Till it Stops Beating

by Hannah R. Goodman

  “I’m fine.” My nose honks when I blow into the napkin.

  They continue ahead of me towards the car, leaning into each other, laughing. When Jack takes Peter’s hand, my heart leaps. Wish I had someone to brush fingertips with. They stop walking and Peter pulls Jack towards him.

  PDA overload. I shoot a hand into the air. “Hey, guys!” My hand falls.

  Then out of the night emerges...A tall figure. I see the outline of a baseball hat and hear the jingle of car keys. The guy adjusts his hat, steps into the light coming from the movie theater, and I see a line of brown hair coming out from beneath the rim. He wears a flannel shirt.

  Something about him kind of reminds me of…someone…Wait… is that?…Sean?

  Sean.

  Who I met two years ago, at my sister’s wedding reception. I saw Sean on my way to the bathroom. He was sitting in a chair in the lobby, dressed in a white shirt and red tie like the rest of the waiters who had strolled around with trays of quiche and stuffed mushrooms during the cocktail hour. He was reading a book, The Little Prince, which turned out was research for a play he was doing at his high school. Within minutes we were trading favorite lines from the book and only stopped when my mother came out and growled at me to return to the party for the Horah.

  Long story short, we tried to date but (what else is new) my delinquent ex-boyfriend haunted me. The end.

  The frosty air makes me shiver. I try to walk so my clogs are noiseless on the asphalt. Jack opens the passenger side door of the car. I think of my promise to “go out with other boys”, which I have yet to fulfill. Jack tosses the keys to Peter who chooses this moment to remember that I’m still here.

  “Maddie, come on. It’s freezing…”

  I try to wave my hand at Peter to shut him up, but it’s too late.

  “Madeline?” Another voice says.

  Madeline. Not Maddie. But Madeline.

  “Sean?”

  . . . . .

  I’ve been in Sean’s car for ten minutes but have managed to cover almost all of the last two years. “Slow down a minute.” Sean puts a hand on the back of my seat. “I think I gotta recap: The end of your sophomore year, that Justin guy gets sent to military school, your sister goes off to rehab, and then you go to camp that summer and meet this new guy named—”

  “Zak,” I offer.

  “Right, Zak who then dies in a car accident?”

  “Yeah, on the way to meet me and my parents for dinner.”

  “My God, seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  Sean pulls his baseball hat off and puts it on his lap. His hair is tousled perfectly. “It probably makes for something to write about.”

  I laugh and play with the zipper of my jacket. Should I blast him with the rest?

  What the hell? He hasn’t run out of the car screaming yet.

  “My shrink, Josephine—I see a shrink now, too, by the way. My shrink says that I’m in some kind of funk…still…and that I have to try to be more social...and not just with my best friends. Oh, and she thinks I’m using them as some kind of surrogate for a real relationship with a guy, which is kind of true because the idea of actually going on a real date with someone.” I stop. But he’s a captive audience so I start again, like a maniac. “It kind of, you know, scares me and then there’s my sister who’s getting divorced. I know, can you believe it? She practically just got married.” I pause and let out the breath that I’d been holding in.

  “Yeah,” he smiles. “I was there.”

  I pause and take in the tiny freckle on Sean’s jaw and how his mouth kind of frowns in a way that makes his lips puff out a bit. Sadly, these lovely details don’t do anything but inspire me to keep talking, because, you know, I actually intend to scare off any heterosexual male who I have a remote possibility with.

  “Michael always helped keep Barb sober and if she goes back to rehab, man, I don’t know. That will be the third time. Yup, she was in and out and then back in last year.” I take a breath, but all it does is fuel me to the finish line.

  “Then there’s my grandmother.”

  “Bubbie?”

  “Yeah…Anyway, she just got news that she has these cysts in her colon, and she’s having an operation like, next week and, of course, I researched all this online. Did you know that that colon cancer is the number one killer of people over the age of fifty-five, and she’s well over that age.”

  Sean’s face has the wide-eyed look of a deer who’s about to kiss the front of a car. Maybe it’s time for me to put a cork in it.

  A few moments of awkward silence pass. Then I ask, “What’s gone on with you?”

  . . . . .

  Sean brings me home and though he doesn’t kiss me goodbye, little electrical impulses bounce between us when he hugs me. I snuggle right in before floating into the house.

  In the mudroom, I slide out of my clogs and hang up my jacket. I walk through the hallway and living room to the stairs and go quietly up. Through the cracked door of my mother’s sewing room (a.k.a Barb’s old room) a soft light beams from her favorite Victorian lamp.

  Mom looks up from her needlepoint and smiles. Her hair is down and hangs in golden waves like my own hair.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hi, sweetie. I made a pot of chamomile. Thought you might want some before bed.”

  Gotta love my mom. “Thanks.”

  Mom sighs and lifts her hair from her forehead, which is dotted with sweat. “Ugh…hot flash…” She closes her eyes and covers her forehead and eyes. “Hon, can you get me—”

  “Yeah. I’ll be right back.”

  The routine is to get her a frozen washcloth. She has them in individual sandwich bags in the freezer. I run down the stairs and through the living room and foyer to the kitchen. Dad is there with the fridge door open.

