Just Breathe

by Cammie McGovern

  “I know that’s part of high school, but it’s not okay. It’s terrible. You’ve been a better friend to me since I’ve gotten to the hospital than any of my friends from school who I’ve known for ten years. I want you to know that.”

  “Okay. I do. Thank you. Now let’s go.”

  “And I want to do one more outing. Just one. I promise. I won’t ask again after that.”

  “I’ll only listen to this idea after we’re inside.”

  He looks up, surprised, as if he’s just now noticing my panic. “Fine. Let’s go.”

  We make our way to a set of chairs outside of radiology, where we aren’t likely to see anyone we know. He can’t walk and talk at the same time very well, so I wait until we’re sitting. “Okay, tell me your idea.”

  He smiles. “I want to go with you to the social at Starlight.”

  “No. I don’t even know if you’re kidding, but no.”

  “You want to go, right? But now that Eileen can’t, you probably assume that you shouldn’t.”

  “What about Sharon?”

  “Sharon’s not interested in Starlight anymore. But I am. I miss it.”

  The social is next week and is open to the public. People are allowed to invite their family and friends. David’s right: I assumed I wouldn’t go—in part because of Eileen, in part because my mom is working and won’t be able to drive me.

  “It’s nice of you, David, but I can’t take you to a room full of people who know you’re supposed to be in the hospital.”

  “That’s just it. Nick and Eileen are the only people who know, and they won’t be there. I haven’t been there for more than a year. I won’t know anyone very well.” He holds up one hand in a Boy Scouts pledge. “I swear this is true, Jamie. Those parties get crowded. No one will notice I’m there or think anything of it. I guarantee it.”

  A nurse comes out and asks if we’re waiting to get an X-ray, which makes me stand up. “No, we’re leaving now,” I say.

  David gets up slowly.

  “Are you thinking about it?” he asks in the elevator even though we’re not alone.

  I nod and stare at the numbers. Of course I’m thinking about it. Of course I want to go. If I thought going to the movies felt like a date, what will going to Starlight and dancing with him feel like? I look down at his hands and feel a little dizzy.

  “Yes,” I whisper. “I’m thinking about it.”

  I keep expecting something awful to happen, like running into my mom, who will smile at first and then recognize David’s clothes and understand what I’ve done.

  And then it doesn’t happen.

  It takes us about fifteen minutes to make it back to his room, and everyone we pass smiles and says hello. Even the peds nurses, who must assume he’s coming back from a study session on the third floor, look happy to see him up. Maybe they assume I’ve been helping him catch up at school because one even says, “Good job, Jamie!”

  After she passes, David looks at me and smiles. “See? Everyone thinks you’re doing a good job. So do I.”

  All of this is confusing. Sharon is still his girlfriend. I’m scared to go to the dance with him and scared this might be my only chance. It’s possible he’ll get better next week and leave the hospital, go back to his old life of being Sharon’s boyfriend and senior class president. He won’t feel grateful to me the way he does now; or maybe he’ll remember this feeling but by then it’ll only be a source of guilt. Wasn’t that what he was just trying to tell me? At school everything will be different. He knows our time is coming to an end. I know it, too.

  “Okay,” I say when he comes out of the bathroom wearing his hospital gown and shorts again, holding the plastic bag of clothes. “We can go to the party.”

  His eyebrows go up. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes. But we’ll only stay for an hour. We have to be back here by eight o’clock.”

  “That’s fine.”

  I think about the rests he had to take walking from the movie theater to the parking lot. “If I think it looks like you’re getting too tired or having trouble breathing, we turn around and come back. No questions asked.”

  “Okay.”

  His smile is so wide, I can’t help smiling back. “Why are you so happy?”

  “I’m going to dance with Ginger Rogers!”

  “I’m hardly Ginger Rogers. I’m terrible.”

  “That’s not what Eileen says.”

  “What did Eileen say?”

  “That you’re freakishly good.”

  “That’s so not true.”

