by Jill Wolfson
There was silence on the other end. I could tell that Milo wasn’t totally convinced yet. He was seriously weighing my sincerity. “The Grim Reaper. Termination Station,” I added as encouragement.
Through the receiver, I heard his bed creak, then a little groan of effort. “Getting my notebook on the floor,” he explained. “The Complete Journal of Death Through the Ages.” The sound of pages turning.
The first thing Milo read aloud was the end of my Shakespeare quote. How’s that for a connection? “The valiant never taste of death but once.” That was followed by more pages turning, and then an apology about his lack of organization. In my opinion, an apology wasn’t at all necessary, but it did show me that Milo was a very thoughtful person.
“My research doesn’t follow any time line or anything. It kind of meanders all over the death-and-dying spectrum.”
“Don’t sweat it,” I said, and immediately regretted using a phrase that might make him think about armpits and BO. I quickly covered with, “Please, just start anywhere.”
“Might as well jump right into your basic Christian philosophy. You probably know this already, but for them, death boils down to a heaven-or-hell fixation. Life is one big test of pain and temptation, where you have to prove yourself worthy of getting into God’s playground.” He snorted with contempt, then skipped to the Rosicrucians.
“That’s the super-secret sect I told you about before. They say that at the moment of death, you strip off your body and throw it away like some old clothes that you don’t need anymore.” He moved on to ancient Egypt. “The Egyptians believed that to get to the afterlife you pass through a dangerous place with monsters, boiling lakes, fires and some nasty snakes that spit out poison.”
I didn’t interrupt and say something stupid, like, “Shut up! Have they been watching Indiana Jones, or what?” I credit my silence with giving Milo the confidence to go on. Clearly, a relaxed Milo was a talkative Milo.
“The Hindus,” he explained, “believe there’s a progression of the soul after death, based on the karma you’ve accumulated by good deeds and bad behavior and so forth. After death, you get reincarnated already knowing lots of important stuff about life.”
“What stuff?”
“Details vary person to person. Reincarnation makes a lot of sense to me. You know how some people seem so much older, even if they’re just kids? Like they’ve already learned from their screwups in another lifetime and don’t keep making a stinking mess. Hindus call them old souls. Grown-ups love them because they don’t get drunk and go jumping off cliffs or need a lot of lectures about the importance of good dental hygiene. Old souls also have excellent grammar.”
I noticed how Milo’s voice had gradually lost its sharp, scary edge. It’s weird, but the nuts and bolts of dying made him sound really lively and happy, like he was finally getting a chance to share information that he had been carrying around for a long time – Information About Everything That Really Matters to Him in Life.
And of course, Milo wasn’t the only person on the transplant unit feeling lively and happy. I felt so much good energy in the room, I let myself be swept away by his stories, the way a good fantasy book has the power to take me out of myself, to shut off the part of my brain that’s always worrying or complaining about something. Under the spell of Milo’s dreamy voice, I let myself believe, in turn, wholeheartedly in each fascinating description of death.
There was the revenge of pissed-off gods and blinding white lights and sacred three-headed dogs guarding hell and dangerous journeys and great-great-aunts carting the welcome wagon and devils with pitchforks and ghosts who take up housekeeping and a god who tallies up good and bad behaviors like a spiritual accountant.
After a while, I lost track of exactly what Milo was saying. Or even if the stories made sense and how much they contradicted each other. All I knew was that every word out of his mouth was a little spooky and very, very breathtaking.
Milo must have noticed that I hadn’t said anything in a while because he stopped right in the middle of describing how Egyptians made mummies (“First, they removed the brain either through the nose or from behind the eye”) in order to ask if he was scaring me. Or boring me. Or giving me the creeps. That added to my respect for him. Not only was Milo smart, he was sensitive to others. If he wasn’t an old soul, he must be at least middle-aged.
“I do have a question.”
“Shoot.”
“After all this studying about what other people think, does it help?”
“What do you mean, help?”
“Like … like, when – you know – you really think about it.”
“Go on,” he said.
“Like when you wake in the middle of the night. Like when you wake in the middle of the night and it really hits you where you are. In the hospital and all, and…”
“And…”
“And you can’t explain what woke you, because there was no loud noise or bad dream or pain. But something woke you and you feel it, something creepy. Something creepy creeping.”
“Go on,” he said again.
“You don’t have a name for it, but it’s something you recognize. Because it’s always there. In the middle of the day when the lights are on and your mom is visiting, you can almost pretend that it isn’t there. But at night, it’s … it’s like … you know…”
Maybe he didn’t know. Maybe he didn’t have a clue.
I wanted to take back everything I just said and turn the conversation in a totally different direction. How did I wind up talking like this? This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t supposed to be part of a boy-girl phone conversation. What was the matter with me?
Why didn’t Milo say something?
I lowered my eyes in embarrassment, as if Milo had superpowers and could see me through the wall. My gaze landed on my right arm at the series of tiny bumps where nurses had poked me with needles, sometimes to take blood out, sometimes to put blood in. With the pad of my thumb, I traced the tiny row of raised dots all the way to the inside of my elbow. In some strange way, it was like I could read those bumps the way a blind person reads Braille. What they told me was this: Say it. Just go ahead and say it.
