The Broken Miracle

by J. D. Netto

  “Remember when you told me living off album sales alone wasn’t a reality? Look at us now. My Hymns records have been our bread and butter. I wish I could spend every single moment with the both of you, but—”

  “My uncle had the same mindset.” Her arms flailed. “Let me go out and tour and make my music known. That will bring the family money. Look how that turned out. And then there was my cousin—”

  “My music has been putting actual food on the table.”

  “I’m not denying that. I just feel you need something more sustainable for your health now that we have a son,” she said.

  “Gigs like these are sustainable. Our family needs this right now.”

  She pursed her lips. “Why didn’t you ask me what I thought?”

  Silence.

  Life Can Be Mean

  AUGUST 1986

  I had been in the hospital for almost a month since I passed out on the field. I kept getting skinnier by the day, and things got boring quickly while I was cooped up in there. Despite the new MRI scans, none of my cardiologists could find the source of the infection killing me. Whenever I went inside that machine, I thought of a mad scientist about to terminate one of his subjects.

  I was always tired. Always sleeping. Always weak. At least I got to watch a lot of meaningless television from bed. When The Price is Right becomes a morning routine, you’re either retired or—like me—in the hospital.

  Cute nurse Christie and I became pals. She was my outlet for good conversation.

  I was convinced the hospital wanted to kick my family out when the siblings came to visit. Things got loud really fast.

  On a day when my parents were visiting with Jonahs, one of the doctors came into the room with a folder and clipboard in hand. He was probably lingering outside the hall waiting for an adult to show up before entering.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Cardall, my name is Dr. Donald,” he said, clearly forcing a smile.

  “Pleasure,” Mom said with a look of concern.

  “And who’s this guy?” He bent down, meeting Jonahs at eye level.

  “Jonahs,” he said, coiling into himself.

  “Nice to meet you.” His attention shifted to my parents. “Could we talk in private?”

  “You have news?” There was a hint of worry in Mom’s voice.

  “Maybe we should talk outside.” Dr. Donald seemed hesitant.

  “You know I can hear everything you guys say on the other side of those walls, right?” I asked. “I can take it. It’s my heart after all.”

  Everyone in the room gave me a look of surprise.

  “Go ahead, Doctor,” Dad said after a brief silence.

  “Alright.” Dr. Donald sat down on one of the chairs lined up against the wall, my parents beside him. He glanced at me as if I was a ghost, filled his chest with air, and started, “We found the cause of his problem on the last MRI.” Sawyer went for a jog as the doctor opened the folder in his hand, revealing a paper crowded with black and white photos of my heart. One of them was circled, with an arrow pointing to a white dot in the upper left corner. “See this?” He tapped the dot with a finger. “This is a viral infection on the section of the heart where he was operated on as a baby. It’s as big as a walnut and has to be removed as soon as possible.”

  “Is it a risky procedure?” There was a hitch in Dad’s voice.

  Dr. Donald’s attention shifted between my parents and me. “Maybe it’s best—”

  “Just say it!” I barked, body flushed with anger and fear.

  “It’s life-threatening.” My parents’ faces paled. “There’s a real chance he might not survive the surgery.”

  I was shocked. Frozen.

  “Any chance this diagnosis could be wrong?” Dad leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

  “We’ll be taking a look at the heart during surgery to make sure nothing else is damaged,” Dr. Donald replied, his right leg bouncing up and down. “But as of right now, this is the diagnosis. I’m sorry it isn’t better news.”

  “When are you planning on doing the surgery?” Mom asked.

  “Early in the morning. We can’t wait much longer. I apologize it took so long to find the infection, but now that we did, we can’t waste time.”

  Jonahs stared at Dr. Donald as if he was a monster. The frown on his face carved wrinkles so deep, they could pass for chasms. Jonahs might have been ten, but if his eyes could fight, they would’ve destroyed the doctor on the spot.

  Dr. Donald stood with a silent nod and walked out of the room.

  “At least they found it,” I said weakly.

  “You’ll be fine, sweetie.” Mom sat on the edge of my bed and grabbed my hand. “Everything will be okay.”

  “I guess it’s time to add another scar to my collection, only this time right on my chest.”

  Jonahs walked to the other side of the bed, jumped up, and lay down beside me. “At least you’ll look even more dangerous without a shirt.”

  The four of us shared a brief laugh.

  I wasn’t sure how hard they tried to conceal their shock and fear. Honestly, no human being was capable of masking their feelings when receiving news like this. Funny enough, I didn’t fear death. Cute nurse Christie said the kids are always less afraid than their parents.

  But I did fear how my death would affect the ones who loved me.

  Jonahs stayed on the bed as my parents left the room to make a call. We didn’t speak. We watched cartoons and enjoyed each other’s company. He’d glance up and stare at me like I was some bionic being with superpowers.

  My parents returned to the room.

  “Dad’s going to go pick up your siblings so they can come see you before the surgery.” Mom sat in the brown leather chair beside my bed. Dad stood still, hands in his jean pockets.

  “I will make it,” I said, my voice catching in my throat.

  “Of course you will.” Tears welled in Dad’s eyes. “I have no doubt about it.”

