Permanent Marker : A Memoir (9780999158111)

by Ross, Aimee

  Mom’s eyes had filled with tears.

  The reality of the situation hit me once again. My family had been through so much these past two weeks. I could be dead, a daughter gone, my children without a mother, a sister lost.

  “Mom, don’t write a letter. Please.”

  “Why not?” she asked. She sniffled.

  “Because I understand the cross. No one put it there to upset us.”

  She wasn’t looking at me; she was digging through her purse to find a tissue.

  “If I had died, people would have done the same for me. I mean, they’re only remembering their friend. I get it.”

  She blew her nose.

  “Okay. I won’t,” she relented. “If you’re okay with it.”

  “I am.”

  I hated that young man and what he had done, changing my life in a split second, but for some reason, a cross memorializing his death did not bother me. Then again, I was lying in a hospital bed, unable to go there, unable to see it.

  I wondered how I would feel when the time came. When I finally did drive past it. Would I be angry? Would I cry? Then I stopped myself.

  Quit thinking about driving, Aimee.

  You can’t even walk.

  • • •

  I hadn’t seen Connor in over a week.

  My family had kept him from visiting until I was out of intensive care, breathing on my own, and conscious, which I understood. Otherwise, it might be too upsetting for him. He was only eleven, after all.

  Seeing him walk into the room with my mom and Jerrica and Natalie the next day brought such relief—like letting go of a long exhale after holding my breath. All three of my children were here with me, such a comfort after the previous week’s chilling experiences.

  I wanted to hug and kiss Connor and tell him I loved him, but I worried how I looked. Deep scratches and bruises covered my leg where there was no cast, and a prominent gap filled the space of my missing front tooth. Tubes were coming out of my nose, lungs, arms and stomach, each attaching me to a different machine. I looked as if I—and not the car I’d been driving—had been hit.

  Connor walked toward the wall opposite me, keeping his eyes on the floor, avoiding mine. He was probably scared.

  “Hi, baby. Come sit. I’m so happy you’re here.”

  I lisped the words through my missing front tooth. I’m sure it magnified how strange it was to see me like this, but he approached the bed half smiling, almost shyly. Even at eleven, he was handsome: an upturned pixie nose, high cheekbones, and chiseled jaw. I hated to think how many girls he would be fighting off one day.

  He leaned in for a quick, gentle hug, and I inhaled the faint, still-baby smell of his neck. I rubbed his back, and he stayed there, sitting beside me, while the girls and Mom gathered around the bed.

  “Jerrica.”

  I had not seen Jerrica since I was moved from the ICU two days ago, and even those memories were vague and scattered.

  “Hi, Mama,” Jerr said, walking over to me.

  The oldest of the three, Jerrica looks like me; we have the same smile. Her hug smelled like the soft vanilla perfume she wore every day. I breathed it in deeply, my nose against her blonde hair.

  “Hi, Aim,” Mom said. “We brought you some things.”

  It was silly, but secretly I hoped those things included a stuffed Clifford dog. I was eager for a sign that God had really been watching over me. When that stuffed red dog never appeared, I tried not to be disappointed.

  Jerr stepped aside and Mom set a plastic grocery bag down on the small dresser beside me so I could see what was inside.

  Treasure! My shampoo, beat-up wide-tooth black comb, round brush, and blow dryer stuffed the bag. Tucked down inside, in its own Ziploc bag, was my tattered and faded blue baby blanket. Yes, I was forty-one, but I still slept with that blankie under my pillow every single night. The knotty, thin cotton against my fingertips meant comfort, safety.

  I couldn’t help myself: I opened the bag, reached in to feel the fabric, and pulled it up to my nose. I inhaled the familiar scent of security and smiled.

  Everyone laughed.

  “We also brought you these,” Natalie said.

  She walked over and handed my purse and cell phone to me, then leaned in for a hug. Again, I breathed in the comforting scent of my child.

  More treasure! My purse contained a small makeup bag of just the essentials, maybe enough to even make me feel human again, and my cell phone was my lifeline to the outside world. Both had been in the car with me.

  “Dad took us to where your car was to get those,” Jerr said. “Your phone was clear up underneath the dash where the gas pedal is.”

  “Wow—I’m glad you found it. Thank you.”

  “Guess what else we found when we went to your car?” she asked.

  I had no idea. Jerr moved forward and put one gold hoop earring in the palm of my hand, part of the pair I had splurged on just a few weeks ago.

  “Ooooooh…you didn’t find the other?”

  “No,” she said. “We looked, but we couldn’t find it.”

  I turned the smooth metal between my fingertips, scrutinizing it. When I noticed dried blood on the inside surface of the hoop, I set it down. I didn’t say anything, and I didn’t show them. I wondered where the earring’s match was. I wondered if it was lying on the ground, in the grass, near the Bud Light cross.

  Suddenly, I wanted to know what I looked like.

  My appearance was important to me—it always had been. “You’re such a princess,” Mom had once told me, and she was right. Nothing was more important to my personal grooming ritual than my hair, eyelashes, and nails (hands and toes)—in that order—and I spent about as much on them per year as I did on my health insurance.