Say it because it’s real and true and it’s what you’re thinking in your deepest thoughts and what you’ve never said to anyone before. Say it because, if you don’t, the opportunity could disappear forever. The moment might just zip off into a black hole and you’ll never get a chance to say it to someone else who maybe, just maybe, will understand.
“Dani?”
I took a breath and knew how a dead Egyptian must feel quivering before a lake of fire. I dove in.
“This creeping feeling. At first, you tell yourself that it’s going away soon. The doctor will sew in a brand new body part and make everything perfect. And that feels really good for a while, like glitter and sparkles are landing everywhere around you. But then the hair on the back of your neck starts tingling again because you can picture everyone – healthy people, your mom, people who everybody worships like Dr Alexander, little kids who wear princess T-shirts, bus drivers, teachers, yourself. Especially yourself, even if you do get the transplant. It’s going to happen eventually. A death sentence. That’s what life is. You know it. Not know it in the way you know the words to a song, but deeper than that. You know it like it’s written with permanent marker on every cell of your body. And knowing it makes you feel so panicked and lonely and sad and scared and confused, because how do you live your life knowing that? So you start to cry, and soon you’re crying so hard that you’re sure tears are running out of your fingers and toes.”
I ran out of air then but managed to get out another sentence. “That … does your notebook of death help with that?”
He took a quick inhale of breath for both of us. “No. I can’t say that it does.”
TWELVE
I SAW THIS TV show where a really popular girl went to school one morning, and it was as if she had turned into a cockroach. No
t a real cockroach like in the famous story by Kafka, which is a really good story, especially since the main character doesn’t wake up and discover that it was all a terrible dream. I hate that. Normal, awake life offers plenty of extreme experiences without having to depend on a cheesy it-was-all-a-dream ending.
So in the TV show, someone was spreading rumors that the girl was a disgusting slut-bag, which got everyone whispering about her. Eventually, she became a kinder, gossip-free individual because she had to walk a mile in a slut-bag’s moccasins. I didn’t get to see the actual ending because my medication was all screwed up and I fell asleep – clunk – about every ten minutes.
But the next day in the hospital, I was feeling a lot like that girl because of all the whispering. It wasn’t my imagination. An unusually enormous number of doctors and nurses stopped by to examine me. They spent lots of time conferencing with each other and my mom just outside my door. At first I thought that maybe they had picked up on the romantic tension pulsating between rooms 1 and 2. As I considered it, though, I really couldn’t imagine the staff of Children’s Hospital gossiping about my love life. Plus, at the hint of anything to do with romance, Mom would definitely be in my face with one of her intimate, girl-to-girl conversations about vaginas, hormones and methods of contraception. She didn’t want me making the same mistake she did, which was to be wild and pregnant at age sixteen.
As if there was any possibility of that.
So it wasn’t gossip, but something definitely was going on. There were enough words being expended about me to blow up a tire. When I asked, “What’s happening?” Nurse Brianna said that she couldn’t officially say anything yet.
Pause.
“I definitely shouldn’t say anything.” Pause again. She shifted her eyes toward the door, then snapped them back to me. The coast was clear. “I’ll get in big, big trouble if the doctors hear that I’ve revealed even this much.”
“Cross my wrong-sided heart,” I promised.
“You aren’t a baby. You have eyes and ears. It isn’t fair to keep you totally in the dark. This is your life they’re talking about. So, I’ll say this one thing: Things may be looking up for you.”
“Honest?”
With her index finger, she made the sign of an X across her heart.
They forgot to bring us breakfast. That was okay because I’m not a big fan of oatmeal. Then they also forgot to bring lunch, which was really strange. How could they forget with Wendy yelling that she was starved and she wanted chocolate cake right now?
Earlier that morning, Mom had gone home to shower. She was back now, her hair washed and drying in graceful curves over one eye. She kissed me on the forehead, dragged a chair over to my bed and pulled out her knitting. This was her newest venture for supplementing what she called her “pathetic income.” It involved buying tons of cheap yarn, whipping out scarves and then selling them online as Glamo Wraps – One-of-a-kind, handcrafted wearable art.
Mom held up a two-foot length of purple fuzzy stuff interwoven with some gold thread. “On the glamour scale, what do you think? Be honest.”
Personally, I thought this particular color scheme was putrifyingly vile, but I wanted to be encouraging. “Looks good to me. No holes so far.”
My stomach growled. I’m sure she heard it, but she didn’t say anything. “Mom, can you find out about lunch? I haven’t had anything to eat since I woke up. Do you have any sucking candy in your purse?”
She held up a wait-a-sec finger, since she hadn’t yet gotten the hang of knitting and talking at the same time. When she got to the end of the row, she didn’t go rummaging in her purse for the tasty breath mints that she always kept stocked. Rather she said, “Dr Alexander doesn’t want you to have anything in your stomach because you might be having a procedure today.”
Procedure. The very word set my teeth on edge. Mom knew that. Medical people use it to describe everything from drawing a vial of blood to a ten-hour surgery. I heard of one procedure where they remove selected organs through your vagina! So why don’t they come out and call a blood test a blood test or an operation to remove organs through your vagina an operation to remove organs through your vagina? They should say what they mean.
