Vital Sign

by J. L. Mac

  I pull my small suitcase into my bedroom and breathe deeply. I close my eyes and pretend Jake is lying in bed, smiling his crooked smile that he always reserved just for me. My nose draws in the air around me, seeking out his scent.

  I don’t know why I do this. It’s the worst kind of torture, but it’s reflex at this point. I know he isn’t here and I know that his scent has long since faded, but I seek it nonetheless.

  I open my eyes and look to the picture of him on my nightstand. It’s the photo of him right after he graduated from the Police Academy. He’s dressed in his uniform and smiling proudly with me under his arm. I remember him tugging me to him as Jenna held up her cell phone to snap the picture. Jake turned his head right after she took the first picture and kissed my forehead. Jenna managed to catch that moment too. She emailed me both pictures right then and there. I printed both candid photos the next day.

  I framed one and had meant to frame the other, but somehow it has always ended up staying in my purse. I love that photo of his lips pressed to my forehead, my smile spread wide, exposing the straight white teeth that my parents paid a fortune for. My nose is crinkled up and my eyes are shut, reveling in his affection.

  I carry the other photo with me everywhere. It’s tucked into my purse right along with the letter.

  The letter.

  Jeff, his partner, came over three days after the funeral and handed me an envelope with my name written in Jake’s handwriting on the front. I never even knew Jake had written me a letter. I haven’t opened it yet.

  Two miserable years have passed and I still don’t have the courage to open the damn letter. It feels entirely too final and I don’t know that I’m strong enough to read whatever it is he’s written. I don’t know if I’ll ever have what it takes to open that envelope and face that brand of heartbreak.

  ***

  My cell phone rings from inside my purse and I already know who it is.

  Mom.

  Another ringtone assignment to make screening calls that much easier. She’d be unimpressed with me if she ever heard the ringtone I assigned to her contact. Every time she decides to call, which is entirely too often for my liking, a shrill nuclear warning emanates from the speakers of my phone. What sounds like a barrage of horns starts low, slowly climbing in pitch and volume, peaks, then slowly descends back to where it started, just to repeat the ominous sounding alarm. I set my purse on the bed and dig for my phone, sliding my finger over the screen and holding it up to my ear.

  “Hello.”

  “Hey, darling. Me and Dad were going to swing by, is that okay?”

  No.

  As if I could ever say that to my mother. She’d croak and I’d win the Bitch of the Millennia award.

  That’s rich, Sadie. Real rich.

  “Sure, Mom. I’m just getting packed for the drive to Tybee tomorrow.”

  “Okay. We’ll be there in a bit.”

  Oh, joy.

  “Okay, Mom. Bye.” I wander into the closet, trying to decide if I really have to do any laundry before I leave for Tybee Island in the morning. It’s only a four hour drive down to the coast, so taking my own car is a much cheaper option over flying and renting a car once I get there. I peruse the clothes on my side of the closet. I’ve got enough clean outfits to make the trip.

  Involuntarily, I turn to face Jake’s side of the closet. His clothes are still in place, hanging right where he left them. They’re relics from a history that seems just out of reach, but it might as well be light years away. Sometimes it seems like a thousand lifetimes have come and gone since that night. Then again, sometimes it seems as if I can close my eyes, breathe deeply, and slip right back in time as long as I try hard enough. But my eyes always open, bringing me back to the present, and I find myself wondering if I ever really had him in the first place. I find myself wondering if I really had my perfect, simple little life or if I had dreamed it up and hallucinated the whole thing.

  His uniform shirts are still in the ticketed plastic wardrobe bags from the cleaners. A fine layer of dust has blanketed his clothes and it’s just more proof that he’s gone. He’s been gone for some time, but the ache in me hasn’t gone anywhere. It’s intact, deep in my chest, and seems to grow more every day.

  I peer down to the basket on the floor beneath Jake’s clothes. I cover my mouth with my hands, trying hard to choke back my tears. I try to ignore the last outfit he wore sitting in the dirty clothes hamper. It hurts looking at them just laying there, waiting to be washed and worn again. They’ll wait there forever in vain. Just like I’ll wait forever. I hate seeing them there, but I can’t bring myself to wash them, or throw them out, or give them away.

