BOUNDLESS (Mama's Story)

by Ray, Lexie

“What?”

  “My mother,” he said. “I’ve always comforted myself with the idea that I’ve just never had one. And I don’t think I can ever consider you to be my mother. It just doesn’t make sense to me. It just hurts me too much. You’re basically a stranger.”

  The knife twist in my heart hurt bad enough for me to flinch, but I didn’t cry out. I held Marshall’s gaze, unwilling to look away, unwilling to lose this moment or try to dodge away from it. This was it. This was the truth. This was my son showing me his bleeding heart, giving me something to work with. Before, his hatred toward me had been a blind, faceless thing. Now, he’d given it a name. That was something, I thought, even as a tear slid down my cheek. I could work with this. I had to try to have the courage to change this. I couldn’t simply accept the fact that Marshall couldn’t think of me as his mother. I was his mother, goddamn it. And I would have to find some way to prove it.

  “Let’s just be positive for Jules,” I said finally, just to break the oppressive silence in the car. “She wanted us to reconnect. I know that it’s not what you want, and I know I can never make up for my mistakes with you, for my neglect, for my rejection. But I’ll keep trying as long as I’m around. Can you handle that?”

  “I think I can,” he said, and we got out of the car and went into the house.

  The next day, I fixed a big breakfast, aiming to keep trying to win my son over through his stomach. I was a good cook. All the girls at the nightclub had said so. And breakfast was my specialty.

  He ate with gusto, which warmed my heart, but he didn’t say much of anything. I knew that he was thinking about what was said last night, and what was going on with Jules. He was eager to get back to the hospital, back by her side.

  “Want to come with me?” he asked, stopping just as he was about to walk out of the kitchen. “Jules will want to see you, I’m sure.”

  The way he asked it was civil, polite. It wasn’t warm, but I couldn’t hope for warm yet. I had to earn warm, but this new tone was my son throwing me a bone. Hell, yes, I was going to pick that up and run with it.

  “Of course,” I said. “I’ll only take a minute to get dressed.”

  I could hide my grin as I dumped the dirty dishes and pans in the sink and ran some water to soak them in. I’d take care of these when I got home. My son was giving me another chance. I was getting a second chance, in spite of everything. I vowed not to let it go to waste.

  We chatted about Jules, mostly, which was neutral territory for us both.

  “She doesn’t like hospitals,” Marshall said. “I felt bad about leaving her there overnight all by herself, but it was doctor’s orders that she stay—and Jules’ orders that we leave.”

  “That’s funny,” I said, smiling. “I never get the impression that she’s as forceful as you let on.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Marshall said, grinning and shaking his head. It melted my heart to see him smile like that. He was usually so guarded around me. “That girl has an iron will and a soft spot for you. It’ll be good for you to be at the hospital for her. As much as she hates being there, she’ll enjoy visiting with you.”

  “I’d be more than happy to spend the day with her at the hospital,” I said. “You can go to work without worrying about anything. I’ll keep her occupied. This might even be a blessing in disguise, you know.”

  “How’s that?”

  “She told me before that doctors had a hard time figuring out what was wrong with her,” I answered. “Maybe with the tests they’re running today, we’ll get a better idea of what’s going on.”

  “Maybe so,” Marshall mused.

  We valet parked again and entered the hospital, stopping first at the gift shop to buy a bright bouquet of flowers.

  “When Jules gets home, she can put them in a vase,” Marshall said, touching the blooms gently. “They’ll look great on the kitchen table.”

  Seeing my son like this—unguarded, hopeful, and not a big ball of hurt—brought a rush of love to my heart. This was my son. This was my Marshall—the man he was meant to be. I wanted to hug him, to hold him in my arms, to rock him back and forth and tell him that I loved him, but I had to restrain myself. The last thing I wanted to do was push him away. Not when we were doing so well.

