A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius

by Dave Eggers

  I have Beth take my place, holding the ice and squeezing the nose. Eschewing my innovation, she sits on the arm of the couch instead of on the top of the couch. The towel is soaked. The blood is warm and wet against my palm. I go to the laundry room and toss the towel into the washbasin, where it lands with a slap. I shake the cramps out of my hands and get another towel, and Toph’s shoes, out of the dryer. I give the towel to Beth.

  I go downstairs to check on Toph. I sit on the stairs, which afford a view of the basement, a rec room converted into a bedroom and then converted again into a rec room.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hi,” Toph says.

  “How’s it going?”

  “Fine.”

  “Are you still hungry?”

  “What?”

  “Are you still hungry?”

  “What?”

  “Pause the stupid game.”

  “Okay.”

  “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you listening?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you still want food?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’ll get some pizza in a while.”

  “Okay.”

  “Here’s your shoes.”

  “Are they dry?”

  “Yeah.”

  I go back upstairs.

  “We need to empty this,” Beth says, indicating the half-moon receptacle.

  “Why me?”

  “Why not you?”

  I slowly lift the half-moon receptacle over Mom’s head and walk it to the kitchen. It is full to the brim. It is swishing forward and back. Halfway into the kitchen I spill most of it down my leg, immediately wondering how acidic the contents of the half-moon receptacle are, with the bile and all. Will the fluid burn through my pants? I stand still and watch to see if it burns through, like acid, expecting to see smoke, a gradually growing hole—as happens when one spills alien blood.

  But it does not burn. I decide to change my pants anyway.

  Beth holds the nose for a while. She sits on the arm of the couch, next to Mom’s head. From the kitchen, I turn up the volume on the TV. It’s been an hour.

  With the nose still bleeding, Beth meets me in the kitchen. “What are we going to do?” she whispers. “We have to go in, right?” “We can’t.” “Why?”

  “We promised.” “Oh c’mon.”

  “What?”

  “This can’t be it.”

  “It could be it.”

  “I know it could be it, but it shouldn’t be it.”

  “She wants it to be it.”

  “No, she doesn’t.”

  “I think she does.”

  “No she doesn’t.”

  “She said so.”

  “She didn’t mean it.”

  “I think she might.”

  “No way. That’s ridiculous.”

  “Did you hear her?”

  “No, but even so.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think she’s scared.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And I think she’s not ready. I mean, are you ready?”

  “No, of course not. You?”

  “No. No, no.”