  I’m not sure what the hell I’m supposed to do with these cargo shorts and department softball team jersey. There’s no manual with instructions for this type of thing. There’s no rule of thumb or guideline or even suggested course of action for handling your deceased husband’s dirty clothes, so I do what I’ve done for the last two years. I flip off the closet light and walk away from it. At least, for another day.

  ***

  I’m standing in the kitchen, sipping soda, when the doorbell rings.

  “Sadie, we’re here,” Mom drawls as she opens my front door.

  I turn and set my soda on the counter and head to the door. “Hey,” I say softly as I hug my mom then my dad.

  “So how was Charlotte?” she asks, wasting no time in pushing me to discuss the trip.

  “Wow, Mom. Cut right to it, huh?” I shake my head, one of my typical dry smirks working across my lips. Turning on my heels, I head back down the hall to my room, knowing that Mom and Dad will follow me.

  “I’m sorry, I’m just curious how it went.” Her tone tells me that she’s two seconds from getting ass hurt and crying if I snap at her again.

  I drag in a ragged breath and decide to just tell her what she wants to hear and get it over with. “It was okay. Terry and Ellen met me for dinner and everything went fine.” I shrug as I sum up the visit in two sentences while dumping the contents of my suitcase on my bed.

  Mom is standing in front of my dresser with wide eyes, waiting expectantly for more than that vague synopsis of my trip. “Just okay? Did you ask about the transplant? Are the drugs working to keep his body from rejecting?”

  I sigh heavily and roll my eyes. “No, Mom, I didn’t ask about his medication. I didn’t ask how he’s enjoying his second chance at life. And I didn’t ask how often he thanks God that Jake died so that he might live. Okay?!” I snap in my usual manner.

  It’s behavior that I’ve come to expect from myself. That doesn’t mean that I’m proud of being a raging bitch when provoked, it just means that I know how I can be when someone pushes the wrong buttons. Mom not only pushes my buttons, she jabs them over and over with her overbearing, insufferable hovering. It’s a game of Hunt and Peck gone terribly awry.

  “Sadie!” she scolds, clearly affronted by my response.

  “June, don’t pry,” my dad warns from his spot at the door.

  Mom scoffs…or chokes. The strangled noise that just came out of her mouth could have been either one. I turn to face her with one hand propped up on my hip. She turns to face Dad with both hands propped on her hips. And we both end up looking to him to play referee like he has on so many occasions. He’s the voice of reason. He always has been.

  “Well, excuse me, if I’d like—to know—” her voice begins to crack and I know that the theatrics I’m so accustomed to are coming. “—that my son-in-law’s organs have saved someone’s life.” She covers her mouth with her hand and storms right past my dad.

  On cue, he and I both sigh deeply. He shakes his head and looks down to his feet then back up to me. “You know how your mama is, Sade,” his gravelly, low voice declares on another sigh.

  “Yeah, I know, but acting like a bully doesn’t get her anywhere with me,” I rebut, holding up one finger.

  “I know. I know.” Dad nods.

  A long pause pa
sses before I end up feeling guilty for snapping at her. I hate feeling guilty.

  “I’ll go talk to her,” I mutter begrudgingly. I drop the shirt I had just picked up and shoulder past Dad out into the hall in search of Mom, who has likely retreated to the car.

  I don’t know why I bother even coming home. Maybe an extended stay someplace else is a damn fine idea. I need room to breathe. I need room to be angry. I need room to be irrational. I need room to be whatever my grief dictates without my mother or anyone else dropping in to smother me into a fit of rage.

  As I anticipated, Mom is sitting in the front seat of the car, examining her reflection in the vanity mirror. She lifts a tissue and blots her eyes.

  Wonderful. Made Mom cry. Again.

  She catches sight of me from the corner of her eye when she flips the sun visor up. She averts her eyes forward, ignoring me. I round the car to get in the driver’s seat.

  “Mom, you know I don’t mean to snap at you.” My confession sounds pretty sincere but she doesn’t acknowledge it.

