Would You

by Marthe Jocelyn

  Trisha's face at the door is horrified. We stop.

  “This is intensive care,” she says. “The recording studio is in the next block.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “We were cheering her up. See? Isn't she smiling more than she was before?”

  We all look at Claire, wishing.

  Special Needs

  They're supposed to have their swim from three to four on Wednesday afternoons, but they're never on time. Never. There's an instructor one on one, for each of the six kids in the pool. To hold them up. I'm only there to lifeguard, so staring is part of the job.

  These are kids with serious “challenges,” as we're supposed to call them. Cerebral palsy, muscular dystrophy; there's one boy with some kind of genetic situation, meaning he has hands like fairy wings coming out of his shoulders with no arms in between. His name is Eddie, that kid. He likes to float on his back and ripple the water with his fingertips. He's the only one who's not in a wheelchair outside the Y. He's got two working legs, but I watch him every week thinking, Would you rather have no legs or no arms?

  I asked them that at the Ding-Dong one time and Carson said, “Easy. No legs. Then I could park in the handicapped spot.”

  “I think no arms qualifies too,” said Audrey. “You're set, either way.”

  I sit watching these kids, wondering every time how it would feel to be so … so knotted in your own body. Accomplishing the day would seem so overwhelming. And some of them have fully equipped brains, even if they can't talk. So they know.

  They come in today and my heart is in my throat, gagging me. I wave at Eddie and he waves at me, his little fluttery wave. He must be about eleven. I think about him being a teenager, about him hearing the other guys brag on unhooking girls' bras and knocking back beers. How's he ever going to knock back anything? He drinks through a straw. And girls? He can't even, you know, touch himself, let alone any girl who manages to love him without him being able to hug her. The image comes of Claire lying there in stone, forcing the tears up hot and fast, so I can't see for a second and I feel my nose go red.

  “Natalie? You okay?” It's Brian, one of the caregivers.

  “I don't feel well,” I say. “I think I'm going to call Shannon back from her break.” And I run out of there, banging on the office door, snot bubbling, telling Shannon I've got to leave right now.

  The very, very, very best possibility for Claire would fall way short of these kids. What if she knew she'd never be underwater again? That's just— Oh, it's really better that she doesn't know.

  Eavesdropping

  I hear Aunt Jeanie on the phone and I'm not really listening, but then I'm suddenly, bing, alert.

  “Well, you know, according to statistics, very few marriages survive the death of a child….”

  She's not dead. Who is Jeanie talking to? Does she think Mom and Dad are going to break up? Oh god. Does that mean she thinks Claire's going to die?

  I need to talk about this. With Claire.

  Will there ever be a day when I don't think of her? Will there ever be an hour?

  And if there is, will it mean that I'm mature? Or that I'm a coward, and I've stuffed her away in a hiding place?

  Which would I rather not be?

  I've Been Trying to Put It Into Words

  I feel as if I'm swollen. Swollen with sadness.

  There Are No Words

  Audrey's with me on my bed, snug like sisters. We're facing the wall instead of Claire's side of the room.

  “I keep thinking,” says Audrey.

  “About Joe.” “I know,” I say.

  “Don't you think he must feel like the worst human ever?”

  “Yeah.” I see his face, squeezed up and crying, his brown arms sticking out of his T-shirt, hands dangling, helpless.

  “How do you ever get over something like that?” Audrey is playing with my hair.

  “I don't think I'm the person—Ow! Audrey!”

  Her fingers are caught in a tangle.

  “Oh, sorry, Nat, sorry….” She tries to comb out the knot with her nail, but it bugs me and I pull away. But not all the way away because I need her there.

  We lie still.

  “I don't know what to say,” Audrey whispers after a while. “To you. Sometimes. About this.”

  Vote

  I'm watching Audrey and Carson for signs of anything. There's nothing obvious except that he's not looking at her and she's not looking at him.

  “What would you do?” I ask. “Not that it's up to me, but it's all I can think about. If you had to choose … would you rather just die, or be alive and seriously braindamaged?”

