Just Breathe

by Cammie McGovern

  Eileen, who was standing beside me, disappears. A moment later, I see her across the room, in dance position with Nicolai. I have no idea how she’s managed it, but maybe this is what David warned me about: She likes to take risks.

  Even though there isn’t much time left, Eileen manages to dance once more with Nicolai. She doesn’t sit next to me for the end-of-class wrap-up where the teacher goes over dates and reminds us of the social next month. We aren’t supposed to have our phones in class, but from across the room, I watch Eileen pull hers out to show Nicolai something. He nods at her screen, and she bumps his shoulder with hers. I try to imagine touching David like this—easily, jokingly. I wish I could, but I can’t.

  The next day, I don’t tell David any of this. I tell him we had a great time. “Eileen is different than the girls I was friends with last year. In a good way.”

  “Did she do anything weird?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just weird. She can be weird.”

  Where on his weird scale would flirting with Nicolai rank? It made me nervous, but maybe it was nothing. She didn’t mention him after class or on the ride home. Maybe dancing with him was a small thing in her world.

  “Do you know any kids who still go to Starlight?” I ask him.

  “Not too many. There was one guy I started with. We used to be pretty good friends and then he got more serious about entering competitions, and we drifted apart. He’s probably still there. He was a little strange, though. Even though we used to hang out all the time, someone told him why I coughed so much, and he never talked to me again. Couldn’t handle it, I guess.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “Some people get freaked out, that’s all.”

  I think about how our dance coaches bowed when they met us. How often Tonya talked about the importance of manners. It made me think: David is right, forcing people to be polite makes them all seem nicer.

  Now I wonder if that’s true. “Was he really a good friend?”

  “I thought so. For a little while, at least. Maybe he was mad I never told him myself. I don’t know. He’d gotten caught up in competing by then. Some girls had started paying him to enter competitions with them, so he was under a lot of pressure.”

  “Paying him? Are you kidding?”

  “Maybe you noticed there’s a slight shortage of guys. That’s how the dance coaches make their money. They’re here getting certified to become dance teachers. A few of them are from Russia and they’re younger than you think. They’re on their own, and they don’t have any other source of income. But Nick just wanted to cash in on it so he makes people think he’s from Russia and sells his services.”

  I swallow hard. “Nick? Is his real name Nicolai?”

  “Yeah, but we always called him Nick.”

  “Tall, with brown hair and a beard? Really good at salsa?”

  “Yep, that’s him. Did he talk to you in his fake accent?”

  “No,” I say. I don’t add: But Eileen has her eye on him.

  “Well, now you know. You should probably avoid him.”

  Chapter Seven

  DAVID

  AFTER I GET THE NEWS, Jamie is the first friend I tell. I know she’ll be happy for me and everyone else will have hesitant, hard-to-read responses.

  ME: So now it’s official. I’ve been approved for the organ transplant list.

  JAMIE: Congratulations! That’s great!

  ME: It is great, but also strange. When the doctor told us, I kept worrying that my mother would start crying and I’d get mad at her and we’d get in one of our ugly new fights. And then it was weird. She was fine, and I was the one crying. I don’t even know why. I know I shouldn’t admit this. Please don’t tell anyone at school.

  JAMIE: Who am I going to tell? And of course you should admit it! It’s pretty overwhelming. And scary.

  ME: Yeah.

  JAMIE: And potentially great.

  ME: Potentially.

  There’s no way to talk about how truly terrifying this is when I’ve been waiting almost a month to get approved for this list. Maybe I should have talked about this first with Sharon, but she’s at a Youth Leadership Retreat this weekend, where they couldn’t bring their cell phones. We haven’t communicated in three days, which I thought would be hard, but instead I’ve been chatting with Jamie a lot.

  I don’t know if she’s thinks it seems strange. She doesn’t say anything if she does.

  JAMIE: So what happens now?

