Till it Stops Beating

by Hannah R. Goodman

  “This is exactly what happened to me.” Dad’s voice was barely a whisper. “Only I was alone. My Aunt Sarah came by, but Dad was with Mom at the hospital. I stayed like this, sleeping and for an entire week. Then Dad came back and made me go to school.”

  I had the covers over my face and was on my side. I peered through the slit of the blanket and saw them at the doorway.

  “I say we give her one more day and then I’m bringing her to that doctor Josephine recommended.” Mom didn’t whisper this time.

  I almost yelled, what doctor and when did you talk to Josephine?

  But I didn’t. I fell asleep.

  . . . . .

  The numbers on the clock are clear. The panic is gone, but my head throbs. I want a Tylenol or a hammer to bang out the pain. A small part of me says, get out of bed. This all would make a great journal entry. At least write something.

  But I’m frozen. What if this happens at school? What if this happens when I see Sean again? What if this happens when I’m driving?

  I can’t be alone or leave the house. Forget it.

  I hear footsteps coming down the hallway, and they stop in front of my room. I see the shadow of them under the doorway.

  A knock.

  “Mad?”

  Dad.

  “Sweetie?”

  Mom.

  I take a deep breath. The fear drains out a little, but the head-pounding is louder.

  “I’m awake. I have a bad headache.”

  They open the door and walk towards my bed with eyebrows knitted.

  “Oh, honey bunch,” Dad reaches down and touches my head lightly.

  “I’ll get you some Tylenol.” Mom hustles back out, probably grateful to do something instead of looking at me. I know she wants to haul me out of bed and drop me off at the nearest shrink.

  Dad sits on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling otherwise?”

  I don’t know how to answer. The humming sound from my clock takes up the empty space of the silence.

  Then Dad says, “Look, Mad, I think we should take you to the doctor. Maybe get a checkup and also maybe see a…a psychiatrist.”

  “What about Josephine?”

  “She’s just a therapist. You know you might need something. Maybe medication.”

  “What?” Everyone I know on medication, kids at school, those people are really screwed up. They have ADD or some kind of depression thing. Am I that messed up? Didn’t this just happen to me? I’ve never had a breakdown or been messed up. This is what I get? Barb goes ignored for years, and they let her do whatever she wanted. Me, I mess up once and they throw me to a Super Shrink.

  My father touches my arm and says, “Honey, listen. We just want you to be okay. Believe me, I wish I had some of those medications available when I was younger.”

  I want to ask him about his mother in the hospital, but Mom comes back with two Tylenol and water. I take them and drink the water. No one says anything.

  . . . . .

  “You won’t come in to see me?” We’ve only been on the phone a few seconds, yet even the soothing sound of Josephine’s voice sends me into panic.

  I breathe in and out. I hold the phone with a shaky hand.

  “You won’t leave the house?” I shake my head, unable to talk.

  “I know you’re there, and you’re crying.”

  I sniffle.

  “Your mom filled me in. You’re just scared of having the panic attacks again.”

  I nod and sniffle.

  “You know all those breathing exercises I gave will work with even the worst panic attack.”

  I try to talk, but the tears are flooding into my mouth now.

  “Writing would be a good thing right now too...”

  I stay very still.

  “Look, we both know that anxiety has been a good friend to you at times. It’s your alarm system that you have to slow down and detach, get some space.”

  I make an mmhmmm noise because I want to just get off the phone. And can’t even begin to think about what I need to “slow down” about or get “some space” over.

  Josephine sighs. “Can you put your mother back on?”

  I hand the phone to my mother. Her blue eyes are red with dark bags under them.

  . . . . .

  “Have you even showered?” Barb’s voice is filled with disbelief.

  I hold the phone to my ear. “I just did.”

  “Good.” She sounds relieved. As if showering were the ultimate indication of my mental health. “What about school? I can’t believe you would blow off school.”

  I close my eyes and smell the rose water soap I borrowed from Mom. “I don’t know.” Here come those tears again. “I…can’t leave the house, Barb.”

  She sighs, not irritated more kind of sad. “This is bad. This is really bad. What about Josephine or something?”

  I open my eyes and the tears spill. “I spoke to her. She talked, and I cried…I couldn’t leave the house to even have Mom take me to my appointment on Monday.”

  “What did she say?” I picture Barb’s tiny hands waving or pointing as she talks and her toffee eyes wide.

  “Not much. But she did say I need to see a psychiatrist and that I need to get to see her.” I pull at a thread from my bathrobe. “She offered to come to the house.”

  “So, let her!” Another sigh and I picture her rubbing her forehead. “And go to the doctor too.”

  “I don’t know. I just feel so awful unless I’m sleeping.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m supposed to be the fucked up one, not you.” She laughs.

  I don’t.

  “How are things with Cliff,” I ask hoping the answer is brief.

  “Good. We are taking it slow for now.” Nothing else.

  Who’s the fucked up one now?