  She folds her hands in her lap and keeps her eyes facing forward.

  “Come on, Mom, I’m trying, okay? It’s hard for me and it’s no excuse but just know that I don’t like my behavior either.”

  She glances over to me then out the window. She’s thinking. I see the speech forming in her head. “You know,” she says wistfully, “when you were born, I looked at you all wrapped up in that receiving blanket and I knew I’d always do anything in my power to keep you happy and safe. I was tired. God, how I was tired. Twenty-three hours of labor wasn’t easy and I was ready to give up. The doctors said they were prepared to take me in for a C-section but I told them no. I said, ‘Just hold out. Just wait.’” Mom holds her hands up, reliving the ordeal. I’ve never heard her speak so candidly about my birth. I know it was tough on her but she’s never told me much about it. “I knew my girl even back then. Even before you were born. I knew that you were stubborn and you may take the long route, but you’d always show up in the end.” She smiles dryly. A lone tear slips down my mother’s troubled face, making me feel even smaller than I already feel. “So I hung in there. I thought, this can’t be fun for her, either. She’s in there being pushed, and squeezed, and cornered. So I told myself to hang on. Wait it out. To let you come when you were ready. Four hours later, it was finally time to push and even though I didn’t have an ounce of energy left, I did it. I did it for you and I did it for me. Your tiny shoulder had been sort of stuck and the doctor had to help us out with the forceps, but we did it. Seeing you wrapped up and pissed off, screaming at the top of your lungs, was the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen. You are the most perfect thing that I’ve ever done. Even bruised and a little beaten from delivery, you fought. You made your presence known. You screamed loud and told the world that you had made it. You were here. My nurse even said you were the loudest little thing she’d ever heard in fifteen years of delivering babies.” She brings a wad of tissues to her nose, wiping away her emotion. “I knew that you and I would always fight against each other. I knew that you would bring me to the edge of giving in, but I’d hang on because you’re my baby and you’re worth it,” she croaks tearfully. “So that’s where I am, Sadie. I’m tired, and I’m scared, and I’m on the edge of giving in, but I’ll hold on because I know that you’ll come through this. If I could take this from you, I would. I’d take that hurt in a heartbeat. But I can’t. All I can do is push, and squeeze, and corner you until you give in and come out of this to scream to the world that you’re still here, dammit. You may be worse for the wear, but you’re still my baby girl and you made it.”

  I lean over the center console and pull my troubled mother to me. “I’m sorry, Mom. I hate upsetting you,” I admit as I lose the battle against my emotions. Tears spill down my cheeks and drip from my chin onto her shoulder. I’ve cried on that same shoulder more times than I can count. I’m glad to have that shoulder to cry on. Lucky.

  “Sadie, just know that I’m fighting right along with you. I’m trying to get you through this any way that I can manage to figure out.”

  “I know, Mom. Thank you for hanging on.” It sounds like a simple thing to be grateful for, but it means so much more. Her finding the strength to keep hanging on means that I don’t have to travel this journey alone. Her hanging on means that I have the greatest ally a person could have. I have my mother, the person most motivated to see me make it out of this.

  “You got it, honey. I’ll always hang on.”

  I feel so guilty. I wish I had someone to talk to, someone safe to explain how much I hate the way I am, where I’m stuck. I know I’ll be making that call again later. It’s all I have. It’s my only choice.

  Chapter Four

  Weight

  April 22, 2013

  Tybee Island is an enchanted little speck on the coast of Georgia. Even in my depressed state of being, I can appreciate this place. Mom and Dad took me and Jenna when we were little. I vaguely remember it. I don’t recall it looking exactly like this, but I was six years old and far too young to appreciate everything that the island had to offer. I was only interested in building sandcastles. Even then I was in love with sculpting.

  It’s a charming island, quiet and spattered with quaint cottages, beach homes, restaurants, a few tourist-friendly resorts, and shops of all sorts. It’s not teeny tiny but it’s certainly nothing like Atlanta. It’s so much calmer here. There’s no city buzz swirling around me. There’s no hurried pace driving everyone into a speed walk. There’s tranquility here.