  When we got to Jules’ room, I could tell that something was wrong right away. There were three doctors surrounding her bed, and she looked at us, wide-eyed, as we walked in the room. I knew that expression. I’d seen it time and time again with the girls who’d worked at the nightclub. That look was a cry for help.

  “What’s going on, sugar?” I asked, breezily elbowing my way through the doctors to stand by Jules’ bedside. “You have a good night?”

  “You all got here just in time for the news,” she said.

  “News?” Marshall repeated, moving through the doctors to stand on the other side of the bed.

  “Jules here has been a champ about all the tests we’ve been running on her this morning,” one of the doctors said. “And we think we’ve pinpointed what the issue is.”

  “That’s great news, isn’t it?” Marshall asked. “It’s been nearly two years since you’ve started reporting the symptoms that we couldn’t explain. And now we have answers, right?”

  “We do have answers,” Jules said, clutching the blanket covering her so hard that her knuckles blanched.

  “Jules has arrhythmia,” the doctor said.

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “Arrhythmia is characterized by abnormal rhythms of the heart,” he answered. “Patients experiencing this condition can experience fatigue, dizziness, fainting, rapid heartbeats, chest pain, an inability to catch their breath, and lightheadedness.”

  Marshall shook his head slowly. “You would not believe the diagnoses we’ve been given before today,” he said. “Anxiety attacks? Really?”

  All three of us laughed, a shared recollection of Jules’ transcendent trip to the grocery store while she was taking the anti-anxiety medication.

  “Well, we have a number of treatment options,” the doctor continued after he realized that he couldn’t join in in our laughter. “We’ll start seeing what’s best for your arrhythmia. Until then, we’d like to keep you in the hospital.”

  “What?” Jules cried, dismayed. “Why?”

  “This condition’s nothing to mess around with,” the doctor lectured her. “In severe cases, you could suffer sudden cardiac arrest. We want to make sure we know what we’re dealing with here.”

  “It’ll be all right, sugar,” I soothed, prying one of Jules’ hands from the blanket. “They’ll get this figured out and then you can come home. Look here. Marshall picked you out some beautiful flowers. Won’t these look nice in here? That’s just the thing to cheer you up.”

  “They’re beautiful flowers,” she said, putting on a brave face. “Thank you, honey.”

  Marshall took Jules’ other hand and kissed it gallantly. “This is going to be fine,” he promised.

  There were a number of treatment options that the doctors investigated over the next few weeks. Marshall tried to be there as often as possible, but I found myself keeping Jules company in the hospital most often. He had to work to help pay for the growing medical bills.

  I’d never much minded hospitals, and tried to do as much as possible to distract Jules from her surroundings. I brought home-cooked meals in for her, played card games, watched television, and chatted about anything she wanted to hear about. I even found a copy of A Message to Jasmine and brought it in for her to read. I regretted the last move, though, because the ending left her in tears.

  “I’m not sad, Mama,” she sniffled, blowing her nose with the tissue I gave her. “It was a beautiful, touching story.”

  I didn’t mention that I knew the real Jasmine, the one smiling on the very first page. I didn’t want to ruin the magic.

  But as much as I tried to cheer Jules up, she seemed to gradually waste away. Her skin turned grayer as the days passed, and
I always tried to bring fresh flowers up to brighten her room. It became evident, however, that she simply wasn’t getting any better despite all of the treatments the hospital was trying out on her.

  Finally, after nearly two months of Jules’ decline, I cornered one of her doctors.

  “Would you like to tell me why my daughter-in-law isn’t getting any better?” I asked, my voice syrupy sweet and sticky with venom.

  “We’ll need to have a meeting with the whole family,” the doctor said, frowning as he flipped through the chart. “She’ll need your support at this time, and there are some decisions to be made.”

  That made me freeze. It sounded downright dire.

  “Should I call my son?” I asked. “Is it urgent?”

  “It can wait until this afternoon,” the doctor said. “Ask him to be here about 4.”