  . . . . .

  “I have your books. Can I come over? Susan’s dying to see you. She has this scholarship essay she has to write and wants your help.” Peter has his high pitch nervous voice on. Through the phone line, I picture his face—scared, wide-eyed.

  I don’t reply. There’s no way the senior class most-likely-to-be the first female president needs my help.

  “She doesn’t actually need your help,” he confesses. I know he’s sweating. I know he’s pacing too. I know that Jack may even be with him and that they are probably at Peter’s house “studying” because his parents aren’t home.

  I pull covers over me and shut my eyes. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. Say hi to Jack.” Click.

  . . . . .

  “Peter filled me in. You’re going all loopy-nut job on us? You know what? It’s about time. I mean you friggin’ intellectualize yourself into feeling fine.”

  I lie on my side. I wouldn’t have picked up the phone if I had checked the caller ID and seen that it was Susan. I only picked up the phone because I thought it was Mom calling to say she was on her way home from her client’s house. It’s weird to be alone…what if I have another attack? The thought sends numbness down my back, and so I clutch at the covers, at the soft satin and fleece blanket Mom wrapped me in before she left.

  “Maddie?”

  “Oh, uh, what?”

  “Peter told me about Sean…”

  I twist the covers and pull them up to my nose not wanting to think about that night…since I probably won’t ever leave the house, leave this room, leave this bed…

&n
bsp; “Hello?”

  “Sorry…Yeah, we had a nice time hanging out.”

  “So?”

  “So, I don’t know. I’m kind of busy being loopy nut job, right?”

  We both laugh, and I’m normal for a second.

  “He seems to like you no matter what kind of drama is going on in your life. He’s a keeper.”

  “He is.”

  We don’t say anything else for a minute, the phone line buzzes faintly, and before I hang up, I tell her, “Give me a few days and maybe we can go over your essay.”

  . . . . .

  As I doze off again, and this time I do think about Sean and I think about that he hasn’t called. It’s been a week. But I guess it doesn’t matter. What could I say to him? I’m not the same person I was a week ago.

  This time I dream. I dream about Zak and Justin. They are having coffee, at my favorite coffee shop in town. I’m standing in the doorway so excited to see them both. But when I approach their table, they don’t look at me. I say hello but nothing. I reach out to touch them and they fade. I scream.

  “Madeline?”

  Someone grabs my ankle and squeeze. The hands are rough and large. I once saw Dad do that to Barb one Saturday morning, years ago when Barb was always nursing a hangover on a Saturday morning. A hang over that my parents would call, “worked too late.” Only Barb didn’t work late every Friday night at the mall.

  “Madeline?” He says again.

  I open my eyes and turn my head to look at him.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Hi,” his voice is scratchy. “I heard you scream. You’re okay?” He strokes my head.

  The dream came back to me in a fast-forward rush. Justin’s blue eyes and Zak’s jewfro, as he used to call it. I swallow and nod my head.

  “Want to go get a late lunch? We could make a run to that great diner in Stamford.” He looks hopeful, but I shake my head. I can’t. I just can’t do it.

  “How about we sit together in the kitchen, and I make some grilled cheese sandwiches with lots of butter?” I smile. I haven’t eaten anything like that for a few years. He forgets I’m almost eighteen. But since I’m clearly not acting eighteen, I let him help me out of bed and go into the kitchen.

  It’s the first time I’ve left my room for longer than a few minutes since Friday. I think it gives us both hope. We eat in silence. Actually, he eats and I pick. We share the paper, which has only bad news that as soon as I read, I’m a pile of crap all over again. As I go back to my room, Dad sighs.

  So do I.

  . . . . .

  When Mom comes home she tells me Mrs. Dubois called and the guidance secretary called.

  “What did you tell them?”

  “That you’re sick.”

  “Oh.” She stares at me again with red lines in her eyes. “I’m tired,” I tell her.

  “No, you’re not, Maddie, and Monday this is all going to end. We’re going to the doctor.”

  . . . . .

  Later, I’m in the hallway on my way to get a glass of water. They’re about to cook dinner. I hear pots and pans clanging:

  “I’m not going to let another daughter slide away, Stan.”

  “Sweetie, Maddie is not Barbara. She’s not drinking or doing anything self-destructive.”

  “Yeah, not yet, but if we don’t nip this whole thing now, God knows what will happen.”

  Silence.

  “You know, Bern, your mother was right.”

  Another silence. I walk forward to hear better.

  “Helen’s right about this. We might have to let Maddie fall apart.”

  Silence and pans tapping the stove. Mom’s voice is softer. “Do you think it was Mom’s cancer? Do you think that’s what tipped it all for Maddie?”

  My father’s voice is just as soft, so I step forward a bit more. “I don’t know.” I hear a kiss sound. I picture him putting his arm around Mom’s shoulders and kissing her head, like I have seen him do a lot of times. “It could have been that moment you were asking about college. It could have been her night out with her friends. It could have been anything.”