  Since Jake died, I thought that staying in Atlanta suited me just fine because it’s the right sized city for a person to disappear in. It’s ironic, but there are so many people in Atlanta that it’s like there’s no one person at all. Like some massive ant mound, there is no single ant, it’s just the colony, a single heap of life moving and breathing in unison, as one life form. I liked the idea of disappearing into the crowd. Being invisible has meant that coping with things is that much easier to ignore.

  Being here makes me second guess that philosophy. It’s a small place and disappearing would be next to impossible, but the perks are definitely there—the sea breeze, the sound of the water meeting the shore, the tranquility, all of it make Tybee a prefect respite. Making the four hour drive down here in my own car was a wise choice. I could hang out for a few days doing nothing. I could hang out here and just breathe in and out, which has proven to be a task in itself on most days at home.

  ***

  “Now, if you need anything, my name is Dawn. You just give me a call or stop by the desk and I’ll be glad to help.” The older woman with green eyes and short grayish hair smiles sweetly as she hands me the key to my room. She’s kind and must be around 60. I imagine I could carry on a conversation with her easily. She just seems like that type of woman. Some people are easy to interact with and I can tell she’s one of those people.

  “Thank you, Dawn.” I leave the lobby following the directions Dawn gave me to my room.

  Back out the door, take a left, and it’s just down the path. Room number four.

  The motel I’m staying in is small but very nicely maintained. I can’t imagine that there are more than fifteen rooms in this place, but that’s what makes it nice. There are flower boxes full of blooms rimming every inch of the outside of the motel and, based on the worn gardening gloves that were sitting on the counter in the office, I imagine they’re all Dawn’s handiwork.

  I take a look around, actually admiring my accommodations. The motel itself is painted pale yellow, trimmed with white shutters and white rain gutters. Sheer curtains are drawn back from every window, exposing the well-furnished, clean rooms through the white plantation blinds covering the windows. They’re tilted open, allowing for a view of the space within.

  Even the small parking lot is tidy. I especially like that there are no plastic keycards to contend with. I hate those damn things. They almost always mess up when you try to get into the room th
at it is suppose to unlock. Instead, Dawn, the innkeeper, handed me a real brass key attached to an oversized blue plastic keychain in the shape of a surfboard with the number “4” printed on one side and “The Beachcomber Inn” on the other.

  I prop the door open with the rubber stopper sitting just inside the room and let the salty breeze drift in with me. Like I’ve done on my last two stops, I drop my things on the floor at the foot of my bed and think carefully about taking a little nap. I could use one. I’m supposed to meet Alexander McBride, the heart guy, in the morning, and since I don’t usually show my face to the world until after noon, this morning meeting is going to be extra unpleasant for me.

  I haven’t spoken to this guy on the phone, we’ve only communicated via emails that left me curious and drawn to meet him. I know his name is Alexander McBride, he’s twenty-nine years old, and he’s the person that’s walking around with Jake’s heart in his chest. I dislike him already. I hate him for the most irrational reason. He isn’t my Jake. Jake is gone but this guy gets to live—thanks to Jake’s heart—I’m just so pissed at the world for it.

  The door to my room is still open, allowing the sea breeze to drift in. It feels nice and smells like my childhood. It brings me back to a time before my world was turned upside down.

  I was a little girl without a single care in the world. I miss those days. I didn’t know it then, but I was drunk on simplicity. The loss of that freedom, that carelessness, has me grieving for more than just Jake. I grieve for a past that was bittersweet and far too short. It seems like it zipped right by, putting me in the fast lane towards sobering tragedy. Had I known then what I know now, I think I would have done my best to slow way down, to take in every day that I spent with Jake as a kid. I’d take it in. I’d soak it up. I’d breathe it. I’d shoot it directly into my veins in hopes that somehow, once he was gone and life was no longer simple, there would be some residue of our short life together to maintain me. I’d ration it out in hopes of having just a morsel of that perfect simplicity every day for the rest of my life. Even just a morsel would be enough. It would have to be. I think I’d be grateful for it.