Heart Sister

by Michael F Stewart

  “What?”

  She grabs me by the shoulder. “That’s your job. Positive distraction. Get on with it.” Then she pulls out her phone and proceeds to ignore me.

  I goofy-laugh, and the older girl turns up the volume on the television. She’s bone thin, with hollow cheeks and dark wheels around her eyes, but her posture is amazing—like she has a rod rammed through her back.

  “I’m Dappy!” I exclaim, but no one looks at me. Jeannie rolls her eyes. “Maybe I should come back when they’re not so tired?” I say to her.

  Jeannie squints, and I understand the message. Get on with it.

  “What’s your name?” I ask the little boy.

  “Isaac.”

  “Do you want to honk my nose?”

  It pinches as he squeezes until it honks. He blinks, smiles and honks again. “You could be a professional nose honker when you grow up,” I say. He goes back to climbing on the penguin.

  I shuffle over to the little girl on the couch. “What’s your name?”

  Her chin dips beneath her quilt.

  “Edith,” Jeannie answers for her.

  “Well, that’s a nice name. My great-aunt was named Edith. She had a lot more wrinkles that you do though.”

  The girl doesn’t laugh.

  “Positive…distraction. Positive,” Jeannie says.

  “Well, Edith.” I honk my nose, and she shies away. I search my pocket and find a silk handkerchief. But when I pull it out, it keeps coming, so I keep pulling and it keeps streaming from the pocket. I chuckle, not sure myself when the endless-handkerchief trick will end. When it finally does, I glance up to see if Edith’s watching. She’s not. I stuff the silk back into my pocket, which takes twice as long as it did to pull it out. Jeannie goes back to her phone. Isaac’s happy enough on his penguin, which leaves the grumpy teen.

  “Hey, Edith,” I hiss conspiratorially. “Watch this.” I walk over to the teen and take off my wig. I hold it over her head. Edith’s eyes widen. I drop the wig over the bandanna. The girl, now wearing a rainbow Afro, slowly stands and walks out of the room. She looks furious. A moment after she disappears through the doorway, the wig flies back into the room and hits the nurse.

  “Now I have lice!” The girl’s shout echoes down the hall.

  I turn to the nurse. “She can’t,” I say. “I mean, have lice. Not without hair.”

  “Nice,” says the nurse. But I catch Edith grinning for a second before turning back to the television. Of course, Mean Jeannie doesn’t notice. She leans in, looks me in the eye and says, “You know, your job here is to bring a little joy to the short time some of these kids might have left.”

  I flush with sudden shame.

  “I’ll practice,” I say. “Anyone else you want me to… distract? I can try.”

  “I think that’s enough for today,” the nurse says and points back the way we came. The penguin is still waving. The clock says it’s been ten minutes. As I leave, I hear the television channel change in the common room. I failed them. Their reality sucks, and I did nothing to improve it. I bring people into stories.

  Sure I do.

  NINETEEN

  I try to remind myself that my goal had not been to cheer up some sick cancer kids but to infiltrate the defenses of the PICU waiting area and track down Rebecca Shih. My failure in pediatrics could be viewed as success. Still, I can’t shake the bandanna girl’s anger and the nurse’s disappointment. As I enter the dimly lit waiting room in my clown suit, I feel like a penguin wielding a carrot. Out of place and more than a little wrong.

  I wave at a row of somber people, their faces ghostly. Only a little old lady wearing a powder blue dress fringed with lace smiles. In the far corner I recognize two members of the family from the other day. They’ve staked out their territory with a mess of soda cans and chip bags. Fast-food wrappers and coffee cups set the borders of another family in crisis. At the nursing station, the charge nurse purses his lips, eyes following me. I start forward. The more confident I am, the better chance I have of allaying suspicion.

  “Hey!” I say. “I’m Dappy the Clown, and I’m here to cheer up the wonderful patients of your unit!”

  The nurse’s eyebrows arch. “Well, Dappy, that sounds like a great idea, but why don’t you work the waiting area. How’s that?” He returns to his charts.

