Just Breathe

by Cammie McGovern

  I imagine what my father would say. They’re not just rich, they’re ostentatious, too. Once upon a time, he went to cocktail parties in houses like these and sat on sofas underneath his own paintings. By the time I was old enough to realize what that meant, those days were over. I only heard about them occasionally when we sat outside houses like this one, eating sandwiches he’d packed while he told me sad stories about the people who lived inside.

  For almost a month, Eileen’s parents have given me rides both ways. They’ve been generous and kind, and no one has ever made me feel uncomfortable or said anything about our horrible apartment. Now I feel terrible. Eileen has been a good friend—the only new friend I’ve made this year if you don’t count David, and I know I shouldn’t—and I’ve wrecked it all by assuming the worst.

  Before she gets out of the car, I turn around and say, “I’m sorry about tonight, Eileen. I got scared, and I shouldn’t have.”

  “That’s right” is all she says. “You shouldn’t have.”

  I already know what will probably happen the next time I see Eileen. When I see her in class, she’ll slide her eyes away from me and pretend she doesn’t see me. At some point, I’ll give her back her dress in a plastic bag, and she won’t say anything. I’ll want to say something stupid like, “You’ve been a better friend to me in the last month than I’ve ever had before,” which won’t make sense, because we’re not really friends.

  But I think about her noticing things about me I’d almost forgotten or else never knew. That I was artistic once. That boys notice me. That I’m different from other girls our age, but maybe it’s okay.

  I wish I could tell her all of this, but I won’t, because even I know how awkward it will be when she doesn’t say anything back.

  Chapter Ten

  DAVID

  ME: Is it okay if I propose another outing? Bear in mind that after the last one, my PFTs went up to the best level I’ve had in over a month. Outings are good for me; the doctor can’t exactly order them, but I know he would approve.

  JAMIE: What’s your proposal? I’m not saying yes. I’m just asking.

  ME: I want to see a movie. In a theater. With popcorn and soda. I want to sit in gross seats where our feet stick to the floor. I want the whole experience.

  JAMIE: No, David. Seeing a whole movie means being out of the hospital for at least two hours. There’s no way.

  ME: See, I knew you might say that, so as an experiment, I left my room for three hours today, and guess what? No one said a thing.

  JAMIE: Are you serious?

  ME: They think it’s a good sign that I’m downstairs doing my homework. Nurse Nancy just told me she likes stopping by my room and finding me gone.

  JAMIE: What if we go and something bad happens?

  ME: Then you’ll call for an Uber on my phone, and we’ll come back to the hospital. Nothing will happen, I promise, and even if it does, it won’t be a big deal.

  For a long time, she doesn’t answer. Then she sends this:

  JAMIE: What movie would you even want to see?

  ME: It doesn’t matter. You can pick.

  JAMIE: Okay.

  ME: Thank you, dearest Jamie. You’ve made me the happiest patient on the fourth floor. And that’s saying a lot, because someone just dropped off a case of Friendly’s ice cream cups.

  There’s something I haven’t told Jamie yet. I can’t. It’s too sad. Last night, I found out how her dad died. I knew he died last year, but she’d never told me how. I shouldn’t have (of course), but I couldn’t stop thinking about the mystery of it, so I started asking other nurses about her mom, because sometimes they don’t mind talking about each other. I thought it was a smart strategy, except it didn’t work.

  “You know we can’t talk about that, David,” they all said.

  Once, I asked Vanessa, one of my favorite nurses, “Is everything okay with Ronnie?”

  “My God, can you tell? She seems like she’s doing so well to the rest of us.”

  “I can tell,” I said. “But what happened exactly?”

  I thought that was clever, but apparently not.

  “Nothing,” she said, too quickly. “Come on, let’s get your blood pressure now.”

  I’d almost given up, and then last night, a nurse I didn’t know came with my evening meds. She had silver hair, and the first thing she said was that she’d come out of retirement to take this shift and it was just about killing her. She put the tray of meds down and sat in the chair next to my bed. “Sorry about this, but my feet are screaming.”

  I smiled and said it was fine. “A lot of nurses come in here and rest for a minute. I think this room is popular because I’m not a toddler and I don’t cry unless something really hurts.”

  She smiled gratefully. “You’re a sweetheart. I shouldn’t let them talk me into taking these shifts. I’m too old is the truth.”

  We talked a little more, and then I asked her casually, “You don’t know a nurse named Ronnie, do you? She used to work on this floor, and I was wondering how she’s doing.”

  Her eyebrows went up in surprise. “Well, when your husband kills himself and your daughter finds him, you’re pretty much just picking up the pieces, aren’t you? I’d say that’s left her a little distracted. I remember her from back when we both worked this floor. She’s a sweetheart. Didn’t deserve any of that.”

  “Her daughter found him?”

  “Right. Then her daughter tried to do the same thing a few months later. They say Ronnie has to watch her all the time. That she doesn’t want to leave her alone, even though the girl is a teenager. I think she’s got her volunteering in the hospital somewhere. I don’t know where—maybe the gift shop, I’d imagine.”