  “Hey, Dad. Thought you’d be in your study.”

  “There’s only so much work I can do at this hour.”

  “Eating is better?”

  He laughs. “Always. Especially—” He pulls out a plate that has some left-over sponge cake with strawberry toping. “And it’s low fat!”

  He puts the plate on the counter and opens the silverware drawer. He pulls out two forks. I take one, and we dig in silently.

  “What about your deadline?” My father was asked to co-write a textbook on ocean waves and sound or something. He’s been holed up in his study for months, every night.

  He holds up a finger and finishes chewing. That’s when I hear Mom yelling for me. Oh no! I stuff a large bite of cake and chew as I snatch open the freezer and grab a sandwich bag.

  “She hot again?”

  “Yeah,” I dart out of the kitchen, leaving my father alone to his binge.

  . . . . .

  I take the stairs two at a time and hurry to the sewing room, dart through the doorway, and throw the baggy to Mom.

  She catches the bag and rips it open. “Thanks, hon. God in heaven menopause just…sucks!”

  This is torture for her; she used to only “glisten.” Now she sweats.

  I sit down on the rug in front of her. She drapes the washcloth over her forehead, closes her eyes, and leans back into her chair.

  “Michael sent Barb the divorce papers today...already signed.” She opens one eye and beams it at me. “He also sent a note saying he had safely arrived in Sudan and would be there until April. Oh, and after dinner, Barb sat Dad and I down and told us about this new Cliff fellow...”

  I raise my eyebrows back.

  Mom closes the eye and runs the washcloth all over h
er face, and I swear I see steam. “She didn’t ask to move back in, thank God. Instead she told us that her friend from AA, Pam, is going to move into her apartment and help her with the rent. It seems that Barb may have a handle on this one. I swear she’s using up the last of those nine lives of hers!”

  I hug my knees.

  “That leaves Bubbie.” Mom puts the wet cloth on the side table next to her, careful that it rests on the plastic baggie and not the wood. “I spoke to her oncologist, and he thinks this will be very easy. An operation to remove the cyst and if it all looks clean and none of it has spread, they won’t even do any chemo or radiation.”

  “Wow.” I guess Barb isn’t the only one with nine lives.

  “It looks like while we have a few crises going, they are minor.” But the crease on her forehead deepens.

  Mom ticks off the “crises” like they are items on her to-do list she keeps posted on the side of the fridge. But I don’t trust the universe. Something isn’t right.

  Yet I kind of want to pretend we can tic off those items, at least for now.

  “How was your evening with Peter?”

  I tell her all about Sean.

  She is thrilled of course that I’m not mooning over the dead (Zak) or the delinquent (Justin). Another item she can tick off the list.

  “It was fun.” I look at my thumbnail and resist the urge to pull at the dry brittle cuticle; my mother will swat away my fingers before I even can contemplate picking at them.

  I look back at Mom, and she smiles in a way that tells me she is ready to go to bed and only stayed up to see me. I rub my eyes and yawn. Stretch my legs out and my calf tightens. I point and flex my toes and remind myself to stretch tomorrow after my run.

  She looks back down at her needlepoint and pulls at thread and then pushes the needle through. Without looking up she says casually, “Are you ready to send out any applications? Isn’t Early Action soon?”

  Before I can try to craft a reply, a piercing ache seizes my calf muscle.

  I grab the muscle and see my mother’s mouth move, but I don’t hear her, like I pressed mute or something.

  Then everything goes numb. Pulling my legs in and using my hands to hoist myself results in nothing. I’m floating or disconnected from my body.

  What’s happening?

  The charley horse pain is compounded by this weird sensation that reminds me of when I sit in class for too long with my legs crossed and my feet fall asleep, only now it’s in my hands and crawls up my arms to my jaw.

  Anxiety attack.

  I get them every once in a while, but this is completely different. Oh my God. I’m dying! My chest is so heavy, and I try to grab at my heart and make sure it is still beating, but moving my hands, moving anything, is impossible.

  “Sweetie?” Mom reaches over and brushes the hair out of my eyes. I didn’t know I had hair in my eyes. I push my leg straight to break the cramp. It snaps back and I’m afraid I’ve broken it! I’m a writhing ball with twitching arms and legs. I hear Mom say make sure she’s breathing. Epileptic fit. Call the doctor. Someone, call the doctor! I roll across the room, a scream echoing in my head. What if I bite my tongue? Tumble down the stairs? One false move and it’s over. But nothing else happens except that the numbness in my jaw tightens the hinges like someone squirted crazy glue in my mouth. I think of that Medical Incredible show where a guy had a seizure and before he had it, he felt numbness and tingling in his face.

  Oh God! I’m having a seizure?

  It’s like I’m free falling from a cliff only nothing is happening. Nothing is happening, everything is happening… I’m losing it… dying… going insane… rolling out the door and into the hallway. What the hell… am I doing… oh my god oh my god oh my god—

  “Stan! Stan!” Mom sounds panicked. “Stanley, Stanley! Get up here! Get up here now!”

