Ready to Fall

by Marcella Pixley

  EARLY-MORNING SINGING SONG

  One morning, as Gregor Samsa was waking up from anxious dreams, he discovered that in bed he had been changed into a monstrous vermin.

  The sky outside the window is still dark.

  My dad is sleeping in a chair, a jacket thrown over him like a blanket.

  “I’m thirsty,” I whisper. My voice sounds strange.

  “Oh thank God,” says my dad, waking up immediately.

  He gets up from the chair, brings me a cup of water in a pink-and-brown Dixie cup.

  He holds the cup against my lips. I take a sip. His hand is shaking.

  My head feels like it’s being squeezed in a vise.

  “I don’t feel so good,” I say.

  “Just lean back,” says my dad. “You’ve been through a lot. The doctor says it’s going to take a while for things to go back to normal.”

  “Where am I?” I ask him.

  “We’re in the hospital, Max.”

  “Hospital?”

  “We’ve been here since last night. Do you remember any of it? The tests? The doctors? You had a lot of people worried about you.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I think I remember a little.”

  “What’s the last thing you remember?”

  I stare at him and try. It starts to come back, like a veil lifting slowly. Dad kissing Lydie. Sneaking sips of Cage’s scorpion bowl. Sitting in Lady J. Putting my hand into Fish’s mitten. Feeling her fingers. Walking down the path to the quarry with Fish leaning against me. Then spinning and spinning and being just about to kiss her. And snowballs and screaming and running on the ice, my hand around a snowball and The Monk heading toward me like a bull with his head down—and nothing else.

  “Did I fall on the ice?” I ask.

  “You did,” says my dad. “Your friends brought you home and you were in pretty awful shape. And then that boy Ravi started going on and on about one of your pupils being bigger than the other one and it completely freaked us out. We were so scared, Max.”

  “I’m sorry,”

  “Don’t be sorry,” he says. “I’m the one who’s sorry.”

  “You kissed Lydie.”

  “Yes,” says Dad. “I am so sorry you saw that.”

  He looks at me like he wants to tell me something, but instead he looks out the window at the winter sunrise.

  “It’s cold,” I say.

  He finds an extra blanket in the tiny white closet. He brings it over and tucks it around me. I can’t remember the last time he tucked me in. He pats the blanket in place and pulls it up to my chin.

  “Is that better?”

  I can’t answer him. Tears come all at once.

  Dad sits on the edge of my bed. When the tears come harder, he curls up beside me on the pillow and holds me.

  “There’s something I haven’t told you,” I say to him.

  “What is it?”

  I take a deep breath. “I have brain cancer.”

  “Shhh,” says Dad. “You don’t have brain cancer.”

  “I’m dying.”

  “You’re not dying,” says Dad. “You’re going to be fine.”

  “I want to be buried next to Mom.”

  “Stop talking that way,” says Dad.

  I turn my face to the wall.

  Sometimes I am asleep. Sometimes I am awake. Sometimes I am both.

  The sky begins to lighten.

  Dad stays with me. He turns on the television with a remote control and flips through the channels with the sound turned off. Images flit by: each moment a different shot, a different angle, a different take, the surrealistic broadcasting of very early morning. Cut. Cut. Cut. News program. Infomercial. Talk show. Celebrity interview. TV evangelist. A bald head and a red face. Arms moving. Fire and brimstone. Glory hallelujah. We don’t need to hear him to know what he is saying. The lord giveth and the lord taketh away. He looks directly at the screen and shouts at us, silently. My dad turns the television off and looks out the window at the dawn breaking like he did our first morning without her.

  LAUGHTER AND TEARS

  It took all day and all night. The dying. The throes of it, as my father remarked later in a rare moment of poetry, reminded him so much of her labor with me that at times he was tempted to say things like Any time now, and Almost there, or to breathe with her, hoo hoo haa haa, as though the end could possibly produce something precious that would live with us after she was gone. So strange, he told me, that Lamaze teaches the husband to take part in the birth process: to sit behind the woman, rub her back, and remind her to breathe and push, but there is no Lamaze for death. No matter how hard we tried to help her, this was something my mother was going to do all on her own.

  The plan was that we would be around her bedside the entire time, being strong, holding her hands, telling her how much we loved her, how proud of her we were, how much we would miss her, how it was okay for her to leave us whenever she was ready to go. We wanted to make sure she would feel our presence around her the entire time. We didn’t take into account our need to take breaks. How Dad and I, since we were the ones not dying, would need to occasionally stretch our legs, go to the bathroom, have a drink of water, take a walk outside in the sun for a moment, look up at the sky and breathe. Nor did we take into account that one of us or both of us might fall asleep during the night and that Mom, in her infinite wisdom, would choose this time, the very moment when we were not paying attention to her, when we were not holding her hand or speaking softly to her, to leave us for good.

  I don’t know what time it was. No clocks stopped ticking to mark her passing. No watch hands mysteriously froze. She wanted to hold on to us as long as we were awake. As long as we were touching her, talking to her, focusing on her, needing her, she couldn’t allow herself to go. I moved from her bed to the chair after three in the morning. I wanted to rest my eyes for just a minute.