  “She also said you don’t even know it. All the boys want to dance with you, and you don’t realize that, either.”

  “It’s not true, David. It really isn’t.”

  “That’s why I want to go and see for myself.”

  Chapter Eleven

  DAVID

  THE SUIT JAMIE BRINGS is amazing. Of course the pants are too big and I have to wear a belt, but the shirt is beautiful. It’s the shirt of a man who knows materials and pays extra for nicer ones. Which makes him even more of a mystery. How did he get as sad as he did?

  Pretend you know nothing, I keep telling myself. Let her tell you when she’s ready.

  I don’t know if this is the right strategy. Some people might call it ignoring reality (which it is), but I prefer to think of it this way: I’m giving her her story back. I’m letting her tell me when she’s ready.

  The only problem with this is the stupidly hard time I have hiding my emotions these days. My oxygen-starved brain is ready to cry at a TV commercial. I feel everything too much. How can I look at her and not feel for what she’s been through? I can’t, really. But that isn’t going to stop me. What I feel for her is completely different from what I feel for Sharon. With Sharon, everything is obligation and disappointed expectations. With Jamie, it’s different.

  I want this night. I want to be with Jamie and tell her what I’ve been thinking and feeling since we went to the movies. How much I admire her. How she’s inspired me in ways that I never expected. I’ve spent a week composing the speech I started when I first asked her to help me leave the hospital. Tonight, I’m going to finish it.

  But first things first: “You look beautiful,” I say, because she does. She’s wearing a simple, navy-blue dress that somehow manages to be both modest and sexy. “Where’d you find this?” I say, pinching the sleeve.

  “Clearance rack at Marshalls. Do you want to guess how much it cost?” She’s smiling infectiously. I know from comments she’s made and where she lives that she and her mom don’t have much money, but even so, she’s smiling. “Guess high.”

  “Seventy dollars?”

  “Seven!” She’s beaming now. She spins around so the skirt flares out. “All this for the price of a sandwich!”

  I don’t know why it took me so long to see what’s been obvious all along. Her strength. Her bravery. She told me once that I had to choose to live, and here she is, demonstrating how. With a clearance-rack dress and a big smile. I love that she has no idea how rare she is.

  We’re standing outside the side exit of the hospital. It’s colder than I expected, which makes my teeth chatter for a second. That, or I’m nervous. She drapes the dark overcoat she’s brought over my shoulders (also her dad’s; also beautiful).

  “Here. Hopefully this will help,” she says, rubbing my arms to help me warm up.

  I can’t speak, I’m so grateful.

  “Here’s our car,” she says. “Are you ready? Do you still want to go?”

  I don’t know why I can’t move. I’m frozen for a moment, staring at her. I don’t feel sick or short of breath. It’s the opposite actually. For the first time in months, I feel like there’s a chance I’m going to live. Like there has to be a future because I want more of this—more nights with Jamie, more chances to dance, more times when she surprises me with a dress. I want all of it so much it has to happen. I have to get better.

  It’s terrifying to realize this i
s more than admiration and friendship that I feel for Jamie. I wish I’d been able to talk to Sharon before tonight. On the phone with her last night, I thought about being honest and suggesting the break I’m almost sure we both want to take. And then I imagined being alone, and I got too scared.

  “No, I’m fine.” I smile. “Let’s go.”

  I’ve brought my oxygen tank because I’m not so stupid as to think I can go more than an hour without it. I’ve already told Jamie I’m going to stash it in the bushes outside the back door of the dance studio.

  “Are you sure about this?” Jamie asks. “Maybe we should just bring it inside.”

  “Absolutely not. I’ve been weaning myself off it. I’m going to be fine. If I get light-headed, I’ll come out here, I promise.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Jamie”—I take her hand—“I can’t dance and roll my oxygen tank at the same time, okay. Trust me. I’ll be fine.”

  The crowd is a little smaller than I remember from dance parties in the past, but that’s probably good. I just want enough of a crowd that Jamie and I can get lost in it. I want her to forget about all her worries: my health, her dad, and everything else.