  ME: When I leave the hospital, I’ll carry a pager everywhere I go, and they’ll page me when they get a pair of lungs.

  JAMIE: Are they saying you might get out soon?

  ME: Not likely, since I had a temperature this morning. But let’s talk about something else. Tell me about your day. How did the life science test go?

  JAMIE

  I keep being surprised at how interested David is in the details of my life. I don’t even remember mentioning the life science test. Maybe Eileen did, and maybe he thinks of me as an extension of her. Maybe he’s the kind of big brother who wants to know what his tenth-grade sister’s life is like, so he asks me.

  ME: I did okay, but that’s because she gave us most of the questions ahead of time.

  DAVID: Is it possible you’re taking a slightly too easy schedule?

  ME: It’s possible. In three out of four of my academic classes they don’t assign homework. We just do it in class, where the teacher can help us.

  DAVID: How about reading?

  ME: In English we’ve only done one play and a poetry packet, and we read all those aloud. She did say something about reading a whole book before the end of the year.

  DAVID: I think you should definitely consider some honors classes next semester.

  I remind myself, He doesn’t know me or what I’m capable of. He’s saying this to be nice. Or maybe he’s practicing the pep talk he wants to give Eileen. It’s all pretty confusing—feeling like he knows me and then reminding myself that he doesn’t really.

  Today I’m bringing him Splendor in the Grass, starring Natalie Wood and Warren Beatty, as part of my plan to tell him the truth about what happened this summer. I thought of it two days ago, but we didn’t own a copy, so I had to go to the library and check it out. Plus, I had to work up my courage. Natalie Wood and Warren Beatty (in his first movie!) play a glamorous high school couple. He’s rich; she’s poor. He’s under family pressure to succeed; she’s under family pressure not to be one of “those” girls (meaning slutty). But the crazy intensity of her sexual feelings tips her over the edge, and she makes a scene at a school dance, wading into the local reservoir still wearing her party dress. (“Water is always a metaphor for sex,” my dad explained to me when I was twelve.) That night she’s put in a mental institution, where she stays for two years.

  Because Natalie Wood is believable and also beautiful throughout—even in the hospital—I’m hoping this is the perfect way to tell David the truth. The more he talks about his own future and how he’s rethinking everything—not following the same path his friends are on—the more I want to tell him my own story. I never had real friends or a path to follow. I want to watch this movie with him and say, Something like this happened to me.

  Minus Warren Beatty. And I didn’t stay for two years.

  But as he knows, three weeks can feel like a pretty long time when you’re in a hospital.

  Once we start this conversation, I know I’ll have a lot to say, and old movies will help me. I can tell him there are more suicidal characters in Frank Capra’s movies than any other director’s, but everyone still thinks of him as an upbeat, life-affirming storyteller because look how It’s a Wonderful Life turns out. Maybe I’ll tell him there was a time, before I was in the hospital, that I was obsessed with movies about people in psychiatric hospitals. I loved the way those characters seemed fragile but strengthened by their experience. And wiser somehow. Like they were the only ones who saw the truth about the world they had to step
away from.

  It’s certainly true in Splendor in the Grass. By the time Natalie Wood gets out of the hospital after two years, the stock market has crashed and Warren Beatty has lost all his money. He’s a farmer with a wife and baby and a yard full of chickens. Next to him, Natalie looks like the one with the promise of a better future. I want David to watch the movie before I tell him. That way he’ll see for himself: people do get better.

  After four weeks of being friends, I want David to know the truth: I had a terrible time last spring. I didn’t understand the way depression worked—that it feels physical for a long time, like something else is wrong. Your bones ache. Food tastes different. You’re always tired because you never sleep. You can’t think clearly, and you’re too exhausted to do anything. He’s complained about the ways his body has taken over his decision-making—that he’s too tired to do homework, too unfocused to read much.

  “You’re sick,” I tell him. “Your body is working on other things. You have to give yourself a break.”