  Now I wish I could go back in time. I shouldn’t have heard this story from someone else. I hate myself for asking. It breaks my heart to think of Jamie, who has been coaching me on staying positive and embracing life, and six months ago she tried to end her own?

  I shouldn’t know this story unless Jamie wants to tell it to me.

  I want her to know that she does have real friends and she shouldn’t go back to those awful ones she told me about. I also want her to know that what she’s lived through has made her different but also stronger than most of the kids at our school.

  I know what I’m talking about, I’ll tell her. Living on the edge between life and death isn’t something most people our age can understand. They think if they get too close, they might catch what we’ve got or fall in or something. They don’t see what matters. They don’t see the strength that’s needed sometimes to simply survive. I do.

  JAMIE

  I was right. Eileen hasn’t talked to me since class. Even when I stopped by her desk to say I had her dress in my backpack, she wouldn’t look up. David says she’ll get over it.

  “Of course she left with Nicolai. That’s Eileen. She doesn’t understand why she does these things; she doesn’t want to have to explain herself.”

  He doesn’t think what I did was so bad, even though Eileen has been told not to come to class next week or the social dance the week after that. It makes me furious. “Why didn’t Nicolai get in trouble?” I ask David.

  “Because he sucks up to teachers and probably said it was her fault. He doesn’t care about anyone but himself. It’s okay, though. I talked to Eileen. She wants to go back to class after this little suspension, and she promises she’ll be more serious about it.”

  “Really?” I laugh a little, I’m so relieved.

  “Yeah. She liked going with you. I knew she would.”

  Is it possible that friendships can have misunderstandings and still right themselves? I wouldn’t know. I’ve never experienced that.

  In the meantime, I’d agreed to help David get to a movie theater. Which means bringing him clothes and calling an Uber. We end up choosing a romantic comedy, and he pays for everything—including the popcorn and soda that he doesn’t eat at all. (“I was so excited I forgot my enzymes,” he sa
ys. “You go ahead.”) I know his pancreas doesn’t work and he gets terrible stomach cramps if he eats without taking enzymes beforehand, but I don’t know if that’s just an excuse. He’s not as thin as he used to be but he still needs a belt to hold up my father’s pants. It’s been strange going through my father’s boxes, picking out clothes for David to wear. So far, I’ve brought him two different outfits, which means twice, I’ve gone on dates with a seventeen-year-old boy dressed in my dead father’s clothes.

  I know I shouldn’t let myself think things like this, but they feel like dates to me. He pays for everything and says things like “Where would you like to sit?” when we walk in the theater, even though we don’t have many choices. We have to pick an aisle seat for his oxygen tank, close to where we’re standing because we’ve already walked a lot and I can see he’s exhausted by it.

  “How about right here?” I say, pointing to the seats beside us.

  The movie is funnier than either one of us expected. We keep looking at each other and laughing like these are jokes only we understand. After it ends, we look at each other, smiling hard. “I think that was my favorite movie of all time,” he says. “I’m serious.”

  “It wasn’t that good, David. You might be a little light-headed. Or else you haven’t seen very many comedies.”

  He laughs as hard as he did at some of the funny bits in the movie and touches my hand. “Maybe I need to see more.”

  There, I think. That’s another reason this feels like a date. We haven’t held hands, but he finds other excuses to touch my shoulder, or my elbow, or the back of my hand. Every time he does, that spot stays warm and tingles after his hand moves away. This time, to keep the date-like feeling going, I never mention Sharon. Or any topic that might circle back to her. Sometimes while I’m doing that, I worry that it’s obvious: I’m pretending you’re my boyfriend because I like the looks we get from people who think we’re a young couple on a date with our oxygen tank.

  “What’s your favorite movie of all time?” he says.

  There again. Isn’t that a date question? Am I imagining this?

  I must have waited too long because he adds, “I’m just wondering, with all these movies we’ve talked about, I’ve never heard what your favorite is.”

  “It’s not Hitchcock, actually. In fact, you’ve probably never heard of it. It’s from the late forties. It’s called The Best Years of Our Lives. It’s about three veterans returning from World War II and how hard it is for each of them to adjust to life back home. One of them had his hands blown off in the war and he’s played by a guy who actually lost his hands in the war. He won an Oscar even though he wasn’t a professional actor and that’s the only role he ever played.”

  I keep talking because I know it’s easier for him not to talk while he’s walking. This way, he can concentrate on breathing.

  “The no-hands guy isn’t what makes it such an incredible movie, though. It’s the best depiction I’ve ever seen in a movie of real people struggling with post-traumatic stress, and it was made seventy years ago. It gets everything right. How the family suffers, and how the person suffers watching the effect he’s having on the family. For a long time, it was the highest-grossing movie behind Gone with the Wind and The Wizard of Oz, but you watch it now and think, ‘I’m not even sure it would get made today.’ It’s like audiences were more intelligent back then, or else moviemakers had more respect for the audience’s intelligence. I’m not sure which one it was, but watch it and you’ll see what I mean.”

  It’s been a long walk through a mall to get to the parking lot where our Uber is waiting. Twice, David has had to stop and sit down, which is two more times than he had to on our walk to Denny’s.