  Audrey opens her mouth but nothing comes out. The others stare at the table. Leila gets that mottled pink flush on her cheeks.

  “Die,” whispers Zack. “I don't want to say it.”

  “Good,” says Carson. “I was waiting for someone else to go first. I take die, for sure. No way do I want to be a cripple.”

  “Okay, Carson, stop now,” says Audrey. She picks up a paper napkin and strips away the edge of it with her amethyst fingernails. “This feels kind of bigger than the game, Nat.”

  “Well, yeah,” I say.

  Another wisp of napkin floats down.

  “Wait,” says Leila. “What is the extent of the brain damage?”

  “Bad,” I say.

  “Can I talk?” she asks. “Can I at least understand what people say to me?”

  “We don't know yet,” I say. “But how about ‘to a certain extent.’”

  “Then I choose brain damage,” says Leila.

  “You do?” I get this quiver that Leila knows something surprising or hopeful.

  “It would give me the opportunity,” she says, “to learn sign language.”

  “Christ,” says Carson. “You're in a wheelchair with probably spastic arms. Your body is kind of twisted so you have to wear ugly clothes and you'll never have sex. I don't think learning sign language is a priority.”

  “Hey,” says Zack.

  “Whoa!” says Audrey. “Carson, what is your damage? Oh god, sorry, Nat! But Carson! Stop. I mean it, before I kick you in the place.” There's a little hill of shredded napkin fluff in front of her.

  “Guys,” I say.

  But Carson hasn't finished. “Let's put your, uh, personal improvement aside for a second, Leila, and think about what's really going on. Would you rather have your sister die or have her be a brain-damaged paraplegic? Isn't that more to the point?”

  Everybody looks away from me. Silence.

  “I don't have a sister,” Leila finally says.

  “Your weaselly little brother, then,” snaps Audrey. “Though in some people's opinion he's brain-damaged already.”

  “Audrey!” says Zack.

  “Oh god, sorry. Sorry, Nat. Reflex.”

  “I don't think …” I stop.

  I don't know what I think or don't think. I'm hot and cold and numb all at once.

  “It's not up to me,” I whisper. “It's not like it's my choice.”

  New Entries

  “Worst words,” I say, to no one in particular. “Statistic. It's so prickly. And so is optimistic.”

  “Most pessimistic word ever,” agrees Zack. “Only used when a disappointing outcome is expected.”

  “And fluids,” I add.

  “Moist fluids,” says Audrey.

  “What other kind are there?” asks Carson.

  “And coma,” I say.

  Family Meeting

  Mom and Aunt Jeanie are at the table when I come in. Dad is shifting an aluminum-foiled pan in the oven.

  “What's up?” I say.

  Mom looks like the inside of her has been scraped out and she's drying up.

  “Family meeting, Nat,” says Dad. “Why don't you go wash your hands and we'll eat in five minutes.”

  Aunt Jeanie grabs and then pats me.

  “My hands are clean,” I say. “I was in the pool for four hours.” I hold up my fingers. “Cleanest prunes in town
.”

  Aunt Jeanie laughs way too hard. “You always were the funny one, Natalie.”

  Clunk. Silence. And which one was Claire? Pretty? Smart? Kind and loyal? And now? Which one is she now?

  Mom moves my chair back so I'll sit down. Aunt Jeanie opens a bottle of red wine and puts a glass in front of me.

  “No, Jeanie,” says Mom, moving the glass. “She's sixteen.”

  “Don't you think she's old enough this week?” asks Jeanie. “If we lived in France …”

  “I don't like it anyway,” I say.

  Dad pulls the pan out of the oven and almost drops it on the table. The pot holders are kind of shabby. Claire made them at camp, probably in the Elves cabin.

  “You left the card on, Dad.” I point to the charred rectangle taped to the casserole: From the Bensons.

  Luckily, the Bensons are not here alongside their inedible broccoli-tofu slop, so we don't need to fake it past the first bite.