  I walk to the bathroom and sit down on the closed toilet, my head in my hands.

  . . . . .

  I can’t believe it, but since my attack last Friday, I’ve totally pushed Bubbie’s cancer out of my mind. I don’t know how a person can forget about cancer. I don’t know how me, Maddie Hickman, neurotic obsessive about my family, about anyone I love, and Maddie, totally petrified of dying, how I, the very same Maddie, could forget.

  I’m awake and craving a latte when the phone rings. I pull the covers off my head and tuck them under my arms. I look over at the phone and see Bubbie’s name flash up: H. Kurland. My eyelid ticks. It’s been doing that all morning, whenever I am awake. Great. Not only do I have some kind of attack thing going on, but now I have Tourette’s.

  Tourette’s makes me think of Zak, who had these funny jaw ticks. The phone is still ringing. Zak. Bubbie. Zak is dead. Bubbie is—

  I snatch the phone from my bed stand.

  “Hi, Bub,” I press speaker so I can snuggle back under the covers.

  “Hi, sweetie.” Pause. “Mom told me you had an attack of some kind?”

  “Yeah, I think I’m going to the nut house next.”

  “Want to tell me what’s wrong?”

  I stare at my curtains, the floral print, purple and pink petals and leaves of green blurs. I close my eyes. Should have just done the simple dotted Swiss. Stuck. The words. Stuck in my throat.

  “I-have-to-go,” I finally croak out, confused.

  “Honey? Sweetie, talk to me.”

  I want to hang up the phone.

  “Listen, your father, I remember, used to get these terrible panic attacks. There was a time before you were born. He had this period of just not wanting to leave the house. He even took some time off.”

  I struggle, the panic overwhelming me. I push myself to an upright position. I don’t want to hear this right now. Maybe going crazy is in the family.

  “Honey? Are you still there? Listen, just breathe.”

  I do as she says and force myself to breathe in and out of my mouth. My eye continues to tic. After a few moments, I hear her breathing with me.

  “Can you talk?”

  “Yeah.” The tic continues but my chest isn’t as tight.

  “Good, that’s good.”

  “Wow, Bubbie, that was weird.”

  “I know, I know. Listen, honey, just keep trying to breathe, and I can call you later.”

  Cancer. I remember again. “Wait! When’s the operation?”

  “On Monday. And don’t worry. I’ve got all my friends here to help me through and really, I feel good! I’ll have Joyce call you guys with updates throughout the day.”

  “I just wish we could be there with you.”

  “Honey, I’d rather see you when I’m recovered and can take you to poetry readings at Custom House Coffee or go grab a bite together at that new Vietnamese restaurant. And, of course, we have to finally make our walk across the Golden Gate Bridge.”

  “Okay,” I nod. Tears flow. I wipe my nose. “I just…you have to do everything you can to make sure that you don’t…because I don’t know what I will do if you…you.” I can’t say it.

  “Oh, sweetie.” Now I hear her sniffle. “Never worry about your heart honey, till it stops beating.”

  “Bubbie! That’s horrible! Did you come up with that?”

  “No. E.B. White. And it’s
not horrible. All it means is that I am alive right now. Alive and not really sick, even. And the truth is, if we are alive and feeling things, life is going to hurt sometimes. But for now, honey, my heart is beating just fine.”

  We both cry and then at the same time laugh.

  “I love you honey!”

  “I love you, Bub!”

  After we hang up, I tuck myself into my bed and fall asleep.

  Chapter Five

  “How crazy was your mother?”

  “Hey.”

  The weight of my eyelids makes me open them slowly. Standing in my doorway is a shadow in the semi-darkness.

  “Dad,” my throat is dry.

  He walks into my room carefully stepping over the decorative pillows scattered on the floor. He opens the drapes and then pulls the soft blinds so light slices through.

  I didn’t sleep the entire day. Good.

  “What time is it?” I ask.

  “A little past two.” He opens the other set of shades. “How about some lunch? Mom made lentil soup.”

  I try to remember the last time I ate. I woke up this morning at six and had coffee with my mother before she went for her power walk. But then I fell back asleep.

  “Yeah, soup sounds good.”

  I sit up, brush the sleep from my eyes and face. I’m ready to ask: “Dad, how crazy was your mother?”

  He laughs. “Oh, boy. Let’s discuss this over soup. This is not a conversation for an empty stomach.”

  I laugh.

  “Okay.”

  Minutes later I sit at the table and share a loaf of bread with my father. I have a small cup of steaming lentil soup under my nose.

  “Mom is at work this afternoon.” Dad hands me a large soupspoon and then sits across from me.

  “You get to babysit?”

  He chuckles.

  We spoon soup, the metal clinking against the bowls like the driftwood wind chimes on our porch. When I glance up at Dad, I see he has a chunk of bread stuck to his chin. I resist reaching over and wiping his mouth like my mother sometimes does.