  Once he left, Jonahs and I continued watching television while Mom read her book. She loved to read and, even at her darkest, a book was the light that made her smile.

  An unusual silence lingered when my siblings arrived. Whenever we were together, laughter, jokes, and fights would follow. Not that day. I tried to keep a straight face so they wouldn’t notice how weak I was, how much fear gripped me, and how much I didn’t want to disappoint them by leaving this world.

  I fell asleep that night thinking about life, death, my family, and Sawyer. A part of me was relieved they found the little monster attacking Sawyer, and then there was the part that really didn’t want to die.

  I woke up to the blurry sight of my parents sitting by my bed. My surroundings spun as if I was on a merry-go-round. The wallpaper was different from my previous room, the farm animals replaced with flowers.

  “Paul?” Even as the room spun, Mom’s pink blouse was something I couldn’t miss. “Paul, you’re awake!”

  “Am I in heaven?” I mumbled. “Because if I am, I’m requesting they take down this wallpaper.”

  “How are you feeling?” Dad’s voice was a distant, muffled sound. “Paul?”

  Everything went dark.

  When I opened my eyes again, Mom was the only one in the room; she wore a blouse with polka dots, eyes on the television, legs crossed.

  I felt something lodged in my throat. It wasn’t long until I realized there was a tube coming out of my mouth. My attention shifted to my exposed chest. Four tubes flowed out of my ribcage, draining fluid from my lungs into a box placed on the right side of the bed. The fresh wound overlaid my sternum, sewn shut by many sutures.

  My hand curled into a fist at the pain. I managed to let out a groan.

  She jumped up from the chair. “Paul!” She lowered the volume using the remote. “You’re okay.”

&nbs
p; Her glistening eyes locked on mine. The breath in my lungs, Sawyer beating away under my chest, the pain, and my mom’s face meant that I was alive. I made it. I survived.

  The tube in my trachea made it impossible to get a word out. “You’re in the ICU,” Mom said, knowing what I wanted to ask. “They want to keep you here for a while to make sure you’re okay.” She swallowed her words, pressing her lips into a line. “But of course you’re okay. You’re here.”

  The days that followed were a struggle to bear. From doctors switching the tubes out after draining fluids out of my body to the anxiety of not knowing what would happen next. The pain and the situation exhausted me.

  I questioned my reasons for staying alive. I knew my death would hurt those who loved me, but clinging to life turned into a pain of its own.

  I was eventually moved out of the ICU, but doctors and nurses kept a close watch the whole time. I felt claustrophobic, suffocated, useless—and somewhat of a disappointment despite surviving the procedure. Sawyer and I were to blame for this mess. To add even more excitement to my teenage years, Dr. Donald broke the news that I’d need reconstructive heart surgery within a year.

  I couldn’t bear the thought of doctors prying me open again. The possibility this would become my life made me question why I even wanted to live in the first place. What was the point of living a life like this?

  To everyone’s surprise, I went home after a week of recovery. Despite my body managing to heal faster than anticipated, I was going to be homeschooled for a few weeks. Dr. Donald wanted to ensure my wounds were fully healed before I returned to school.

  Mom was assigned the task of being my private teacher. Because that’s what everyone going into eighth grade dreams of, their mom being their teacher. I loved my parents, but school was my excuse to catch a break from family.

  As the days went on, I realized classes with her weren’t so bad after all. We would have breakfast together every day, and she’d cook lunch. I’d always finish my studies early so I could have some extra free time, which I looked at as a reward for having survived open-heart surgery.

  Jonahs and Dan kept an extra close watch during those weeks of recovery. They’d constantly ask me if I needed anything. We had this habit of sharing a bit of our day before we fell asleep. One night, after we all wished each other good night and were under the covers, I felt a tug on my shoulder. It was Jonahs.

  “You okay?” His face was only somewhat visible in the darkness.

  “I’m good. Just wanted to say something else before you fell asleep.”

  “What?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.

  “No matter what people say about your scar, you’ll always be a damn hero to me,” he whispered.

  Sawyer rushed a little faster.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “People can be mean,” he declared.

  “Life can be mean. I’ve gotten used to Mom making me breakfast and lunch at home, but pretty soon I’m going to have to be content with cafeteria food again.” I sighed. “See how cruel life can be?” I joked.

  “Just don’t forget what I said, okay?”

  “I won’t.”

  He released a ragged breath. “All of this will make sense someday. I know it will.”

  Own Your Story

  SEPTEMBER 1986

  It was my first day back at Evergreen Middle School. The entire house got up early since Dad expected us to be gathered around the breakfast table by six thirty for a ten-minute Bible study and review of the day’s upcoming events. Everyone disliked being up before the sun. On the days we struggled to wake up, he’d blast “Oh, What A Beautiful Mornin’” from the musical Oklahoma! at full volume. You’d think he’d extend a little mercy toward me after the surgery, but no, I had to be at the table along with everyone else. The faster we gathered, the sooner that song shut off.