  I clear the plates, except the wineglasses, which get refilled all round.

  “So?” I say. “Family meeting?”

  Mom looks at Dad; Dad looks at Mom; my aunt looks back and forth like she's watching tennis.

  “Dr. Hazel spoke with your mother this afternoon,” starts Dad. Aunt Jeanie grabs Mom's hand.

  “Oh Christ,” I say. “Just tell me.”

  “There's nothing to ‘Just tell,’” says Dad.

  “The results came back.” Mom is talking slowly, making herself sound steady. “From the EEG. Dr. Hazel came to find me.”

  I go cold and I can't make my mouth work. I realize Dad and Jeanie already know. I realize this is all for me.

  “Her brain … Claire's brain … it's dead, Natty. She died. Probably on Saturday night before we … when she …”

  My eyes flood over watching Mom's do the same. I push back from the table, flinging my arms across my face.

  No! Oh, Claire! Oh, Claire! Claaaaaairrrrrre!

  It's me howling, but I don't know when it started. I feel hands all over me, trying to take hold, but I'm rocking, trying to speed through this part, shaking them off me, Don't make me be here anymore….

  I run to the bathroom and squat in front of the toilet. I flip up the seat. I put my palms on the sides of the cool bowl. I lean over, heaving, trying to puke. I heave deep in my gut, but my mouth is dry, dusty. There's a lump of something unbearable inside me but it won't come out.

  What It Means

  Not sure how long it takes, but later I'm ready to hear the rest.

  My sister is dead.

  Only she's still breathing.

  Jeanie makes tea and dumps half the sugar bowl into my cup. “Brandy would be better,” she says. Mom just looks at her and Jeanie turns red. Mom is older.

  Claire was older.

  There'll be no one to scold me with a look when I'm forty-three years old.

  “Claire's heart…” Mom has to drag herself forward. “Claire's heart is healthy. It could continue to beat until… well, for fifty more years. Sixty, maybe, or more.”

  Claire's heart.

  I get a flash of a valentine that Claire made when we were little. For me. Two paper hearts, sewn together around the edges with big lumpy wool stitches, and stuffed with those little cinnamon candies. Luv printed in big white letters.

  “But it's only beating because the ventilator is providing oxygen. There are no natural functions working. If they … when they … remove the life-support system … she will… no longer be able to breathe.”

  “She'll be dead,” I say, suddenly cold all over.

  “She will die,” says Dad.

  “She's already dead,” says Mom. “Really.”

  I look around for my hoodie. I'm shivering.

  “So this … this is … it?” I say. “There's … no actual choice to make?”

  Well, There Is One Thing

  Mom and Dad look at each other. Aunt Jeanie opens her mouth, but Mom shakes her head.

  “What?” I say. “What are you not telling me?”

  “It's a difficult subject,” says Mom.

  “We're not sure you're ready for it,” says Dad.

  “Let's wait till a little later,” says Aunt Jeanie. “But really, it has to be decided.”

  Wrapped in a Blanket, I Call Audrey from my Closet

  “See, Claire was an adult, according to the law. Mom and Dad say what they think Claire would have wanted. And the hospital has to decide what her wishes would be.”

  “How the hell do they do that?”

  “She checked that little box on her driver's license. She agreed to be an organ donor.”

  Anatomical Gifts

  Claire and I never talked about it, not straight up. Why would we? We're teenagers.

  They Might Be Okay

  So we're in the car and Mom says, “George Casson called.”

  And Dad says, “George,” in this fond, nostalgic way, and they look at each other, smiling, sharing some invisible thing.

  “Who's George?” I say.

  “We went to college with him,” says Dad.

  “We used to go camping,” says Mom. And they laugh.

  “Good old George,” I say. But I have this disturbing flash that Mom and Dad are friends. They have memories that don't include Claire and me. How odd is that?

  Is Someone Out There Waiting?

  “The thing I keep wondering is …”

  “What?” they all say.

