Till it Stops Beating

by Hannah R. Goodman

  “Fifteen minutes,” I say.

  “Another round of How I Met Your Mother?” Justin says.

  . . . . .

  “Helen’s cancer has spread.”

  Dr. Nelson is young, so young I almost don’t believe a word he says. But his voice is even and doctorly.

  Justin has gone to retrieve us coffee. Joyce sits next to me across from Dr. Nelson. We are in his office, which is taken up mainly by the enormous mahogany desk and two chairs for—I guess—family members or patients. How many other people has he told that they or their grandmother, wife, or son has cancer? How many times has he said, “You’re cancer free!”

  “What’s the next step?” My mother’s voice comes out of me now. This is what she would do. Not get hysterical. Get the action plan.

  “I would like to keep her here over night. Tomorrow I want to begin radiation and chemotherapy.” He stops and picks up a piece of paper. “I called over to her surgeon at County and they said she was doing chemo but had stopped?”

  “Yes, we were over at the holistic center.”

  “Yes, you told me that,” he sounds irritated. “But I assumed that she was done with her treatments?”

  “No,” Joyce gazes down at her lap. I touch her shoulder. She lets out a sob.

  The doctor looks at me. “I want to be very clear with you both. With the treatment, her chances are fair to good.”

  “And without?” I ask.

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “We can’t do anything without Helen making the decision.” Joyce dabs her eyes with a tissue and directs this to the doctor.

  I try not to leap up and strangle her. Then a knock at the door.

  “Dr. Nelson?”

  Mom! Impeccable timing as usual.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Tight Grip

  But nothing happens because all my mother says, after reaching down to quickly hug me and cast a quick unsmiling glance at Joyce, is, “Where’s Mom?” Her face is tired, with only a sheen of lip-gloss and the faint traces of blush.

  Dr. Nelson looks surprised, and he gestures to the only empty seat on the other side of me next to the desk. “Let’s talk a minute Mrs.—”

  “Call me Bernice, doctor,” she says smoothing her hair. “This is my husband, Stanley.” Dad smiles at me and I give a little wave.

  Dr. Nelson nods. “Please take a seat, Bernice. I can get another chair.”

  But my father shakes his head. Then he says with great professor authority, “We would like to see Helen, if you don’t mind.”

  “How about if we talk a bit first?”

  My mother frowns at the doctor. “The nurse directed me to see you, Dr. Nelson but I would like to see my mother first. I’m sure you understand. We can talk after.”

  I guess Dr. Nelson knows how to deal with a resolute woman because he sighs and says, “That would be fine. Let me get the nurse to escort you all back and then we can have a chat.”

  “Thank you.” My mother grabs my hand in one of hers and my father’s in the other. “Let’s go.” When Joyce stands up to follow, Mom’s blue eyes are steal. “We can take it from here, Joyce.”

  Joyce surprises me. “I understand. I left my cell number with the nurses. Could you give me a call later in the day and update me?”

  “Of course,” my mom says and then ushers us all out the door.

  . . . . .

  Mom leads us out of the office and down the hallway. As we pass the nurses’ station where a nurse holds a hand up and calls for us to wait a moment but then there’s a ding from the elevator and out comes Justin with a tray of coffees.

  My mother is so concentrated on her mission that she doesn’t notice him, and her grip is so tight I can’t stop walking either. I just look at him hopelessly, but he nods and follows behind.

  “This is the room,” I tell my mother, so she’ll slow down. “She might still be sleeping.”

  But when we walk in, I smell the peanut butter first and instantly know she’s awake.

  “Hi!” She says waving a plastic knife with a smear of peanut butter on it. “I’m starving. You guys hungry?”

  I let go of my mother’s hand, but she grips it and moves us both to the side of the bed. “Hi,” she says slowly. “Are you supposed to be eating?”

  “Oh yeah! Aside from being a little out of it, I’m fine. There’s plenty to share. Maddie, Justin. You kids hungry?” She smears the peanut butter on the cracker and then pops it in her mouth.

  Finally, my mother turns around and sees Justin. Her face doesn’t change. He smiles at her and still she does nothing. My father, in the meantime, has already said hello and is drinking one of the coffees.

  “You remember Justin, honey?” My father slurps some coffee.

  “Yes.” She eyeballs him but not for long. She turns back to my grandmother. “Mom, I’m glad you are feeling better. We need to talk about all this, you know. They found tumors.”

  My grandmother reaches for another cracker. “Maddie, can you pour me some water? This peanut butter is damn sticky.”

  “Mom—”

  My mother has let go of the death grip. I reach behind me for the cart with the pitcher of water, but Justin has already poured it and passes me the cup. Our fingers brush and my chest flutters. “I’m so glad she’s here,” I mouth. He nods and puts the pitcher down.

  “Mom—”

  “Thank you, Maddie,” Bubbie says when I give her the water.

  “Mom—”

  Bubbie takes her time sipping the water. She closes her eyes and smiles, “Thirsty!”

  “Mother!”

  Now Bubbie looks at her and the tension in the room is thick. Not even one of mom’s favorite slicing knives could cut it.