  “Don’t worry,” said my father. “I’ll wake you up if anything changes.”

  He was kneeling by her bed, his forehead on her hand, watching the uneven scarcity of her breath. One and then nothing. Another and then nothing.

  At some point I fell asleep.

  At some point my father fell asleep too, his head still resting against her hand.

  And then, at some point, when both of us were asleep, she let go.

  I imagine that she had clarity for a few seconds, maybe in darkness, maybe just before the sun came up, when the world was orange and gray, maybe she opened her eyes and saw us in the room, me in the chair, Dad by the bed, both sleeping because our bodies needed to sleep and she knew that it was time for her to sleep too. So she turned her face toward the window and before she had the chance to pray or call out to us, or even to breathe one last time, it was over just like that.

  When I opened my eyes, dawn was breaking.

  Dad was standing by the window looking out.

  The room was quiet.

  I didn’t have to look at her to know what had happened.

  The silence was heartbreaking.

  And then I looked, because some curiosity in me made me look, and I was shocked at how my mother had already changed. How her eyes and her cheeks had sunken in, her face white and still.

  A sound came out of me. An animal sound. Like howling.

  “She didn’t want us to cry,” my father said, his back still to me.

  I couldn’t help it. I fell across her body and wept.

  My face brushed against one cold hand.

  “Hey,” said my father, stronger this time.

  He picked me up and held me.

  He wiped my tears.

  “Stop,” he said again, more firmly, into my hair. “She didn’t want us to cry.”

  He held me hard and we breathed in and out, our breath wanting to moan but not moaning, wanting to screech but not screeching, wanting to cry but forbidding ourselves to cry. Just holding each other still. Stopping each other from breaking. Our heads on each other’s shoulders, and my mot
her behind us on the bed, eyes wide open, but seeing nothing.

  SLINGS AND ARROWS OF OUTRAGEOUS FORTUNE

  At eight thirty, the attending doctor comes in to talk with us. Dad pulls himself out of the chair to shake her hand. He looks ragged. His face is gray.

  “How’s he doing?” asks the doctor.

  “Better,” says my dad. “He woke up a few hours ago and asked for water and a blanket. He’s not quite himself yet, still kind of shaky, but he’s a heck of a lot better than he was last night.”

  “That’s great news,” says the doctor. “Hi Max. I’m Dr. Keene. We met in the emergency room last night, but you probably don’t remember. How do you feel?”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Any dizziness?”

  “A little,” I say. “When I sit up.”

  “Headache?”

  “Yeah,” I say, and now I am sobbing again.

  “He’s scared,” my dad explains.

  Shoulders shaking, I stare at the ceiling and the tears roll down the sides of my face. Dad comes back to my bed and pulls me toward him.

  “His mother died of cancer,” he tells the doctor. “He’s worried he has it too.”

  “What kind of cancer was it?” the doctor asks.

  “Sorry?” Dad asks. He has been looking at my face and has become lost and overwhelmed by my tears.

  “Your wife,” says the doctor. “What kind of cancer was it that she died from?”

  “Oh,” says Dad. “They told me it was HER2. Does that sound right? It started out as breast cancer. She was in remission for ten years, and when it came back it was in her brain. There were only nine months between her second diagnosis and her death. It was horrible. But she wanted us to be strong. So we were.”

  Everything is silent except my sobbing.

  Dad sits next to me on the bed and puts his arm around me.

  “You don’t have cancer,” says the doctor.

  My heart stops beating.

  “How do you know?” I whisper.

  “Well, for one, HER2 is not a genetic form of cancer. You can’t inherit it. If your mom had this form, even though it was devastating for her, there is really no way on earth that she has passed it on to you. Not now. Not ever. Do you hear me? Max. Stop crying. Listen. This is not a trait that can be inherited. You are not going to get this from her. You might have her eyes or her temper or her hair color, but you are not going to get her cancer.”

  Dad wipes my eyes. “Are you hearing her?” he asks.

  “You don’t have cancer,” repeats Dr. Keene. “You do, however, have a concussion. And a hangover. You may also have some depression and anxiety because of what happened to your mom. But I can tell you with great confidence—and I would not say this to a patient unless I was sure about it—that you do not have brain cancer. You. Do. Not. Have. Brain Cancer.”

  “But what if I got it some other way?” I ask. “I can still feel something pushing against my eye. Right here. Do you think there might be some kind of tumor in there?”

  “No,” says the doctor. “There is nothing pushing against your eye.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I am completely sure. I had a chance to take a careful look at the CT scan. If there was a tumor big enough to push against your eye, I would have seen it. You’re a lucky guy, Max Friedman. You knocked yourself pretty hard right on your frontal lobe. But besides confirming that there are no tumors in there, the scan shows there is no internal bleeding. No swelling around the frontal lobe or any other parts of the brain. No fracture of the cranium. You, my extremely lucky friend, are going to be okay.”

  “Thank God,” says Dad.

  Dr. Keene opens up her iPad. She types quickly, swipes a few times, and then looks at me with a sly smile. “Ever look inside your brain?” she asks.