  Now I want to explain how I know this: Depression is a sickness, and the worst part is that your mind can’t remember what better feels like. You get well by doing a whole bunch of little things that sound like they won’t help but eventually they do. You have to eat right and get exercise and take your medication, but mostly you have to be patient, the way he has to be now. Maybe I’m ready to tell him this because I’m scared he’ll leave soon and I want him to know why his friendship matters so much to me. I want to tell him, Helping you has made me better.

  I run through the other rooms I have to visit first. Most of the kids have seen me before, and most of the parents are too tired to talk much. “Can I bring you anything else?” I always ask. They always smile and shake their heads.

  I’ve saved David’s room for last so I can stay longer. But as I get nearer, I see a red sign posted on his door. I push my cart closer to read it, though I’ve seen these signs before and I know what they say. LIMITED STAFF. NO VISITORS. FULL PROTECTIVE MEASURES REQUIRED.

  To the side of his door is another cart with masks and gloves, sterile jumpsuits and booties. Beyond that is a bin for used items. I know what all this means: he’s tested positive for pseudomonas or another bad bacterium.

  Though it takes me another minute, I also know what this really means: he’s much sicker now. If lungs become available, he might not get them.

  Chapter Eight

  DAVID

  I OPEN MY EYES, SEE where I am, and shut them again. Moving hurts. Even the nurses lifting my arm to check my IV hurts. My chest aches every time I breathe.

  I lose track of days.

  My whole family comes in, wearing masks and sterilized coveralls. The only thing I can see is my mother’s eyes filled with tears.

  I assume I’m dying.

  “Are you in pain?” my dad asks.

  I can’t answer with my oxygen mask on so I nod. When I open my eyes again, my parents are gone.

  Someone puts on music that hurts to listen to. I recognize the song; I remember once liking it. Now it hurts to hear it, and I ask the person moving around my room to turn it off. I don’t open my eyes, so I don’t know who it is.

  This morning, I wake up and keep my eyes open. There’s a packet of saltines on my bedside table. I can’t move, but I can stare at it without feeling nauseous.

  After some experimentation, I realize I can pull my computer onto my bed.

  I must be slightly better. I still can’t sit up, but I can read lying down. There are four messages from Jamie. There are other messages, too, but I read hers first.

  JAMIE: I don’t know if you’re reading these, but in case you are, I want you to know, you’re on quarantine now, so I can’t come visit you. They’re really strict about that. Family only. I would be there if I could.

  JAMIE: Write when you can. I’m thinking about you.

  JAMIE: I hope you’re okay.

  JAMIE: I broke down and asked Eileen today how you’re doing, and she said you’re okay. They’ve got the bacteria under control. Yes, it’s pseudomonas, and I’ve read enough about that one to know this must feel like a setback, but I promise you it’s not. You’re going to get your lungs and you’re going to get better. I know you will.

  She doesn’t know that pseudomonas are the one bacterium you can never get rid of once you get them. Even if I get new lungs, they’ll still be in my body. It’s not easy to type, but I want her to know the truth.

  ME: I won’t get better. Not now.

  JAMIE: You’re writing again! I’m so relieved!

  ME: I’m not better. I’m just typing.

  JAMIE: That means you ARE better. You might feel worse right now because you’ve had a temperature, but you’re okay. You’re going to get well. It’ll just take some time, though.

  ME: I’m not going to get well.

  JAMIE: What do you mean?

  I can’t read the words anymore. The room is starting to spin.

  I type Bye and shut my computer.

  It’s impossible to distinguish night from day. I have no idea how much time has passed. I ask every nurse what day it is, and then I can’t remember what they tell me.

  I have crazy dreams. Where I’m angry and screaming at everyone in my family. In one, I’m standing alone on a beach, yelling “LET ME GO!” to my parents and Eileen.

  When I wake up, I’m sweating.

  “I’m dying, right?” I say to the nurse. “You can tell me. It’s okay. It’s better to know.”