  “Bernice.” The lightness in Bubbie’s face fades. “Bernice. I do not want to discuss this with you. I will have a chat with Dr. Nelson when he makes his rounds and then let you know what I decide.”

  “You’re open to chemo?”

  “No.” Bubbie drinks the rest of the water. “More, please.” She smiles brightly.

  This is getting nuts. I snatch the cup. Bubbie frowns. “Listen, girls, I’m a grown up, and I’m going to deal with my cancer, yes, my cancer the way I want to.”

  “Just like the way you dealt with your drinking, the first, I don’t know, ten times? Your way, really? And how did that go, Mother? Really, how did doing things your way go?”

  The silence that follows so quiet I hear the very faint light rock music from the nurse’s station down the hallway.

  Now Bubbie’s eyes fill with tears.

  “Bern,” My father reaches over and touches her shoulder. “Maybe that’s enough.”

  My mother flinches and pushes Dad off her. “No. It’s not enough.” She grits her teeth and leans down so she is closer to Bubbie. “Listen to me, Mother I’ve almost lost you so many times to your way of doing things. I finally forced you to go to rehab, and I will do the same thing with chemo, so help me. Because I will not—” she stops and puts a finger to her lips and swallows. “I will not let you die, Mother. No way.”

  The bits and pieces of their relationship decades ago fall like shreds of paper around us, and then because this is the way life works, the stupid blood pressure machine begins to beep.

  . . . . .

  After the nurses rush in and check to make sure Bubbie still has a pulse, they push buttons and pull wires, trying to shut the machine off. Meantime the nurse’s assistant comes in to change the bed linen, and Bubbie excuses herself to take a shower. We all f
ile out of the room and go back to the main lounge. Dad tosses his empty coffee cup into a trashcan. We all sit side by side on the long couch. Justin still holds the other three in the paper tray. Mom reaches for one of them, Justin helps her loosen it, and she pops the cover off and takes a long drink. She even wipes her mouth after with the back of her hand.

  Finally, she crosses her legs and turns to face him. “So, Justin, what have you been up to?”

  Justin looks from me to my mother and back to me and then he tells her how life’s been for the last two years. Dad, by now, although he’s just downed a large coffee, leans back into the one cushiony chair in the lounge, and closes his eyes. I grab the last four sugar packets in the tray and open up the last coffee. Time to drink.

  . . . . .

  When Bubbie finishes her shower, the nurse comes to get us. When we walk in, Bubbie’s soft gray hair is damp and her face has a nice pink to it.

  “I just finished speaking to Dr. Nelson.”

  We all sit around the bed in the chairs and couch.

  “I’m going home tomorrow,” She tells us, then adds, “I called Joyce. She’s picking me up.” Her tone is not angry. It’s even, normal.

  I shake my head. I hear Justin kind of let out a sigh. My father shifts in his chair. I don’t hear a thing from Mom.

  “Bernice, I’d like you to stay for a few days. Spend some time together, but not time wasted on talking about my cancer. Barb is coming tonight, too.”

  “What about chemo?”

  “I’m not doing it,” Bubbie says quietly.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Because it’s poison. Because maybe I’m tired of fighting. Because I want to handle my cancer a certain way that mainstream medicine won’t.”

  “And if you have another episode?” This is from my mom.

  “I’ll deal with it, if or when I have to.”

  My mother sighs and looks over at my father who says, “We’d love to stay a few more days, Helen.”

  My mother shakes her head. I reach for her hand, and she squeezes mine hard.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Angel

  “Here, let me take something.” I reach out and take a paper bag steaming with freshly baked bread.

  “Thanks, angel.” Tony kisses my cheek, leaving a fresh mark of garlic breath.

  “Hey, Uncle Tony,” Justin reaches around from behind me, and they grab hands and smack backs.

  “Take this, my nephew.” Tony gives him three large pizza boxes stacked on top of each other. “I have cannolis and pizzafriet in the car, too.”

  “Good afternoon,” Tony and my mom kiss cheeks, and he and Dad do the same back slapping routine, Dad kind of fumbling his way through it, but they laugh.

  Justin grabs my arm as he slides through the kitchen and back out to Tony’s car. My mother busies herself with arranging the food on the table. My dad and Tony fly around the kitchen getting glasses and dishes, continuing a conversation from yesterday at breakfast (Tony and Justin came by yesterday before the restaurant opened) about fly-fishing, which they both did as kids.

  I make my way through the hustle of the kitchen and glance out the back door to Barb, her cell phone to her ear, smiling and walking slowly back and forth. She’s been on her phone with Cliff most of the hour she’s been here.

  Barb must see me out of the corner of her eye because she stops and looks up. “Everything okay?” She mouths to me. I nod.

  Then before I even see her, I can smell her Chanel No. 5 perfume waft from behind. Then she whispers so only I can hear: “Does your sister have to be on the phone right now?”

  Because Mom’s had as much Al-Anon as me, she hasn’t said a word this whole time to Barb but because no one can be by the Big Book all the time, Mom still has to say something to me. But I just shrug and push past her to go back to the kitchen.

