’t know what your nicknames were? What’s your best memory with me?”

  I thought, how can I tell him anything? He’s here now, a clean slate. Move forward, move on. But I knew, and could tell that somewhere behind this new teddy bear of a man, he knew too.

  “You called me…stupid, ugly, whore…” I’d say in a soft, slow voice. “My best memory of you is…now.”

  In my imagination, Dad sat silent, and then he lifted his hands, covered his blind eyes, and sobbed.

  I hoped for those moments in our future, but in the present, I sat by Dad’s side, as he lay in a coma while people came and went recalling funny stories about him, we talked. I talked, and he listened; peacefully, restfully, fully, without a scary bone in his body, he listened to me. When I saw his
eyes flutter, and his hand squeeze a bit at a good part in one of my stories, I ran for Hope.

  “Watch this,” I said.

  After about a half hour, as we held his hands, his eyes fluttered behind his lids a little. Hope went to find the nurse; I was sure Dad was finally going to wake up.

  Ripping back the curtain in his private room, the nurse who seemed to be at the end of a 76-hour shift said, “He’s brain dead; his body may be flinching, but it isn’t intentional. He can’t feel anything. Watch this.”

  Then, with the face of a dried apple, she took her pasty hands, put them in the center of my dad’s chest, and with all of her might pushed her thumbs into his sternum, twisting them back and forth, right where his ribs met. She pushed until it seemed as if her feet were off the floor.

  “See? Nothing. If he had any brain activity, the slightest pressure here would make a grown man cry.”

  Dozing off in his room, I dreamt of our new life: Dad and me, walking arm in arm like those girls on greeting cards. I wanted to take him to my favorite spots: on the end of the Houghton dock in Kirkland where I’d go and float away surrounded by nothing but water and mountains; on the ferries over the Sound surrounded by nothing but sea water and God; the falls where we’d sit in my favorite spot after walking through the forest-covered trail and watch, like I’d done a million times before, as the water pummeled onto the rocks at the bottom and landed in a pond and then floated down the river as if nothing ever happened. I’d say, “That reminds me of us,” and he’d get it without any explanation. I wanted to play him my favorite music; I knew he’d be healed just by listening. I dreamt of him walking me down the aisle someday, the two of us thanking God together for this tragedy that had saved our lives.

  Day after day, I waited as Mom went home to shower and Noah and Hope went home to change. I wouldn’t leave – not once. The thought of Dad waking up for one minute and asking the nurse for one of us and having her say, “They left you here alone. No one is here,” was more than my heart could bear. Our conversations were the best we’d ever had, and I knew that when Dad wiggled his eyes open, he’d be changed, and we’d be changed. I knew I’d finally have a daddy.