  “I keep wondering if someone out there is waiting for Claire to die.”

  “Ah,” says Audrey.

  “Of course,” says Zack

  “Do you mind telling me what the hell you're talking about?” says Carson.

  We're at Beanie's, iced coffee dregs melted into milky puddles at the bottoms of our glasses. I swirl mine, wanting to explain it the right way.

  “Maybe there's some little boy who was born with a hole in his heart,” I say. “Or whatever. And they've kept him going all this time, but now he's ten, and if he doesn't get a heart transplant, he'll never see eleven. So with Claire's heart…”

  “But wait! Then she won't see nineteen,” says Carson.

  “She won't see nineteen anyway,” Zack says quietly.

  “Claire's heart could save his life, this boy.”

  “Let's name him,” says Audrey. “Let's call him … William.”

  “Not save just his life,” I say. Maybe I'm trying to make it okay somehow, but, “Maybe William's supposed to grow up to do something really important. Maybe all the time he's spent in hospitals makes him grow up to be a brilliant doctor and he develops the cure for AIDS and all the billion children in Africa are saved.”

  “Yeah,” says Audrey. “Thanks to Claire's heart.”

  “Good picture,” says Zack.

  “What else do they use?” says Carson. “Aside from the heart?”

  “Carson!” says Leila.

  “Kidneys,” says Zack. “It's called harvesting. Big demand for healthy kidneys. All those people on dialysis. And the liver, the lungs, bone marrow… Pretty much everything can be used to help someone.”

  “Her skin,” says Audrey. “They can graft her skin onto someone who's been burned.”

  “Oh!” I say. “What if someday I met someone who'd been in a terrible fire and got all reconstructed, but I recognized some part of her arm, because Claire has these really distinctive freckles in a row on the top of her wrist, and they got stitched onto somebody else?”

  “That's gruesome,” says Leila.

  “But so cool,” says Audrey.

  “That's gotta be the opening sequence for a horror movie,” says Carson. “Where this deranged doctor—”

  Audrey throws her spoon at him. “Shut up!”

  “Shut up!” says Zack.

  “What?” says Carson.

  “You promised, you idiot.” They glare at him.

  “Oh.” He glances at me and away. The tips of his ears go pink.

  “Okay, okay,” he says, after a minute. “B
ut how about some loser kid who never made a goal in her life, maybe she could have Claire's right foot and turn into a soccer star?”

  “Can they do a brain transplant?”

  “Not yet, Leila,” says Zack.

  “You in the market for one?” says Carson. Then he stops. “Oh crap, I did it again.”

  I pat his hand. “It's okay, Carson. But what I'd like to know is what happens to Claire's knowledge? I keep wondering. Hours of studying! Where does her vocabulary go? Or her ability to kick the ball just the right way, to analyze the best defense in a split second? Or all those lyrics to every Beatles song she memorized? Or, you know, just how to flip pancakes?”

  “That what makes a person who she is,” says Audrey. “That's what dies.”

  “That's what's unbearable.”

  I put my head on the table just as Zack says, “How about her eyes?”

  Claire's Eyes

  When I think about Claire's eyes, I see hazel pools with golden green flecks, framed by the best eyelashes a girl ever got. I see them crinkled up so tight while she laughs that she looks Asian. We even bought her a T-shirt one time:

  ASIAN GIRLS HAVE MORE FUN.

  I know that whoever gets Claire's eyes, it won't actually be her eyes. They take the eyeballs from their sockets and harvest the corneas for use by some old blind person.

  “Oh!” Carson would say. “That would be an awesome movie! What if a person got someone else's eyes, and suddenly had all the memories of everything the eyes had ever seen?”

  But in real life it won't be like seeing the world through Claire's eyes. Just a second chance.

  Today

  I wake up. I wake up remembering that old rhyme about birthdays: Wednesday's child is full of woe. Thursday's child has far to go. It's about birthdays, but I'm thinking how far Claire is going to go today.