  Justin stands in the middle of the kitchen with an armload of more food in aluminum containers and paper bags. Mom comes back in and together we help him find a spot for everything. We can’t manage it all on the table. Mom takes some and arranges it perfectly on the buffet against the back wall of the dining area in the kitchen.

  Barb rejoins us, smiling, gives Justin and Tony a hug. I pull a chair out and sit next to Tony. I pour myself some Dr. Pepper. Every day this week has felt like a party.

  When Bub finally emerges, oddly her hair seems to be growing in daily, now it looks like an intentional crew cut. She comes in yawning loudly and rubbing her eyes.

  Tony stands up immediately and wipes his mouth before rushing to pull her chair out at the table. We all stop eating, and it gets quiet.

  She sits down, her eyes half-mast. I feel a collective holding of breath among us. Some of the mornings (or afternoons) seem worse than others. Tony takes her hands in his and says softly, “You hungry?”

  Her eyes open and she breaks into a grin. “Did you bring the pizzafriet?”

  Relief across everyone’s faces.

  “Yes,” Tony kisses each hand. “Yes, I did.”

  . . . . .

  Three weeks pass in a similar fashion, minus my parents, who return home. Bubbie, miraculously, changes her mind about chemo. I think it was the second conversation with Tony on the back porch when she came home that did it. What it was, she won’t discuss it. She commits to one month. Then, she says she will reevaluate. She also only agrees to chemo three days a week, sleeping 12 to 24 hours a day on off days after and managing to be up and around on the weekends. She’s not smoking the marijuana but taking it in pill form. It helps considerably with her appetite, especially when Tony brings pizzafriet, which has turned into every day. The worst part of chemo now is simply that she’s wiped out and has really dry skin. The best part for both of us is Tony and Justin.

  One night she says to me, as I help her apply some cocoa butter on her arms and legs, which have taken the worse of the chemo beating, “Who would have ever thought that my normal would involve being waited on by a burly Italian man.”

  To which I reply, “Who would have thought my normal would involve my ex-boyfriend and watching his uncle fall for my Bubbie?”

  “Oh, stop that!” But her checks flush.

  “He is falling for you.” I kneel in front of her as she sits on the bed and roll up her overalls. She has lost a lot of weight despite all the food from Tony. Her legs seem so thin. “I don’t care how nice a person is, no guy, especially a macho man like Tony would sit with you while you watch those sappy old movies like Bridges of Madison County…and with you asleep half the time. On his shoulder, might I add.”

  She smiles somewhere between shy and happy.

  I close up the cream and kiss her goodnight and thank God for another day.

  . . . . .

  A few days later, in the morning while Bubbie is still sleeping, I scribble a note and leave it on the table on the off chance she wakes up before ten. Then I take off for a run. It’s the first time in a long time, and so I run pretty far, until I reach Fisherman’s wharf, which is a good five miles away, if you cut through some back roads. The salty damp air cool, and my skin pricking with goose bumps from the sweat cooling on my skin. I stop running when I get to the wharf where Justin and I had our first day together in San Francisco. I lean over the rail on the dock and catch my breath. I look at the ocean flat and calm, bluer than the ocean at home.

  Instinctively I reach for my cell phone clipped to my waist. No calls. All is well. I reach into my bra and take out the four bucks I brought for a cup of tea at my favorite tea place. Wow, this is the first time I’ve been alone in a few weeks. I walk down the dock, the sound of seagulls calling.

 
I can’t remember ever being this happy in my life.

  Reggae music plays while I sit outside the Tea House drinking some cinnamon apple tea. A guy wearing short shorts bikes by on a unicycle like it’s normal. A mom and her toddler sit at the other table diagonal from me. The toddler stares at me while drinking chocolate milk through a straw. Her mother talks seriously into her cell phone. I sip the tea out of the paper cup and think about my coffee shop at home, my over sugared lattes. I could get used to cinnamon apple tea in the morning just like I have gotten used to Justin every day. I take another drink of tea, smile at the little girl still staring at me.

  I toss the cup in the garbage next to my table and stand up and stretch, inhaling the perfect smells of the coffee shop and the ocean.

  “Maddie!”

  I stop stretching. “Tony, hey. I was just gonna run down to the restaurant.”

  I stop talking because the look on his face. My insides kind of cave in.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  He takes my arm and pulls me close. I can’t hear what he’s saying but I feel a little bit of a déjà vu or time warp or something. It’s the same kind of summer day but hot, and I’m at camp and we’ve just pulled into the parking lot. Zak and his parents never showed up at dinner, so we drove back and when we get out of the car, my friend Beth running towards me, crying and red, she was so red. That’s what I remember and then…Me saying something. I think it was—

  “No!” Which is what I say right now.

  Tony is crying. “We spent the night together…I snuck in through the window.” He smiles as the tears roll. “We didn’t want to tell you. And this morning…she didn’t wake up.”

  What? I just left the house? How?

  He’s fully crying, choking. “We held each other.” He shakes his head. “All—all night.” Now he completely crumbles, holds himself up with one of the chairs at a table in the front of the restaurant. “I woke up…and put my hand on her shoulder, and she was so cold. I called 911 and screamed for you, angel. I called Justin and then I saw the note you left.”