  I can’t make out if Dad responds, but Mom kneels down so her face is near mine. I guess I’ve stopped rolling. She turns so her ear is pressed against my mouth. I smell lilac. “Can you breathe, honey?”

  I nod, unable to unhinge the trap door of my mouth. I hear the sound of heavy feet running quickly up the stairs. The door opening.

  “Bernice? What’s going on?” I imagine that Dad looks down and sees what might appear to be a corpse, and his wife trying to revive the dead body of his daughter. Shit, I could die! Never before, even when Zak died, did I really get that I could die. Now I do.

  My parents talk to each other in loud, panicked tones. High-pitched voices punctuated by “Maddie!” (Mom) “Maddie, can you hear me?” (Dad). I want to say, “Yes, yes I hear you,” but I’m trapped inside my head.

  “She just…and then…I don’t know!”

  “It’s probably just…I know, I know it’s scary…she’s breathing and even her color is fine... Let’s do that.”

  That’s all I hear, and the words don’t connect to any meaning. Some kind of alien invaded my body and the Maddie who I thought I was is gone. Gone.

  I want her back.

  . . . . .

  I hear a grunt and smell strawberry and vanilla and coffee. My father’s face is close enough to see the light, reddish blond stubble tinged with gray. I’m surprised he can hold me. We move slowly. Mom’s behind us shuffling in her slippers.

  We travel down the hallway. My father nudges my bedroom door open with his foot. It’s dark and cool, the lavender and white checked headboard of my bed appears dark and one color. He lays me down, on the bedspread, a comfortable, familiar softness. My mother and I picked everything out together last year. I had said to her, “Why are we bothering to redo my room? I’ll be gone soon.” She laughed and said, “You don’t redo a room with the intention of permanence, Mad.” I had no idea what she meant, but for some reason it makes sense to me now. That was one of the best days I had had with Mom. Her decorating was something I resisted for years, and there we were doing it together.

  The disconnection and the fear of dying are gone, for now. My parents whisper to each other as they stand at the foot of my bed. My head is heavy. I can’t hold it up.

  So, I don’t.

  Chapter Four

  Till It Stops Beating

  My eyes open. I stare into the darkness for a little while. I turn my head to see the clock but something, maybe a tissue, is blocking it. My right calf muscle twinges. I reach down to touch it but instead touch sweatpants. I don’t remember putting them on. I close my eyes and fall asleep.

  . . . . .

  The room is lighter now. I turn to my side and am seized by a coldness that wraps around my body. I curl into a “c” and put the heel of my hand in my mouth to stop the scream that rises in my throat. Weirdness creeps over me. It’s like I’m disappearing, shrinking, getting smaller and younger. I’m six years old and have woken up in the middle of the night from a nightmare where I can’t find my mother in a department store. I want to run up to my parents’ room, but I’m too afraid to get out of bed.

  . . . . .

  Sunbeams stream through the window warming my body. I’m on my side, with my hand tucked under my cheek. My cheek hurts. I lift my head and rub it. I hear the water running and dishes clanking, muffled voices talking from down the hall.

  My stomach growls. I think of Friday. Sitting with Sean in his car. Peace with the edges of excitement fills me. I flip open the covers to get out of bed. And then—

  Everything else about Friday, in my mother’s sewing room and then my dad carrying me downstairs…

  It falls on me like a garbage truck dumping all the garbage from a street into a landfill, and I’m the landfill. I see the clock and can only make out the first number. Nine.
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  Oh God.

  Then the rest spills out of the back of my brain.

  It’s Wednesday.

  I slept my way through Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and yesterday. My mother woke me briefly to eat from a tray. Chicken soup and toast. I would look at the clock intermittently, and it was usually 1 pm or 8 pm. I did watch a little TV, only when I ate, and I can remember seeing an episode of some make-over reality show. This very heavy blonde woman who was a Paris Hilton impersonator and she wanted to separate from that identity…It was weird because I had seen an episode of another reality show with the same woman, but in that one she wanted to become a celebrity impersonator. Kind of made me think reality shows are totally fake. But, I watched the make-over show anyway.

  Peter, Susan, and Barb all called, and with each one she would stand there and talk into the phone: “No, no, she’s still not feeling well. Yes, I will. I’ll have her call you when she’s better.” And then later, when they all called for the four millionth time: “It must be the flu.” With Barb, Mom finally said, “Yeah…something has hit her hard…We’re not sure, but we think it was a panic attack, like the ones Dad used to get.”

  I’m still staring at the 9. It’s blurry now from the water in my eyes. Smells of eggs, bacon, and toast. Are they making it for me? I know that while my family used to be great at ignoring major problems, we have all had enough therapy to know that what happened Friday and what’s happening right now with me, cannot be denied.

  I remember yesterday after my mother came in at some point during the end of the day, I only know it was the end because the natural light in the room was pretty dim. She came in with my father. He whispered, “Is she awake?”

  “No, she’s still sleeping,” my mom whispered back. Then I heard the rattle of the spoon against the bowl as she picked up my tray. “She’s been eating, and I know she’s getting up to go the bathroom.”