  “Well, I’d be Dappy to!” I reply, trying to channel the enthusiasm of Dennis. “Laughter is the best medicine—that’s what they say!” I grin like a goofball. The nurse’s arms cross. I am not winning him over.

  “Just do your job, clown,” the nurse replies, eyes back on the screen. At least he didn’t recognize me. And no Wanted posters are plastered on the wall. I’ve broken through the first line of defense, but I need to keep moving forward.

  Beyond those doors awaits my heart sister. To get in there, I must remain focused on the task at hand. I am about to offer a crying woman the endless handkerchief when I remember what Fatima said. Most of these people only want someone to talk to.

  I start with the little old lady who smiled at me earlier, sliding into the vacant seat beside her. At her sweet smile, I relax and return a grin. She shifts closer.

  “When’s the naked boy coming?” she asks with a wink.

  “Naked boy?” I say. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She waggles her eyebrows. Crap. She totally recognizes me! I put a finger to my lips.

  “It’s okay. I won’t tell. That was the most fun I’ve had since I arrived.”

  “How’d you recognize me?”

  “I’m good at eyes.”

  “What are you in for?” I ask.

  “Sixty-seven years,” she replies. “Of marriage.”

  I laugh. “Sounds frightening.”

  “It was wonderful.” The wrinkles around her eyes deepen. “It really was. My darling had a heart attack. He’s dying.” I look around to ensure I’m in the PICU and not the adult ward. “He’s down on the second floor,” she adds. “I have a great-niece in here. She’s only three years old. She’s going to be okay. I come up here to visit her and remember how lucky I am.”

  “I’m sorry about your husband.”

  She reaches over and pats my arm. “Thank you, but don’t be. Sixty-seven years. We had a good life together and a lot of fun. The morning it happened, he told me he loved me to the stars. I’ll see him there soon enough.”

  I’ve thought a lot about where Minnie is. Whether she is in some heaven. Maybe she’s in this very room, hoping I’ll do something stupid so she can laugh. Or maybe she’s nowhere. Or everywhere, but not in a form I understand. That’s probably it—that we can’t fathom what life is after death. Because of the not-knowing part, it’s scary and sad. But not if you’re ready for it. Then maybe it’s kind of exciting.

  No one was ready for Minnie to die.

  I can’t stop swallowing. My eyes water. I pull out the handkerchief and dab them.

  “Why are you here?” she asks.

  “You’ll keep a secret?”

  “I have so far.”

  “My sister died here and donated her organs.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I want to meet the person who received her heart, but I need to disguise myself.”

  “Because…?” She glances at the nursing station and the scene of the crime.

  “Yeah. That.”

  “Do you think it will help? Meeting her?”

  “Oh, it’s not for me,” I say.

  “Hmm. Hmm,” she replies.

  “Well, maybe a little for me, but I need to do this for my mom. I want to film my heart sister and then show my mom. She’s having a tough time, right? And I—”

  “You were close?”

  “My twin.”

  “Oh, honey,” she says and places her hand on mine.

  The tears come, and I struggle to dam them with the silk.

  The woman chuckles at the pile of handkerchief in my lap. “Uh-oh, now you’ve done it. You’d better g
o,” she whispers and points at my eyes. “You rubbed away your face paint.”

  “What?”

  “Your face paint. I can see you.”

  White paint smears the silk handkerchief. I forgot about my makeup. I tuck my chin to my chest, yank the rainbow hair down over my brow and sneak a look at the station. The nurse is still busy with his charts. But then I spot Dr. Lebow coming through the doors. I need to get out of here. I’ll try again tomorrow. “Thank you,” I say to the woman. “And good luck.” I stride out of the waiting area. Good luck? To a woman losing her partner of sixty-seven years? What else could I say? How can I cheer up cancer kids? What does anything mean coming from me? Me, who’s never had a relationship much longer than sixty-seven days, let alone years?

  I hustle back to Fatima. She smiles when she sees me.

  “That bad, huh?” she asks. “No one’s chasing you, are they?”

  I press my face against the frosted glass door, then realize she is joking. “No, no,” I say, straightening.