  I worried, but kept my voice calm as I dialed Marshall’s number on my cell phone.

  “How’s she doing?” he asked, the first words out of his mouth.

  “The same, really,” I responded. “The doctors want to meet with us three at 4 today. Can you make it?”

  “I’ll leave early,” he said quickly. “Is there anything wrong?”

  I felt like there was, especially the way the doctor had told me, but I didn’t want to worry my son.

  “I don’t know,” I said, which was the most honest thing I could think of to say. “We’ll be here, waiting for you.”

  “All right,” Marshall said, and ended the call.

  I went back to Jules’ room, but she was sleeping. She looked so fragile in that hospital bed, and my heart hurt for her and my son. I watched over her, trying to divine the answers to the mystery of her condition through the shape of her face, the small line between her eyebrows. Even her hair seemed dull, limp, lackluster. Her condition was eating at her, and the doctors were struggling to find the right treatment to get it to respond. Gone was the beautiful, vivacious woman who made my son so happy.

  What were we going to do?

  Marshall arrived a few minutes before 4, but Jules was still sleeping. I figured her body probably needed it, and he kissed her so softly that she didn’t wake.

  The doctor joined us soon after.

  “We haven’t seen the response that we wanted to from the treatment options we tried,” the doctor said, confirming my fears. Jules hadn’t been getting better because they didn’t know how to make her better.

  “So what does that mean?” Marshall asked, his face carefully blank. Jules slept on, exhausted and oblivious.

  “It means we exhausted our options and there’s only one more possibility,” the doctor said. “Jules needs a heart transplant.”

  “That’s our last option?” Marshall asked. “That’s the only thing we have left to try?”

  “Your wife needs a heart transplant, or she’ll die,” the doctor said simply.

  Marshall gripped his hand into a fist and pounded it in his other palm, then gripped his hands together, trembling. His strong face dissolved feature by feature—the lips shaking, the nose reddening, his eyes watering, and finally he began to cry.

  A heart transplant. It was too much to take in. A heart transplant or Jules would die.

  “How is this happening?” Marshall whispered, the question raw and desperate.

  “It’s going to be all right,” I said, because what else was there to say? I opened my arms to him, not knowing what else to do. He fell into them, shaking, crying, scared.

  And, for the first time in longer than I cared to admit, I held my son, trying a mother’s best to comfort him in the face of something that none of us understood.

  Jules woke up to Marshall’s sobbing, and she blinked blearily at us.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice slurring with her tiredness. “What is it?”

  “It’s nothing, sugar,” I told her, rocking Marshall back and forth. “Everything’s going to be just fine.”

  It had to be. I had to make it all right.

  Chapter Eight

  “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I can not change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference,” I said quietly, looking at myself in the mirror. There were things that I could do, right? There just had to be. Maybe they were things I needed courage for. Things I could change. We didn’t have to accept Jules’ fate just like that. If she was as high-spirited and rambunctious in the hospital, railing at the doctors to let her out of her room, I could also vow to not accept the bad news.

  My son, however, was floored. He’d probably never even thought about the possibility of living his life without his wife.

  After Jules’ diagnosis, Marshall had slipped into a profound depression. I’d caught him dead drunk, the bottle of whiskey half gone, the stench of him making me feel halfway repulsed and halfway wistful.

  “I don’t want you following my path,” I told him as I put him to bed, making sure a garbage can was right next to him, in easy reach. “You’re a good man, Marshall, and Jules is going to be all right.”

  “Not if she can’t get a new heart,” he slurred, his head lolling. “Then she’ll die. I’ll be all alone.”

  That night, I threw all of the liquor away, breaking the bottles to ensure that I wouldn’t come looking for them in anybody’s trash bin. I didn’t need that temptation, and neither did my son. I hated that I’d practically bequeathed a likelihood of alcoholism in him. Couldn’t I impart anything positive to my boy?