  Beth goes back to the family room. I wash out the half-moon receptacle, my head struggling with the logistics. So. Okay. At this rate, with the blood coming out slowly but continuously, how long would it actually take? A day? No, no, less—it’s not all the blood, well before all the blood was gone it would be— We wouldn’t actually be waiting for all the blood to drain; rather, after a while, things would break down, would— Jesus, how much blood? A gallon? Less? We could find out. We could call the nurse again. No, no, we can’t. If we ask someone they’ll make us bring her in. And if they knew we needed to bring her in, and we didn’t bring her in, we’d be murderers. We could call the emergency room, ask hypothetically: “Hi, I’m doing a report for school about slow blood leakage and...” Fuck. Would we have enough towels? God no. We could use sheets, we have plenty of sheets— It might be only a few hours. Would that be enough time? What’s enough time? We would talk a lot. Yes. We would sum up. Would we be serious, sober, or funny? We would be serious for a few minutes— Okay okay okay okay. Fuck, what if we ran out of things to say and— We’ve already made the necessary arrangements. Yes, yes, we wouldn’t need to talk details. We’d have Toph come up. Would we have Toph come up? Of course, but... oh he shouldn’t be there, should he? Who wants to be there at the very end? No one, no one. But for her to be alone...of course she won’t be alone, you’ll be there, Beth’ll be there, dumb-ass. Fuck. We’d have to get Bill on the phone. Who else? Which relatives? No grandparents, her parents long gone, in-laws gone, her sister Ruth gone, her sister Ann not dead but gone, out of touch, hiding, that hippie freak— Fuck. Some of those people hadn’t called in years. Friends then. Which? The ones from volleyball, from Montessori— Shit, we’ll definitely forget some people... Hell, we’ll forget some people, people will understand, they’ll have to— Fuck it, we’re leaving anyway, we’re moving away after all this, fuck it— A conference call? No, no— tacky. Tacky but practical, definitely practical, and it might also be fun, people chatting, lots of voices, we could use noise and distraction, not quiet, not quiet, quiet not good—need noise. We’d have to prime them, warn them, but shit, what to say? “Things are happening quickly”—something like that, vague but clear enough, do it quietly, everything implicit, get on the kitchen extension, out of earshot, say something before Mom gets on the phone— That would do the trick, all the people on the line at once— I’ll have to call the phone company, get some kind of hookup— Are we already signed up for that kind of thing? Call-waiting, sure, but conference calling—probably not, definitely not, fuck— We need a speakerphone is what we need. That would do it, a speakerphone— I could go get one, I’d have to go all the way up to Kmart, take Dad’s car even, faster than Mom’s, much faster— Is that a stick? No, no, automatic, I can drive it, haven’t driven it before but could drive it, no problem, fast car, open it up there on the highway— But fuck, it’s easily twenty minutes there and back, plus shopping time and what if they didn’t have— I could call first, of course I’d call, dumbshit, ask them if they have the speakerphone... I’d have to know what kind of phone I’ve got here, for compatibility, okay, Sony and then— But why the fuck should I go? Beth’s been here all year, had all the extra time, Beth should go, of course Beth, Beth’ll go Beth’ll go— But she won’t think the speakerphone is necessary, she’ll say forget it— Fuck, maybe we should just screw it— Screw it. Screw it. Screw it. Would the speakerphone really make it easier? Of course not, we’d still need the conference-call hookup deal— We’ll call Bill and Aunt Jane and the cousins, Susie and Janie, Ruth’s daughters, maybe cousin Mark, too. That’s it. So the phone call would be twenty minutes maybe, then we’d bring Toph upstairs for a while, a little visit, again, casual, light, fun, loose, loose, fun, light— So twenty minutes or so of Toph upstairs, then— All right, all right, wait: how much time total are we talking? How long for the nose? Two hours maybe, easily more, for sure, could be a day—Jesus, does anyone know this?—the conservative estimate would be two hours— Wait. I can stop the nosebleed. I will stop the nosebleed. Yes. I will find a way. More ice. Rearrange her—a reverse incline; gravity, yes. I will hold the nose tighter, tighter this time; I probably wasn’t holding tight enough before— Fuck. What if it doesn’t work? It won’t work. We shouldn’t spend the last hours fighting it; no, we will know and let it go—turn the TV off right away, of course— But would that be too dramatic? Fuck, we can be dramatic here, we can— Well, we’d ask her, of course, dumbshit, it’d be up to Mom of course, the TV, whether it was on or off—it’s her show of course—that’s a dumb way of putting it, “her show,” so crass, such disrespect, you fucking dumbshit. Fuck. Okay, so we’d have some time, we could sit there, hang out, just sit there, it’d be nice— Jesus, it’s not going to be nice, not with the blood everywhere— The
blood is going to make it unbearable— But maybe not, it’s so slow, the blood— Oh, it’ll be days, days before it drains, enough drains, but maybe that’ll be good, natural, a slow draining, like a leeching—not like a leeching, asshole you sick fucking asshole—not a goddamn motherfucking leeching— Would we tell people how it happened? No, no. This would be a “died at home” thing, nice phrase, the phrase they used, come to think of it, for that one guy from high school who shot himself after graduating, the guy from art class with those Marty Feldman eyes. Also when that one woman, the one with bone cancer, locked herself in the house and burned it down. That was incredible. Was it brave, or unhinged? Would that have made it easier, the burning of everything? Yes. No. “Died at home.” That’s how we’ll do it, say nothing else. People will know anyway. No one’ll say a thing. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine.