“What kind of procedure, Beth?” I asked.
“A procedure for which they need you to have an empty stomach. I’m not at liberty to give any more details.”
“Not at liberty? Beth! This isn’t your X-ray-technician class! You’re not my medical professional. You’re my mom!”
I thought that would get her to spill the secret. Usually she can’t keep anything from me. We’ve been through too much together, all my heart disasters and all her heart disappointments. But she picked up her knitting and started another row. “Sorry, kiddo. My lips are sealed.”
The nurse asked if I was up for a visit with Milo.
Of course I wanted to see him. But before I said yes and possibly made a fool of myself, I needed to know if Milo had personally asked to come for a visit or if she had suggested it. “And if that’s the case, do you think Milo actually wants to come, or is he only willing to do it as some kind of pathetic mission of mercy, like the senior citizens who come to the hospital once a week and read to us poor, depressed kids?”
Brianna laughed and said, “Oh, this is so sweetly nuts. He asked the same thing about you,” before disappearing out the door.
I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what I was going to see when I opened them.
I would see Milo.
Milo coming toward me.
I pictured those sparks in his eyes and other hunky details like a strong chin and nice white teeth that shined like headlights from across the room.
When I did open my eyes, the nurse was wheeling him in, and he was all that I imagined, in potential at least. In potential, he was probably the most incredible human male alive today on the planet earth. In reality, his bilirubin count must have been way off, because he glowed even more orange than at our first meeting. I also recognized the under-eye dark circles of anemia when I saw them.
He picked off imaginary fluff from his PJs. I had to fight a desperate urge to reach under my blanket and scratch the itchy spot where the catheter was hooked up to my body. I groped around for something to say, but of course nothing sophisticated or charming came to mind. My stomach rumbled extra loud. So romantic.
“I’m starved,” I blurted out. “I’m so hungry I could eat a horse, especially if you took off the shoes.”
Milo nodded seriously, which made me worry that he was actually imagining me with pointy, bloody teeth. I was relieved when he asked, “But are you so hungry that you could eat the north end of a southbound skunk?”
I really liked how he could be so serious and grown-up one minute and then go totally kidlike. The conversation took off from there.
“I just had lunch,” he said.
“Lucky you. I’m on the zero-calorie diet because I might be having a procedure today. They won’t say what kind. Everyone’s acting mega mysterious. Did you hear anything?”
“Think about it. It’s obvious.” When I didn’t answer, he said, “No guesses? Okay, I’m going to send you the answer by mind telepathy. The Rosicrucians were really into it.”
Milo wiggled his fingers in my face, which practically cast a spell over me because of the little masculine tufts of hair at the base of each one. “I’ve been practicing on my dog at home, but I’m ready to try it on a human. Get comfortable.”
Milo explained how he was going to put all his energy into concentrating his focus. He might even break a sweat, which would smell distinctly like garlic. I, on the other hand, should shut my eyes and let my mind relax until it was blank and open, as spacious as a cloudless sky.
I was skeptical, not really being a true believer in tele-anything, except of course telephones and television. But out of respect to Milo, I kept my eyes closed, except for peeking out four or five times to make sure that he wasn’t laughing at me. I would be mortified down t
o my toes if he was poking fun at my trusting nature. As far as I could tell, though, he was being nondeceptive. His face, with a sharp wrinkle between his eyebrows, was a mask of seriousness. Brilliant but chronically ill people can become a little unstable now and then.
After several minutes, he asked, “Receiving any messages?”
“Not yet. Wait! Maybe. Maybe I smell something.”
“Garlic?”
“Yes. A little.”
“Really?” He sounded flabbergasted. “You do?”
In all honesty, the garlic was nonexistent, but I didn’t want Milo to stop trying. It was thrilling to imagine him entering my mind with his thoughts. Also in all honesty, I didn’t really need mind-to-mind communication to get the message. I had already figured out what the nurses and doctors had been whispering about, what Mom wouldn’t tell me.
It was what I hoped for and at the same time dreaded because I didn’t know what it would mean, how it would change things. Maybe I didn’t want things to change.
“A heart,” I said, and opened my eyes just as Milo opened his, which caused a butterfly flutter in my chest.
He smiled meaningfully, and I smiled meaningfully back, and that would have been the most perfect moment of my whole life so far – if I had managed to let that moment be and not say another word. Maybe it’s because once you start being open with someone, once you’ve let them peek through the keyhole of who you are – the crazy middle-of-the-night thoughts – you can’t just stop. At least, I couldn’t stop.
It came out in one exhale, thought upon thought, fear upon fear, layered on each other. How all my life I wanted to be like everyone else. How getting a new heart was supposed to be my biggest dream. Only now that it might become reality…
“Maybe it isn’t such a good idea. Maybe I shouldn’t be getting it. This probably isn’t the right one for me anyway. Maybe my old heart is the one I’m supposed to have and I should stick with it. What if I tell Dr Alexander that? I want to keep my old heart. Yes! That’s what I want. They can give this new one to someone else. What if I tell them that?”