  I smile and take a few of the shallow little breaths my lungs will allow. “Should we sit?” I whisper to Jamie, offering my elbow. I need to keep touching her. My fingertips are tingling from the lack of oxygen. If I’m not careful, I might stumble.

  “Why don’t we sit here,” she whispers, steering us to the closest chairs available.

  I need to catch my breath. I also need to get my racing heart to slow down. Jamie leans into my ear. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Right as rain,” I say, suddenly sounding like my grandmother. Another casualty when your brain isn’t getting enough oxygen—any shred of coolness.

  “Squeeze my elbow any time you want to go outside, okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  Thankfully, there are some announcements to tune out and catch my breath during. By the time they’re over, ten minutes have passed, and I have no idea what was said. The only thing I’m aware of is the warmth of Jamie’s shoulder and her arm pressed against mine. It’s calmed the constriction in my chest and the frantic spasm of muscles and organs gasping for oxygen.

  Relaxing helps, and sitting beside Jamie relaxes me.

  As does the word from the teacher that the first dance will be a waltz. I don’t stand up right away. Instead, I lean over Jamie’s shoulder. “Dance with me before I die,” I say. In my mind, this sounded funny. Out loud, it doesn’t.

  “David,” Jamie says.

  “I’m sorry. I meant to say, ‘May I have this dance, Ms. Turner?’”

  “You may,” she says, standing first so she can help me get my balance when I stand, too.

  As the music starts, I have a strange thought. I have to fit a lifetime into this dance. My mind is veering in unpredictable directions. I’m not going to die tonight, I remind myself. Plus, we’ll dance more than once. It’s surprisingly comfortable to stand in front of her, our bodies aligned, one of my hands resting on the small of her back, the other raised to cradle her hand. Standing like this makes me feel strong, even though I’m not.

  The music starts, and we move together, one turn, then another. We find a rhythm. She doesn’t need to look down at her feet or count the beats with silent moving lips the way every other beginning student does.

  Eileen is right; in a month Jamie’s become a wonderful dancer. I go for a turn, and she follows beautifully. I turn her again. Soon we’re moving in slow circles around the other couples, outlining triangles with our feet on the floor.

  “You’re quite the dancer, Ginger,” I whisper.

  “Thank you, Fred. You’re very good yourself.”

  I press closer. “Maybe we should slow down. I’m a little dizzy.”

  “It’s okay, I’ve got you,” she says. I can feel her breath on my neck and her forehead on my collarbone. We’re supporting each other.

  Little black dots start dancing in my eyes, so I close them and breathe all of her in: her hair, her perfume, her seven-dollar dress.

  Dancing can be as intimate as sex. More intimate if I think about all the towels and Kleenex Sharon always liked to have on hand.

  “Is it a crime to want to clean up afterward?” she used to say.

  It’s not a crime, but this feels different and closer than sex on towels with Sharon ever felt.

  I know from my reading that happiness is a physical thing. It comes from the automatic nervous system—the part of the brain that governs all basic nerve functions, that makes us blush when we’re embarrassed and gives us goose bumps when we’re afraid. Since we have no control over the automatic nervous system, we can’t simply decide to be happy. Our bodies decide for us. Blood pulses faster, skin temperature rises, fingertips tremble.

  With Jamie and me, it feels like our bodies are speaking quietly to each other. This way, my hand says. You’re okay, her forehead on my cheek whispers. No, my closed eyes say back. I’m not really.

  I can keep moving, though. I pull her even closer, so everything touches except our feet. Her father’s beautiful shirt will be a ruin of wrinkles after this, but I don’t care. I don’t want to stop. I can’t stop. I have to do this. I need to stay with this dance until the end.

  When the music finally ends, I open my eyes and can’t see anything. The room is black. “Are the lights off?” I whisper, squeezing Jamie’s arm hard.

  “Let’s get you outside,” she says, steering me.