  I wore the best things I had in my wardrobe: a jean jacket, dark blue sweater, jeans, and my Vans. I brushed my teeth, grabbed my puffer gray jacket, and cautiously made my way upstairs. I couldn’t walk much, and if I moved a lot, my lungs would remind me to take it slow by their inability to take in enough oxygen. To no one’s surprise, I was the last one to sit at the table.

  Dad asked Dan to pray before we all headed out. Halfway through, his words turned into determined snores. All the siblings looked at each other, suppressing our laughs. Once Dad noticed the culprit for the sudden silence, he jumped to the rescue. “And may we all do what’s right, remember who we are, and return home with honor,” he finished with a straight face. “Amen,” he said loudly and banged a fist on the table, the act startling my brother out of his sleep.

  “We were really deep in prayer there, huh?” he asked.

  “So deep, Dad,” he replied, eyes heavy.

  We all shared a laugh.

  The blueish tint of my fingertips held my attention as I dunked my spoon into my bowl of Cocoa Puffs. A few parts of my body had adopted the new color palette since the surgery. My lips matched my fingertips, making me look like a walking corpse.

  I wondered how much I’d have to walk between classes, worried I might actually faint on my first day. I didn’t want to be known as the guy who passed out all the time.

  The Unrelated Twins left as soon as they finished eating since their bus arrived early. My other siblings went to the basement to finish getting ready. Once I was done with breakfast, I grabbed a glass of orange juice and sat looking out the window at Mount Olympus. The sun peeked out from behind the summit, covering its surface with shades of red and orange.

  “Excited for your first day back?” Mom asked, cleaning up the table.

  “I should be the one asking if you’re excited to finally be relieved of your teacher duties.”

  “Don’t try to turn this on me.” Mom piled the dirty plates and glasses by the sink.

  “You know, I’d be more excited if you’d let me take the bus. All my teachers have already been warned about my condition. Can I at least go to school with the other kids?”

  “In a few weeks,” she said. “It’s too soon.”

  “I keep thinking about what people will say when they discover my new identity.” I took a sip of orange juice.

  “And what identity is that?”

  “I used to be just Paul, the guy with half a heart. Now I’m the dude who survived open-heart surgery and, as a gift, received blue fingertips and a huge scar right down his chest.”

  Mom leaned against the counter. She stared at me for a while and then said, “Think about the story you get to share. You’re not just someone with half a heart. You’re someone who’s surviving with one—no matter how broken.” She laced her fingers. “I’m pretty sure no one else at that school will be able to say the same. And if they can’t see beauty in that, then you keep on living your life until they do.”

  I chugged down the rest of the orange juice, trying to undo the knot that had formed in my throat.

  “Our instincts tell us to run away from what others think makes us weak,” she continued. “I say embrace it and use it as your strength. The prouder you are of your story, the weaker the eyes of the critic.”

  I chuckled and folded my arms. “You’re the wife of a journalist.”

  “And proud of it.” A wide smile appeared on her face. “And even prouder to have raised all of you.”

  We headed out as soon as she finished cleaning the table. The crisp fall air greeted my cheeks as we walked to our white Dodge Station Wagon. I always had my nose prepared before getting in. My older siblings would occasionally forget a half-eaten sandwich, or some other stinky food, under the seats. One time, we found one so old it was completely covered in mold. To my relief, the car smelled fine. The radio came on as soon as Mom backed out of the driveaway, playing some cheesy slow dance song. The keyboard sounded like an alarm clock and the drums played the same
thing over and over again.

  “Wow, I’m still recovering from heart surgery here.” I ejected the tape and searched her small collection of Elton John and John Denver for the emergency tape I kept in the car. It wasn’t long until I spotted the white cover with a sketch of a life preserver.

  “Paul, that was good music!”

  “I’m sorry. Mind if I play DJ while you drive?” I put in my tape, my ears relieved when a verse of Rush’s “The Fountain of Lamneth” started playing.

  “Do we have to listen to that this early in the morning?” she asked with an eyeroll.

  “Come on, Mom, listen to the words.”

  Look…the mist is rising

  And the sun is peaking through

  See, the steps grow lighter

  As I reach their final few

  Hear, the dancing waters

  I must be drawing near

  Feel, my heart is pounding

  With embattled hope and fear

  I sang along, observing the streaks of pink and purple that colored the sky.

  School was a fifteen-minute drive from our house. Sawyer picked up speed at the sight of the other kids in front of the building. Seeing all the cute girls in skirts, showing just enough of their summer tan, was a sight for sore eyes—especially for someone who spent the last month quarantined in a house staring at his parents and siblings.

  “Have a good first day.” Mom ejected my cassette.

  “Thanks,” I said, getting out of the car. “Enjoy your music.”

  I tucked my hands in the front pockets of my jacket and walked past the other kids, head down.

  I was expected at the main office. Mrs. Alberline greeted me before I even had a chance to say hello. She looked at me doe-eyed when handing me my class schedule. She repeatedly tilted her head to the side, talking like I was a lost kitten. I also tilted my head, not because I felt sorry for her, but because I kept thinking about how much makeup she needed to get her eyelids the exact shade of blue as my lips.

  My first three periods were close to my homeroom, which spared me from walking. I was happy to see a few familiar faces in the hall, but it was just my luck that none of my previous classmates were in my first classes.