  “You’re not dying, David. The infection is going down.”

  I don’t understand why no one will tell me the truth.

  I write Jamie again.

  ME: I know I’m dying. Why won’t anyone just say it?

  JAMIE: Because you’re not. You’re just sick.

  ME: I’m never going to get out of here.

  JAMIE: Yes, you are.

  ME: This is too hard. I don’t even remember what being well feels like. I don’t think I’ll ever get back there, and I don’t want to spend another day like this.

  JAMIE: Your mind is playing tricks on you. That’s what happens.

  ME: I don’t want to be in this room anymore.

  JAMIE: Would you like me to call you? Would it help to talk?

  In all this time, we’ve never talked on the phone. I don’t know why not. Suddenly, I think, with perfect clarity: Yes. The sound of Jamie’s voice will help.

  ME: Yes. Call me, please.

  She calls, and we talk for almost an hour. She tells me she knows the way I’m feeling. That I’m not alone and I have to trust her. I listen to what she says, even though I’m drifting in and out of sleep.

  “Your brain is telling you lies right now. It’s saying you won’t get better, but you will. It’s hard to believe that, because brains are stubborn. They think they’re right when they’re not.”

  I ask if she minds if I sleep a little while she talks.

  “Not at all. That’s probably the best way to get through this. Just sleep, and I’ll stay right here telling you you’re going to be okay.”

  She does.

  And it’s strange. The next morning when I wake up, I am.

  JAMIE

  I’m nervous about seeing him again. It’s only been a week since I spent all that time on the phone, telling him he would get better and now here he is—sitting up in bed, smiling and looking better than he has in weeks.

  “Jamie! I’ve been waiting for you to come! Guess what—I’m better!”

  “Wow. That’s great!”

  “I mean they’re not about to let me out, but the antibiotics are working finally, and I feel my body moving in the right direction. I’m putting on some weight again. I’m not falling asleep an hour after I wake up.”

  “That’s really great.”

  His eyes have a sparkle that they haven’t had in weeks. His voice isn’t so breathy. I’m happy, but I’m also confused. Does he not remember our last conversation and how low he was?

 
; “So a lot has happened, and I’ve been wanting to talk to you. Sit, sit.”

  He waves at the chair I usually sit in. His energy is making me nervous. I don’t understand where it’s coming from. How could he be so much better already?

  “I’ve made a few big decisions. The first one is, I’m not going to apply to any colleges. I told my parents that instead of wasting money on college, I’m going to pick my own books, watch classic movies, and learn what I want to learn! Just like you! It’s going to be great!”

  “Wow,” I say, because I can’t think of anything else. I wonder if I should remind him: I left that life behind to go to real school. “What do your parents say?”

  “They hate the idea, of course. But I told them, they either let me make this choice or I’ll figure out a way to kill myself.”

  Now I’m really uncomfortable. I stand up. “David—”

  “Sit, sit. I’m just kidding. They’ll come around. They don’t love the idea, but I showed them all the books I ordered, so they can see that I’m serious.”

  He opens the drawer beside his bed that’s full of books. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one he reached out to online while he was sick. Amazon must have been another.

  “What did you get?”

  “I’m starting with a few philosophers and psychologists.” He reaches into his bedside drawer and pulls out a stack of books. Meditations, by Marcus Aurelius, which he’s already told me about. I don’t recognize the others: The Power of Positivity. Looking Up in a World of Down.

  “I don’t get it,” I say.

  “I started feeling better the day after I talked to you. Thank you, by the way. I have no idea how long you stayed on the phone, but whatever you said, I woke up the next morning feeling much better. Like a hundred percent. I had energy again and focus, and now I’ve been reading nonstop for the last three days. These books are amazing. Did you know that the most popular class at Harvard is called Positive Psychology? It’s about finding happiness. Sixteen hundred overachieving kids take it every year, and do you want to hear the basic message of the class?”