  I hesitate. “No,” I say. Although this is a metaphorical lie because of how much cranium gazing I have been doing lately.

  “Well, I want to show you what a healthy brain looks like. Come closer, Mr. Friedman, if you want to take a look at the scan too. So here we are. This space here is your sinus cavity. Your temporal lobe is here. That’s the part that retains memory. And back down here are your medulla oblongata and cerebellum. Can you see that?”

  Dad and I lean forward. We gaze at my brain.

  “It looks like a butterfly,” says my Dad.

  “Yes,” says Dr. Keene. “It kind of does with the lobes spreading out on either side. But mostly what it looks like to me is a perfectly healthy brain with no tumors, no swelling, and no bleeding. This is the brain of someone who is going to be okay.”

  “That is wonderful news,” says my dad.

  Dr. Keene closes her iPad. “You may have some symptoms over the next few days. Headaches, dizziness, nausea, irritability, maybe even sleepiness, confusion, trouble concentrating. All of these things are normal after a moderate concussion. But they will subside if you take care of yourself. Rest. No school until you’re feeling better. No television. No computers. No reading. No heavy concentration.” She looks at my father. “Schedule an appointment with his pediatrician to make sure things are moving in the right direction. And if the pain increases or his mental state deteriorates, make sure to bring him in right away.

  “And one more thing,” says Dr. Keene. “Be careful with alcohol. Your blood alcohol level was .25 last night. That is extremely high. Especially for a thin guy like yourself. Do you drink frequently?”

  “No,” I say. “This was my first time.”

  “They all say that,” she says, winking at my dad. “Anyway, besides the fact that you are underage, which makes it illegal, you had about two hundred times more alcohol than someone of your weight should ever consume. It could have been very dangerous for you.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “We’re printing out the discharge papers now, and they have specific information you need about caring for a concussion. You’re going home, my friend. What do you think about that?”

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  For some reason that I can’t understand, I feel unspeakably sad.

  “Well, I think it’s wonderful,” says Dad. “Thank you, Dr. Keene. Thank you so much.”

  The doctor shakes my dad’s hand again. Then she shakes my hand, puts her hand on my shoulder, and leaves.

  The nurse comes in to disconnect my IV and help me out of bed.

  She gives my dad the discharge papers, goes over the details, and tells him that whenever we are ready we can be on our way.

  I look out the window so my dad doesn’t have to see me crying again.

  He finds my plastic bag of clothes and starts laying them out for me. T-shirt. Sweatshirt. Skinny jeans. Red Converse All Stars. He comes up behind me and places both his hands on my shoulders.

  For a moment or two, I lean back against him and we look out the window at the world below us: the cars, the snow, the heavy sky, the hurrying mortals on the sidewalks who are not even thinking about their mothers and fathers and grandparents and great-grandparents who have been gone all these years, all these generations. They hunch into their winter coats, trying to keep themselves warm despite their losses. They keep trudging on, their hearts still beating inside their chests, their blood still coursing through their veins, their eyes straight ahead, never looking back at the empty footsteps they have made in the snow.

  “Come on, Max,” says my dad. “Let’s get out of here.”

  LONG ROAD HOME

  Lydie pulls her car up to the hospital entrance so we don’t have to walk through the snow. We move slowly, through the revolving glass door, Dad’s arm around me. It feels strange to have this sudden gust of winter on my face after so many hours in the sealed climate of the hospital. I hunch my shoulders against the cold.

  Lydie rushes out to hug us with tears in her eyes.

  “I was so worried,” she says.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Lydie and the twins spent the night at home with Grandma,” sa
ys Dad.

  “Oh Max,” says Lydie, putting her arm around me. “I’m so sorry about what happened. About what you saw. I am just so sorry. I don’t even know what to say.”

  “It’s okay,” I tell her. “You don’t need to say anything.”

  “I want you to know, that was the first time,” says Lydie.

  “Please,” I say. “I don’t need to talk about this.”

  “Maybe later,” says Dad.

  “Okay,” says Lydie. “Later when things calm down. If you want. Or not at all. What’s important is you’re okay. Hey. You know what? It’s so cold today. Let’s not stand out here and freeze. I want to get you home to your grandma, where you belong. The girls are in the car. We stopped by Whole Foods on our way and I’m going to make us all some organic carrot-ginger soup. And then I’ll take the twins home. We’ve all had a long night.”

  We get in the car, my dad and Lydie in the front and me in the back with the twins. They throw their arms around me and bury their faces in my sides. Lydie pulls away from the curb and I watch through the rear window as the hospital’s red letters and white brick dissolve behind us like a bad dream. We head down the street toward the center of town, where normal people are doing what they always do on a snowy day: a store owner is shoveling his walk, a scruffy guy is clearing off his car. I watch them go about their business while my dad tells Lydie about all the things that happened to us in the hospital, some that I remember and some that I don’t.

  I look out the window at the world going by and I feel like a speck, like a comma on a page, so tiny and voiceless, I could almost disappear and the world would go on, a never-ending sentence without pause.

  Lydie pulls up outside our house.

  She slings a cloth bag of vegetables over her shoulder, comes to the back, and opens the car door for me and the twins.