  “I want to see it,” he says when we finally make it outside. He sits down on the side of a planter and smiles at me in a way that makes me wish I’d said a different movie. Something lighter and funnier, with Cary Grant. The Philadelphia Story, maybe. Or Bringing Up Baby. Why did I bring up a movie about families falling apart after trauma?

  “You don’t have to,” I say. “It’s pretty obscure. Whenever I mention it, no one’s ever heard of it.”

  Suddenly, I feel nervous. I remember a scene where the man with no hands, only hooks, counts out pills because ending his life seems easier than starting it over.

  “What’s your favorite movie of all time?”

  He thinks for a while, but doesn’t say anything.

  “Please don’t say one of the Dark Knight Batman movies. I know they’re supposed to be so great, but I never understood them.”

  “It’s not. You’re going to be surprised when I tell you. It’s not a superhero movie, and it’s mostly black-and-white, which probably shocks you, I know. It’s called Wings of Desire, and it’s German. You might not believe I’ve ever watched a foreign film all the way through, but I have. That one I love. You probably don’t know it.”

  “Of course I know it! My dad was obsessed with it! He showed it to me about five times between the time I was nine and twelve years old. He was desperate for me to love it as much as he did.”

  “Did you?”

  “No! I hated it! It was weird and slow and I never understood it.”

  “Okay. I can’t believe I’m explaining a movie to you, but here’s how I interpreted it. The angels spend the whole movie walking around Berlin, writing down their observations. I loved the idea that after people die, there might be an existence like they have—where you can still watch everything that happens, you just can’t participate. The angels are there to comfort the living, but only the saddest people, or the ones closest to death, can feel them. And then it’s super mysterious—just a touch on the shoulder of a man or a presence in a lonely house. For me, the point is: a movie about depressed people doesn’t have to be depressing. It can be beautiful and say sad people have access to a world of angels the rest of us can’t see.”

  I love that he’s picked this movie, and it scares me a little, too. I think about my mother’s warnings and Sharon and all the other reasons I shouldn’t let myself feel this way, and then I think: He loves a movie about people with depression? My breath catches.

  “Doesn’t the main angel fall in love with the weird circus girl and decide to become a human again?”

  “Exactly! He’s spent a thousand years bearing witness to all the sadness humanity has to offer, and he still wants to join it! It’s so profound!”

  I laugh in surprise. “You sound like my dad.”

  “Do I?”

  He looks beautiful right now—his cheeks ruddy from the effort of this walk, his hair longer and curlier than I’ve ever seen it. His face isn’t puffy anymore, which means his eyes, behind his little round glasses, look huge and very hazel. I’m so used to seeing him in a hospital gown that it’s almost overwhelming, seeing him like this. I can’t look at him for too long.

  “My dad loved it, too. He got mad at me because I didn’t.”

  “I think you need to watch it again. It’s also possible you need to have a high fever when you do, which is how I first saw it. That definitely helped.”

  We’re back at the hospital now. I get out of the car first and come around to his side to help him with the tank. He’s still a little unsteady. Every time he sits down, it takes him a while to stand up again. This time he looks sad. He asks if we can sit on a bench outside for a minute.

  “Okay, but just for a minute. They need to hook up your evening IV pretty soon.”

  He nods. He seemed more nervous on this outing than he did on the last one, but it’s hard to tell what he’s thinking except maybe the obvious: I have a girlfriend, and I shouldn’t keep pretending that I don’t. If we talked about it—which we don’t—I might have tried to make a joke. “We can keep pretending you don’t have a girlfriend! I don’t mind!”

  The truth is I don’t mind. How could I possibly handle a real relationship when this crush is killing me? I can’t say that of course, but it’s true. Any time our bodies touch
accidentally, I feel dizzy, like I might explode. What would happen if he actually kissed me? It would be too much. I’d break out laughing, or bite his lip. I’d do something horrible because I have no idea what I’m doing, which means I don’t mind going on pretend dates where we don’t talk about his girlfriend, and don’t kiss at the end, or even look at each other. Anything more would be too much. But this isn’t too much. This is great.

  It seems like he wants to say something more, but I can’t tell what it is. I don’t want to sit here too long, near a door that staff members use. If anyone sees us outside, we’d both be in big trouble.

  “We should go in,” I say.

  He swallows and doesn’t move. It’s like he hasn’t heard me.

  “I just—when you’re as sick as I am, Jamie, it’s hard to make sense of some things, and then it’s easy to see a lot of other things. Like I keep thinking how amazing you are. It’s so obvious to me now, and if I wasn’t so sick, I never would have realized that. You would have been another tenth grader I smiled at, maybe, but never knew.”

  “That’s okay, David.” I look at the door. We really need to get inside. I can’t tell why he’s saying this now. “That’s called being in high school.”

  The door opens. I stand in front of him so whoever walks out won’t see David. I lean over and whisper, “Can you stand up? Are you okay?”

  Once we get inside the building, I’ll feel better. We can say we were taking a hospital walk. It won’t seem so alarming if we’re inside. I peek over my shoulder at a man in green scrubs who walks past us. He doesn’t seem to recognize us, which is a relief, except that David still won’t stand up.