  I spoke with Jules’ doctors on my own, nurses who worked the floor, anyone who would stop and answer my questions.

  “I know your daughter-in-law’s condition is very grave,” a nurse said, “but the truth of the matter is that there are people in even more dire situations—many, many people. There just aren’t enough organ donors in the system, and certainly not enough hearts to go around. We have to wait until she’s at the top of the list for a transplant, and she’s just not there yet.”

  “There needs to be more outreach for potential donors,” an orderly told me, “more of a push for people to sign up. There’s this whole idea that if a hospital finds out you’re an organ donor, they won’t work as hard to save your life if you’re sick or injured in order to harvest your organs. That’s ludicrous. ‘Do no harm.’ That’s what we function on. Organ donors get the same quality of care as everyone else. There should be media campaigns, or something. Speakers at schools. Anything. There just aren’t enough donors.”

  “The tricky part is finding a good match,” a doctor said. “If the donor didn’t have a compatible blood type, that would be the first red flag. There are so many variables going into a transplant—particularly a heart transplant—that even if a candidate is at the top of the list, it might be a while before the right heart becomes available.”

  From looking at her charts, I gleaned Jules’ blood type. Through the blessed Internet, I researched more about what was required for a successful transplant. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. I loved that girl fiercely enough to go gun someone down in the street, cut his heart out, and carry it, dripping, to the hospital for her. But I knew that wouldn’t go over very well for anyone involved. Instead, I did what I could do—cleaned the house, visited Jules in the hospital, cooked for Marshall, and tried to keep busy.

  In the spirit of donation, I went to a blood bank to donate what I could for the cause. Out of everyone I’d talked to, there was one similar consensus—there weren’t enough people donating organs. I could at least donate my blood to help someone who needed it. Plus, it gave me something to do in between AA meetings and worrying about Marshall and Jules. Marshall became more desperate every day that they didn’t get the call for a donor. His work had put him on a leave of absence. I suspected that he was getting drunk at bars between the hospital and home, but I didn’t confront him about it. The woman he couldn’t consider as his mother breathing down his neck would only drive him away.

  He needed all the support he could get.r />
  I tried to relax, tried to meditate on the situation while my blood drained into a bag. There had to be a solution to this problem. I had to be able to change Jules’ fortune somehow. They deserved that. She and my son were so happy before I came along. I needed to find some way to make this specter of disease go away.

  An attendant stopped by to pull the needle from my arm and slap a Band-Aid on the puncture.

  “All set,” she said cheerfully, placing the bag of blood in her cart and checking off boxes on my form. “Hey! You’re blood type O.”

  “Is that a good thing?” I asked.

  “Absolutely,” she chirped. “That’s our favorite blood type here.”

  “I didn’t know there were such things as favorite blood types,” I said, sitting up slowly and taking the juice box she offered me.

  “We like blood type O because that means your blood can go to anyone,” the attendant said. “You’re a universal donor!”

  A universal donor. I marveled at that while sipping on the juice box. I could give my blood to anyone.

  The solution to the problem hit me like a slap to the face.

  I was the solution. The heart beating inside of me, the blood that it pumped through my body—I could very well be the donor that Marshall and Jules were hoping for.

  I couldn’t live without a heart, though. Was I willing to die to make sure that my son and daughter-in-law lived a long, happy life together?

  In a heartbeat.

  Everything started falling into place. I’d been an awful mother to my son, but now I had a chance to make up for it. He’d never be able to accept me as his mother—he said so himself. And I would never be able to accept that, even if I couldn’t change it.

  This was the solution to the problem. This was the reason I was here. This was the right thing to do.

  The reality of the situation, though, was that I had a lot more to do than just cut my heart out and show up at the hospital. The attendant at the blood bank had said I was a universal donor, but I had to be sure.

  I’d buddied up to many of the hospital personnel since Jules had been admitted. I just pleaded honest curiosity and motherly concern when I wanted to see the results of crossmatching her blood and mine.