  Right now, I was definitely not princess material. It had been over a week since the accident, and my hair still had not been washed. For all I knew, neither had my face. I felt icky, itchy, and greasy. I wanted to be clean again.

  When my nurse came into the room next, she noticed my comb and makeup bag lying on the tray.

  “Oh, how nice—do you need a mirror?” she asked.

  She pushed in a levered button on the side of the bedside tray table, and the top tray slid back, revealing another tray and a small mirror. I leaned forward slowly and peered into the reflective glass, squinting at my appearance so I could see every detail.

  I looked atrocious—like a scary, wild witch from a fairy tale. Yes, I was still me, but a drastically rougher, uglier version.

  My full, chin-length bob hairstyle was flat, stuck to my head, and greasy with dirt. My eyebrows were wild, hairs marking the places that had not been tweezed in so many days. Dark, half-circle shadows sat below tired, sunken-in eyes, where a trace of eyeliner and mascara were still evident. My nose had a small scratch and my bottom lip, a slight cut. I opened my cracked, dry lips to see what I already knew I would find—the missing front tooth.

  I held my mouth open and looked at the hole from all angles. Finally, I tried out a smile, grinning into the mirror.

  Tears filled my eyes. I’d had a beautiful smile. I got compliments all the time. Yes, it had always been crooked—two front teeth at a teeny angle and a bottom row squeezed together—but it was still beautiful. The “best smile” in the class of ’87.

  Now it was gone.

  I looked up at the kids and Mom and shrugged my shoulders in defeat. I looked like a frightful, deranged madwoman. The perfect appearance I strived for every day had vanished, and I was embarrassed.

  “Mom. You look fine,” Jerr scolded. “You were in a horrible accident—what do you expect?”

  “I know, Jerr, but it’s my front tooth.”

  “And it can be replaced,” Jerr said. “You can’t.”

  She
was right. I was stuck in a bed, hair smashed against a pillow, remnants of makeup around my eyes, and with a missing front tooth. But my visitors didn’t care how I looked, and I had nothing but time.

  Time: The only thing that could heal a broken heart, the only thing that could heal a broken body. Also the only thing that could heal a broken appearance.

  I had plenty of it.

  July 2004

  Once upon a time, I met Cinderella on the red carpet.

  The Cinderella.

  And the red carpet. (At least as close as a middle-aged teacher from rural Ohio would ever get to it.)

  I was one of thirty-nine teacher-winners attending the prestigious DisneyHAND national teaching awards ceremony in Disneyland, “the happiest place on Earth,” and two of my dreams were coming true. Since college, I had hoped that one day I could be so loved and lucky as a teacher to win something like this, but even more than that, I was meeting my fairy-tale heroine, a permanent fixture of my life since early childhood.

  I was only four years old, fresh out of the bath and cozy in pajamas, when my little brother and I were loaded into the family station wagon, duped into thinking we were going for an evening drive to see one of Dad’s summertime paint jobs. Probably a barn. The summer sun was setting as our young groans—surely this would be the most boring drive of our lives—turned to shrieks of excitement when we pulled into the Springmill Drive-In. Walt Disney’s Cinderella was playing on the big screen!

  Mom and Dad rolled down the car windows, hooked up the speakers, and we jumped into the front seat. Enchantment ensued, and I haven’t been the same since.

  Cinderella. Her name was beautiful, her story fanciful, and I wanted to be just like her.

  Now here I was next to her, as a teacher celebrating my DisneyHAND award, cameras flashing, a string quartet playing, and Minnie and Goofy frolicking nearby. We stood side by side, Cinderella and I, two perfect princesses with arms around each other’s waists, both dressed to kill. She wore vintage, one-of-a-kind ball attire, and I sparkled in a glamorous, beaded, black gown.

  We smiled and posed for photographers, and someone snapped our photo just in time to capture the unmistakable, childlike look on my face that said it all: Ohmygod, it’s Cinderella!

  I was in awe of her, unable to speak.

  And then, as if it had turned midnight, she was gone, and I hadn’t gotten to talk to her. I wanted to tell her she was my favorite princess and that I felt like her that night. That this small-town high school teacher and mom of three had been transformed into a lovely sight for all in the Land to see. And that I was attending this grand celebration with family, too: my parents, my brother and his wife, and my could-be-charming husband.

  Wait a second. Where was Prince Charming? And why wasn’t he with Cinderella? Uh oh. Something wasn’t right.

  But I was distracted, and she moved on.

  Then I saw her, selfishly searching out others for flirting and photo ops on the red carpet, and I knew I had been fooled. That Cinderella, no longer partnered with her fairy-tale mate and only interested in getting attention, was a fake. That Cinderella turned out to be a disappointment.

  Years later, I would realize why the lingering mark of that symbolic moment stood out to me: that moment of foreshadowing took root in my own story. A seed was planted, a transformation began, and I grew into an image of the Cinderella I’d met in person: a perfectly fake disappointment.

  February 2010 | The Day after the Heart Attack

  “You know, you had the perfect heart attack,” the intensive care nurse said while checking my vitals.