  I pour the contents of the container over the food collected inside the disposal. I turn on the water, then the disposal, and it grinds everything up. I can hear Beth in the family room.

  “Mom, we should go in.”

  “No.”

  “Seriously.”

  “No.”

  “We have to.”

  “We do not.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Stay here.”

  “We can’t. You’re bleeding.”

  “You said we would stay here.”

  “But, Mom. C’mon.”

  “You promised.”

  “This is crazy.”

  “You promised.”

  “You can’t just keep bleeding.” “Call the nurse again.”

  “We already called the nurse again. The nurse said we had to go in. They’re waiting for us.” “Call another nurse.” “Mom, please.” “This is stupid.” “Don’t call me stupid.” “I didn’t call you stupid.” “Who were you calling stupid?” “No one. I said it was stupid.” “What’s stupid?” “Dying of a bloody nose.” “I’m not going to die of a bloody nose.” “The nurse said you could.” “The doctor said you could.” “If we go in, I’ll never leave.” “Yes you will.” “I won’t.” “Oh Jesus.”

  “I don’t want to go back in there.” “Don’t cry, Mom, Jesus.” “Don’t say that.” “Sorry.”

  “We’ll get you out.” “Mom?” “What!” “You’ll get out.” “You want me in there.” “Oh, God.”

  “Look at you two, Tweedledum and Tweedledee.” “Huh?”

  “You want to go out tonight, that’s what it is.” “Jesus.”

  “It’s New Year’s Eve. You two have plans!” “Fine, bleed. Sit there and bleed to death.” “Mom, please?”

  “Just bleed. But we don’t have enough towels for all the blood. I’ll have to get more towels.” “Mom?”

  “And you’ll ruin the couch.” “Where’s Toph?” she asks. “Downstairs.” “What’s he doing?” “Playing his game.” “What will he do?” “He’ll have to come with.”

  At the end of the driveway my father knelt. Beth watched and it was kind of pretty for a second, him just kneeling there in the gray winter window. Then she knew. He had been falling. In the kitchen, the shower. She ran and flung open the door, threw the screen wide and ran to him.

  I clear out the backseat of the station wagon and put a blanket down, then put a pillow against the side door and lock it. I come back into the living room.

  “How am I going to get in the car?” she says.

  “I’m gonna carry you,” I say.

  “You?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Ha!”

  We get her jacket. We get another blanket. We get the half-moon receptacle. We get the IV bag. Another nightgown. Slippers. Some snacks for Toph. Beth puts everything in the car.

  I open the basement door.

  “Toph, let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “To the hospital.”

  “Why?”

  “For a checkup.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do I have to go?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? I can stay with Beth.”

  “Beth’s coming with.”

  “I can stay alone.”

  “No, you can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you can’t.”

  “But why?”

  “Jesus, Toph, get up here!”

  “Okay.”

  I am not sure I can lift her. I don’t know how heavy she’ll be. She could be a hundred pounds, she could be a hundred and fifty pounds. I open the door to the garage and come back. I move the table away from the couch. I kneel in front of her. I put one arm under her legs, and the other behind her back. She has tried to sit up.

  “You’ll never get up if you’re kneeling.”

  “Okay.”

  I get off my knees and crouch.

  “Put your arm around my neck,” I say.

  “Be careful,” she says.

  She puts her arm around my neck. Her hand is hot.

  I remember to use my legs. I keep her nightgown between my hand and the back of her knees. I do not know what her skin there will feel like. I am afraid of what is under her nightgown— bruises, spots, holes. There are bruises, soft spots...where things have rotted through? As I stand up, she reaches her other arm around to meet the one around my neck, and grabs one hand with the other. She is not as heavy as I thought she would be. She is not as bony as I feared she would be. I step around the chair next to the couch. I had once seen them both, my mother and father, on the couch, both sitting there. I head toward the hallway to the garage. The whites of her eyes are yellow.