  I hear the door open. I feel the cool air. My lungs heave in anticipation of relief that doesn’t come, even outside, with a world full of cool air.

  I fall against the wall and shut my eyes again. It only takes Jamie a few seconds to hook the cannula around my ears and under my nose. It’s a relief, but it’s not enough. I need a mask and high-density oxygen to keep from crashing. With this tank, it will take me an hour, maybe more, to recover. I slide my back down the wall and sit in what must be dirt. I still can’t see.

  “It’s turned up as high as I can get it to go,” Jamie says. “Do you have a headache?”

  As soon as she asks, I realize, yes, it’s not just my lungs screaming in pain, my head is throbbing, too. It’s too much pain all at once for my old tricks to work: pinching my leg, biting my cheek.

  “Kiss me,” I say. My voice is raspy, hardly recognizable. “Please.”

  She squeezes my hand. “I don’t think this is the moment. I think right now, oxygen is more important.”

  “It’s not. Something’s happening. Kiss me now. I mean it.”

  I still can’t see anything, but I feel her hands on my face. Two fingers on my lips. Her mouth on mine. Kissing her slows down my racing heart. It calms the frantic feeling that my body is about to shut down completely.

  If I can stay calm, I won’t die.

  Kissing her calms me.

  “You need to breathe,” she says.

  “No, I need to keep kissing you. No one will come out here, I promise.” I don’t know if that’s true or if she’s even worried about it. I just need her here, next to me. I pull her closer, so she’s sitting, too.

  “I’m sorry about getting your dress dirty.”

  “It’s okay.”

  We kiss again and this time, I stop it. My head is clearer. It’s strange how quickly I feel better.

  “Are you okay?” I say. “Do you want to talk about this? You’re probably thinking about Sharon right now, aren’t you?”

  “No, but maybe you are.”

  Everything feels clear to me now. “I want to break up with her, Jamie. I will tomorrow. I don’t want to be one of those jerks who juggles two girls. I hate when really sick, hospitalized guys do that just because they think they can.”

  “Technically, they probably can get away with it.”

  I laugh. My head feels better. My chest, not so much.

  “You’re right, but not me. Total honesty from here on
out. No bullshit from either of us. You can’t bullshit me, either. If you have something you want to talk to me about, you have to say it, okay?”

  “I do?”

  “Yes. You can tell me anything. I won’t be shocked, I promise.”

  I can see again, thank God. Going blind for ten minutes has had a weird effect. I want to tell her everything I’m thinking. I want to tell her that I never really loved Sharon and she never really loved me and I know it now. I’ll call her tonight and the relief will be so huge we’ll probably both cry in gratitude. You don’t have to feel guilty about not visiting me anymore! I’ll tell her.

  Thank you! she’ll say.

  “I’m not thinking about Sharon right now, I’m thinking about you. You can’t go back inside. We have to get you back to the hospital.”

  My head still feels floaty. “I hate to say it, but that’s probably true.”

  “If you’re okay, I’m going to borrow your phone and call for a ride. Will you be all right?”

  “Of course. I’m good now. Better than good.” I am.

  Everything still hurts, but less than it did a few minutes ago. My mind is still racing. Why have I been so scared to acknowledge what’s been obvious for so long? Jamie and I belong together. We understand each other. We’ve both lived in the gray area between life and death. For a month now, I’ve been readying for the end and bargaining with it at the same time. Now I think: No, I’m not ready to die.

  I want my lungs.

  I want my second chance.

  Jamie has stepped away to the middle of the parking lot, where reception must be better. I can see her shape but none of her details. I can hear her calling, though it’s strange; she sounds like she’s speaking underwater. For a long time, I can’t imagine what she’s saying and then I realize all at once, she’s not talking on the phone, she’s talking to me. “I need your password, David.”

  I start to tell her, then stop. The asphalt she’s standing on wavers. It’s an earthquake, I think. Or else it’s me.

  I try to tell her my password—I know the numbers of course—but no sound comes out.

  It’s like I’m moving away from my body on the ground.