  I was in recovery, and Dr. Pancetta had just been in to tell me what they found during the catheterization.

  The heart attack had been caused by an arterial dissection. Part of my artery’s wall had broken away, causing blood to flow between the layers and forcing them apart. This initiated the attack, or myocardial infarction, as it’s called in the medical world. By the time Dr. Pancetta did the catheterization, the arterial tear had “miraculously” repaired itself. There was no blockage or plaque buildup, and no stent was needed.

  I was confused. Even curious.

  “A perfect heart attack? What do you mean?” I asked. The thought was laughable. Everyone knows heart attacks are bad.

  “I mean, if you had to have a heart attack, you did it the right way,” she said and smiled. “No blockage, only a little damage to the heart, and you’re still alive!”

  Only a little damage—ha! If she only knew. But she was right. It was perfect. My broken heart had fixed itself. I wondered how long the cure would hold.

  Only hours before, I had been on a gurney in the hospital’s ER, alone and afraid I was going to die. I still couldn’t believe it. I had a heart attack?

  Dr. Pancetta and Dr. Fams, the other cardiologist assigned to my case, both asked me the same questions, though at different times and on different rounds.

  Do you smoke, Aimee? Do you have any history of heart disease in your family? Are you a drug user?

  No, no, and no.

  As a generally healthy forty-one-year-old woman with no risk factors who’d suffered a heart attack, I was an anomaly.

  Hmmm. This is strange.

  When each grasped his clipboard in one hand and flipped pages in bafflement with the other, I felt like I should tell the truth.

  The words, hanging there in that hospital room’s stale air—“I told my husband I wanted a divorce three days ago”—sounded heavy and odd. They were so new. Unwelcome even.

  But full of explanation for a heart attack.

  Ahhhhh, I see. Makes sense.

  “What questions do you have?” Dr. Fams asked. His tall, kind presence filled the room, which seemed to shrink around us.

  “What am I going to do now?” I wanted to ask him. “Where am I going to go when I leave here?” But he didn’t have the answers to those questions.

  “Could it happen again?” I asked.

  I didn’t think surviving a heart attack was as common as dying from one, and I had made it through alive. I didn’t want the same thing to happen once I left the observation of doctors and nurses.

  He sat down in the room’s chair then and leaned forward.

  “The heart attack you had will most likely not repeat itself.”

  He explained that the spontaneous arterial dissection could mean weakened arteries and the potential for another “cardio event,” so they were admitting me for a few days of rest and observation to be cautious.

  “We’re pretty sure that your arterial dissection and heart attack were caused by high blood pressure and stress,” Dr. Fams said. “We’ve prescribed medicine for the blood pressure, but,” he paused, “once you’re home, you have to find new ways to deal with stress.”

  Home. Yikes. Where was that now?

  Jerrica had already asked me if I was coming home, and her question, full of assumption, surprised me.

  “No, Jerr, I’m not. I can’t.”

  I knew that wasn’t the answer she wanted to hear. Her life—Natalie’s life, Connor’s life—had just been turned upside down. I knew she expected what every kid would: Mom would come home and heal, Dad would take care of her, and she would forget about the divorce, the cause of the stress.

  “Well I don’t know why not,” she said. “Obviously, you need rest. You need to come home.”

  Everything was so black and white to teenagers.

  A flash of guilt brought the faintest fluttering of anxiety across my chest. Should I go home? No, that would be crazy. “Home” was part of what caused this. Of course I didn’t want to be away from my children—all I had known for seventeen years was being with them, caring for them—but I also couldn’t imagine what going home might mean right now.

  Any mom knows that the l
ast place to go expecting rest is home.

  Plus, a piece of my heart had been damaged there.

  I didn’t respond to Jerr, and that was the end of it. She didn’t try to talk me into coming home again.

  “I understand that you’re in a tricky situation with your husband, but your health has to be the most important thing right now,” Dr. Fams went on. “What do you do for a living, Aimee?”

  “I’m a teacher. Twelfth-grade English.”

  “More stress?” he asked, a smile peeking out from under his dark mustache.

  “No, not really. This is my eighteenth year, so I’m used to it by now. How long will I be off work?”

  “Six weeks. And in a few, I want you to start our cardio rehab program. I’ll get you some information,” he said and left.

  The hospital’s twelve-week cardio rehabilitation program was made up of two components: classes on managing diet and stress, and an exercise regimen, all for the sake of learning how to live a heart-healthy life. Cardio fitness trainers would design a workout just for me, and my heart would be monitored while I did it, three times a week, at their facility and on their exercise equipment.

  Six weeks off school to rest, a personally prescribed exercise routine, and coaches to encourage me along the way. Just the way to start my new life.

  Perfect.

  II

  “After a while you could get used to anything.”

  ~Albert Camus, The Stranger

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  Nine Days after the Accident

  “Hi, Aimee?” an unfamiliar female voice asked after knocking on the door frame to announce her presence.

  “Yes?”

  A fresh-faced, slender woman in light blue scrubs pulled back the curtain. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old.