  She takes in the smeared face paint. “It’s not easy, but it’s important. I can mark you down for an hour. Thanks for trying.”

  She thinks I’ve been crying about the kids in pediatrics. “I’ll be back,” I say.

  “Really?”

  “Sure. I just need to practice. I’ll do better. I promise.”

  Her smile returns. “Well, next time take some balloons. Props can help.” She piles several thin multicolored balloons and a balloon pump into my hand. “Practice at home.”

  “Great, great. Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Don’t make me call security,” she adds.

  With the door half-open, I freeze. Has my plan been revealed?

  “The outfit,” says Fatima. “I can’t let you leave with it. Remember? I’ll kill ya.”

  TWENTY

  On my computer screen a woman stands sheathed in inflated balloons. They wrap around her ankles, shins and thighs. An inflatable duck circles her waist, and her arms are studded with a rainbow of balloon snakes. An octopus strangles her, and on her head is a crown sprouting four eye-topped antennae. With every movement of her twisting hands, her body squeaks. The balloon she works in her hands squirms this way and that. The screen joggles with the amateur camerawork.

  I’ve tried pausing Balloon Mama’s YouTube tutorial Five No-Fail Balloon Animals for the Every-Clown after every wring of her balloon. The burst carcasses of my failures litter my bedroom floor.

  “So just…like…this…and that…” Squidgy-squeak-squidgy. “Voilà!” She doesn’t really make it look easy. And it’s not. She has crafted a perfect giraffe. I cry out as mine explodes. Again. I want to wring her neck.

  After my tenth attempt, needing a dose of optimism, I check Mothman’s Instagram to see the #goodday posts that I’ve missed.

  Ugly-nest caterpillar moth. Although there’s no such thing as an ugly moth. #goodday. A picture of a vomit-colored moth sits above the caption. It actually is kind of ugly, but seeing the beauty is Gerry’s gift, not mine. I sure can’t see it in my tortured balloons.

  Gerry’s second post confuses me. One week to live. #goodday. It’s of a luna moth—like a green manta ray with orange-feathered antennae. It’s gorgeous, and I’m stunned that something so beautiful can be found in the city’s gardens. But why one week to live? After a quick search, I decipher Gerry’s caption. The luna moth lives for only one week. It has no mouth with which to eat. It lives just long enough to mate. I’m relieved that Gerry is okay.

  My dad gets home and leans into the doorway of my bedroom. His shoulders slouch, and his eyes are dull. “What’s that supposed to be?” he asks, pointing to a balloon animal on my desk. It’s the first to survive.

  “A cow,” I say.

  “The intestines of a cow?”

  Now that he mentions it, the twisted worms of the balloon do look like intestines. “I’m working on my technique.”

  “Why are you making animal intestines out of balloons?”

  “I don’t know, Dad. Why do you make sausages out of vegetables? Why did Minnie make carcasses seem like humans?”

  He pauses at the edge in my voice. I start pumping up a new balloon. Hard and fast strokes. What I want to say is, I’m trying to entertain people in the same waiting room you couldn’t step into while waiting to see if your daughter would live or die. Where you couldn’t hold your wife, who has only been able to move from her bed to the couch for almost two months.

  The tight mouth of the balloon slips off the pump nozzle and shoots up to the ceiling before fizzing back to the floor. I try again with another red balloon. I pump it, tie it and am soon frustrated by the grating squeaks of each twist, by the ever-present knowledge that it’s about to burst and by the way my dad stands silent there. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one trying.

  “What food looks like changes its taste, our enjoyment of it,” he replies. “That’s why I do it.”

  “And Minnie?” I ask, surprised at the question bubbling out of me. “Why did she make art out of dead things?”

  “Your sister—”

  “Minnie,” I challenge.

  “Your sister, Emmitt, I think she created her art for a number of reasons. I think it connected her to the natural world. Perhaps for her it was a way of illustrating how all living creatures are equal.”

  That sounds like a radical vegetarian’s interpretation.

  “Say her name, Dad,” I say. “You need to.” He swallows and looks past me, over my shoulder. “Her name was Minnie,” I continue. “She is dead. I love her. You love her. We all do. I don’t want to erase her by not talking about her.”