  “Don’t let my head hit.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Don’t.”

  “I won’t.”

  We pass the first doorway. The wood molding cracks.

  “Ow!”

  “Sorry.”

  “Owwwwwooooooh.”

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry. You okay?”

  “Mmmmm.”

  “Sorry.”

  The door to the garage is open. The air in the garage is frozen. She pulls her head in and I clear the doorway. I think of honeymoons, the threshold. She is pregnant. She is a knocked-up bride. The tumor is a balloon. The tumor is a fruit, an empty gourd. She is lighter than I thought she would be. I had expected the tumor to create more weight. The tumor is large and round. She wears her pants over it, wore her pants over it, the ones with the elastic waistband, the last time she wore pants, before the nightgowns. But she is light. The tumor is a light tumor, empty, a balloon. The tumor is rotten fruit, graying at the edges. Or an insects’ hive, something festering and black and alive, fuzzy on its sides. Something with eyes. A spider. A tarantula, the legs fanning out, metastasizing. A balloon covered in dirt. The color is the color of dirt. Or blacker, shinier. Caviar. Like caviar in color and also in the shape and size of its components. She had had Toph late. She was forty-two then. She had prayed in church every day while pregnant. When she was ready, they cut her stomach open to get him but he was fine, perfect.

  I step down into the garage and she spits. It is audible, the gurgling sound. She does not have the towel or the half-moon receptacle. The green fluid comes over her chin and lands on her nightgown. A second wave comes but she holds her mouth closed, her cheeks puffed out. There is green fluid on her face.

  The car door is open and I aim her head in first. She shrugs her shoulders, tries to make herself smaller for an easier fit. I shuffle my feet, adjust my grip. I move in slow motion. I am barely moving. She is a vase, a doll. A giant vase. A giant fruit. A prize-winning vegetable. I pass her through the door. I lean down and place her on the seat. She is suddenly girlish in the nightgown, selfconsciously pushing it down to cover her legs. She adjusts the pillow against the door, behind her, and slides back into it.

  When she is settled she reaches for a towel on the floor of the car and brings it to her mouth and spits into it and wipes off her chin.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  I clos
e the door and wait in the passenger seat. Beth comes out with Toph, who is in his winter coat and is wearing mittens. Beth opens the station wagon’s hatchback and Toph climbs in.

  “Hi, sweetie,” Mom says, craning her head back, looking up at him.

  “Hi,” says Toph.

  Beth gets in the driver’s seat, turns around and claps her hands together.

  “Road trip!”

  You should have seen my father’s service. People came, third-grade teachers, friends of my mother, a few people from my father’s office, no one knew them, parents of our friends, everyone bundled up, huffing inside, glassy-eyed from the cold, kicking their snowy feet on the mats. It was the third week in November, and prematurely freezing, the roads covered with ice, the worst in years.

  All the guests looked stricken. Everyone knew my mother was sick, were expecting this sort of thing from her, but this, this from him was a surprise. No one knew what do to, what to say. Not that many people knew him—he didn’t socialize much, at least not in town, had maintained only a handful of friends—but they knew my mother, and they must have felt like they were at the funeral for the husband of a ghost.

  We were embarrassed. It was all so gaudy, so gruesome—here we were, inviting everyone to come and watch us in the middle of our disintegration. We smiled and shook hands with everyone as they walked in. Oh hi! I said to Mrs. Glacking, my fourth-grade teacher, whom I hadn’t seen in easily ten years. She looked good, looked the same. Huddled together in the lobby, we were sheepish and apologetic, trying to keep things breezy. My mom, wearing a flower-print dress (it was the best thing she had in which she could conceal her intravenous apparatus), tried to stand and receive the comers, but she soon had to sit, grinning up at everyone, hello hello, thank you thank you, how are you? I thought about sending Toph to another room, half for his own benefit and half so the guests didn’t have to see the whole horrific tableau, but then he went off with a friend anyway.