  My dad gives this strangled cough and then says in a whisper, “Not erasing her. No. I’m holding her.” He wraps his arms around his chest. “I’m holding on to her, and I can’t look right at her. If I do, the illusion breaks. She’s right there, in the periphery.” His trembling finger points off to the side.

  I get it. If he faces her, he’ll see that she’s gone. That it happened, and she’s dead.

  His face twists with pain.

  “Dad, it’s okay,” I say, motioning for him to stop, wrestling to hold back the competing emotions of sadness, anger and shame.

  “No, you’re right. We should talk. I’m sorry.” It’s as though every one of his muscles flexes. His jaw’s bulging. A vein at his temple protrudes thick and purple. His body is clutched by his arms, and his eyes blink quickly as the tears fall. “You need me to talk about her, so I will.”

  “You’ve just been so distant.”

  “Yeah, you’re right about that too,” he says hoarsely. It hurts, seeing his pain.

  He faces me. He sees me. “I don’t know how to be anymore, son. All I know is I sure as hell didn’t protect her. And that’s my one job. What am I if I can’t do that?” His sad eyes seem to take in the boxes and bare walls of my room as if for the first time.

  He roots something out of his pocket and puts it on the desk beside the deformed cow. Something round. It takes me a moment to realize it’s a rutabaga. Carved into a miniature world. An outer layer of trees, then suburbs and a city of skyscrapers beyond. In the middle is a square full of little kids, overlooked by a great tower. A waterfall pours from the tower’s top. The rutabaga city is beautiful, but it’s already beginning to molder and rot. It’s the size of a heart.

  “How long have you been working on this?”

  “This is my world,” he says. My watch alarm bleeps. He draws another breath before asking, “What’s that for?”

  “A reminder to call a friend. But first…” I pump up a six-foot skinny balloon and then start twisting and twisting. By the time I’m done, it is not clearly a giraffe, but at least I have a multi-legged creature with a pole for a head. I set it beside my dad’s rutabaga world and pat him on the shoulder. “I think I should stick to film, Dad, and you should stick to making beautiful edible feasts.”

  He laughs and then steps in and gathers me into a hug. We’re t
he same height, but his arms hold me powerfully. I swallow hard, and he rushes off, leaving me in my bedroom with his rotting world. After a minute I call Joey.

  “Hell…o.” Joey’s answer is tired and done in—maybe hungover.

  I pause to gather myself. It’s like the world has sprung leaks, and I only have so many fingers with which to plug the wounds.

  “Hi, Liver Brother, it’s Emmitt.”

  A sigh on the other end. I want to get angry, to lay into him. Tell him off for drinking. Instead I start into the questions, “All right, so why—”

  “My kids. My kids. A drink won’t help. Okay?”

  Argumentative, grumpy, but at least he doesn’t sound like he’s been drinking. That’s good. I lean forward.

  “You planning to drink tonight?”

  “You have the answers to your questions. That’s what I owe you, right?”

  Remember what Jeannie said. Positive distraction.

  I glance to the rotting world and balloon intestines.

  “Can I tell you about my day?” I ask.

  “Be my guest.”

  I can tell by his tone that he’s not really interested. But I tell him about the hospital, why I went there and my failed clowning. By the end I extract a snort of what I hope is laughter.

  “So you’re not the best clown,” he says.

  “Understatement of the year.”

  There’s a pregnant pause and then, “Why do you want to meet this heart sister so much? I mean, she’s not really your sister. And she clearly doesn’t want to talk to you.”

  I pick up the rutabaga and give it a shake. “She’s not my sister. She’s my heart sister.” How do I explain the connection I feel? “Maybe if my sister had had a kid, I’d love it like I do my heart sister. In a way, she’s something that Minnie gave birth to.”

  “You think your sister gave birth to me?” Joey says.

  “Sort of, I guess,” I say. “I mean, would you be here otherwise?”

  “I’d be more yellow.”

  “Yeah, so you owe her your pinkish health.”

  “I’m actually kind of pasty.”