She raises her eyebrows. “It’s not?”
“I don’t know. My college search is a little different from other people’s, but no one wants to talk about it.”
“I don’t mind. Talking about it.”
She’s bizarrely unflappable. I don’t know why I’m telling her all this, but now that I’ve started, I keep going. I tell her everything I haven’t told any of my friends yet, including Sharon. I tell her the doctors say I’ll probably live for two years at most if I don’t get new lungs and getting new lungs will require six months, at least, of full-time recovery. Add to that the reality check on lung transplants that no one likes to mention: chronic rejection is a huge issue. Five years after a transplant, only 50 percent of recipients are still alive. “It’s all a little bleak, right? It’s like what’s the fucking point of applying to college with odds like that?”
I have to admit, just saying all this makes me feel better. Now my chest isn’t so tight. I can breathe a little deeper. I tell myself it’s okay because I don’t really know this girl and she’s not going to talk to any of my friends.
Then it occurs to me: I’ve just told a stranger who goes to my school that I might be dying. “Please don’t tell anyone I said this. I have this whole thing at school—where everyone thinks I’m fine. They know my diagnosis, but we pretend it’s a mild case and not really a big issue. I know that sounds crazy, but I really don’t want people to know.”
She puts the finishing fold on my bird, turns it upside down, and blows into a tiny hole in the bottom. Amazingly, it puffs out and becomes a swan.
“It’s not crazy at all. I think a lot of people have stuff they don’t talk about with their friends. The good news is, I’m not allowed to say anything. When you start this job, you have to sign all these papers. I’m not allowed to tell people that I’ve even met you.”
JAMIE
I’m not the best teen origamist in the country, of course.
I’d never tried origami until this summer in the hospital. Doctors who’d read my file kept telling me I should give art therapy a try, and I refused because I didn’t want to smell paint or turpentine. I didn’t want to watch watercolors bleed across a page. I was nervous that being near those things would remind me of my dad and make me sadder than I already was.
Then my roommate, Joan, said they didn’t do much painting in the art therapy room. “Mostly it’s origami. Everyone starts out by making a house. Then you add decorations. It sounds stupid, but it’s kind of cool.”
I liked Joan, who was an old hand at being in the hospital. It was her third stay, and she had the best advice for getting through the days. Mostly it boiled down to: keep busy.
Origami is cool? I thought. Has she lost her mind?
In a way, she had, of course. We all had.
So I went. And it was cool. I made the house to start out with and came back for another session so I could try something else. The next design was multifunctional. With the same twenty folds, you could make something that was either a boat, a hat, or an animal puppet depending on how you opened it up and held it. “You decide,” Ms. Yu, the thin Japanese woman leading the class, told us. “Origami is the art of transformation. It’s a small piece of paper that becomes many things. You’re in control.”
The next day, a new group came in and we made houses again. This time, Ms. Yu brought out a box of artist markers after we were finished folding. Nice markers—the expensive kind that make thin or thick lines of bright, saturated color. I was surprised. I didn’t mind the smell; in fact, I kind of liked it.
“Now you can decorate your home,” Ms. Yu said.
When everyone’s house was done, we put them all together on one small table.
“We made a community!” the teacher said, clapping. “Many people living in peace together. Different colors, different shapes, all living in harmony together.”
“Maybe in Japan that works,” Brian said. He was both funny and probably the most depressed one among us. “Here, not so much.”
“Yes here,” she said. “Right here!” She pointed to the ground emphatically. It was hard to tell if she meant here in America or here in the art therapy room of Cactus Grove hospital. “Many differences make you stronger together!”
I don’t know why I thought origami might cheer David up, but it worked. On Thursday, I get another idea.
“I have a new project for you,” I tell him.
He’s sitting up in a chair today, which is nice to see, but he’s also wearing an oxygen mask around his neck. Maybe he needed it to make the trip from the bed to the chair.
“This would be in addition to origami, though. You’ve gotten off to such a strong start on that one, I’d hate to see you stop now.” I didn’t think I could be funny with him in person the way I am online. But apparently I can, because here I am, making a joke. He laughs. I notice he’s saved both of the birds we made on his bedside table.
I pull out a stack of DVDs I’ve brought from home. “Old movies! You can watch these while you fold.”
He squints. “Seriously?” His voice sounds strained, like talking is hard for him today.
“You’d be surprised how compelling they are. And educational in their own way. I spent most of my homeschooling years studying these, which might sound strange, but I had kind of an unconventional teacher. My dad thought schools put too much emphasis on reading and math and ignored important subjects like filmmaking and art.”
I spread out my assortment. “Some people are scared of falling asleep if a movie is in black and white, so it’s fine to start with something in color. The African Queen maybe. Or Oklahoma! perhaps?”
I’ve brought six movies from the hundred or so we have at home. I watch as his fingers trace the titles on the spines. He pulls one out of the stack, and I’m surprised—it’s probably the least well-known but one of my favorites: Top Hat starring Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.
“Great choice!” I say. “Though I have to warn you it’s a terrible movie, plotwise. You’ll spend most of the time scratching your head over the implausible story line. You might even think, ‘Did someone get paid to write this?’ But then Fred and Ginger dance ‘Cheek to Cheek’ and you forget all that. It’s pretty magical.”
“Sounds good,” he rasps, pulling his mask up to his face.
I’m right—talking is hard for him today. I’m glad I have the movies. “Fred and Ginger it is!” I stick the DVD in the dusty player stored below all the TVs on the pediatric floor.
“We should probably keep going with some origami while we watch—this isn’t a movie you want to pay super close attention to.”
He smiles and nods, like he’s grateful for the excuse not to have to talk.
I start him on a new origami project, but I don’t stay for very long—I still have to make my rounds, which ends up taking a while. There are a lot of new patients who spend forever looking at my cart before realizing I don’t have anything they want. I never do.
When I come back to David’s room, two hours have passed and he’s back in bed. The movie is over, and a finished crane is sitting in the middle of his table.
He’s also fast asleep.
It’s scary how easily he tires out. One movie and one origami bird and he’s done.
Chapter Four
DAVID
BEFORE JAMIE GOT HERE on Thursday, I’d had a session with a pulmonary therapist and coughed up about two cups of mucus. I could barely breathe, much less tell her why I had picked that movie. It’s Monday now, and since then I’ve watched Top Hat twice and it’s brought back a million memories of Starlight and dancing with Sharon. I text Sharon and ask if she’s ever seen the movie.
Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, I write. They’re amazing.
??? She writes back.
They dance. Ballroom. The more I have to explain, the less magical it seems.
Oh, right! Should I watch it? Sharon writes. I’m trying to finish an AP English paper this weekend.
I can’t write, Yes, you should definitely download it and watch it this weekend. Jamie’s right. On many levels, it’s a dumb movie. But Fred Astaire’s dancing is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. It’s like his body doesn’t obey the law of gravity. He floats. Even though he’s thin, prematurely bald, and a little sickly looking, he’s this superathlete, capable of anything. The whole time I watched, I didn’t cough or think about my lungs at all.
You don’t have to watch it this weekend, I write, but at some point you should. It’ll make you nostalgic for our Starlight days.
We stopped taking lessons a year ago, in the fall of our junior year. We told our teachers (and ourselves) that with student council and our AP-heavy schedules, we had no time left for anything else. Neither one of us mentioned the trouble I was having keeping up with everyone else. I’d make it through two dances and I’d have to sit down for ten minutes and catch my breath. At our last class, I tried a merengue that left my chest screaming and my face red. I spent the rest of the night on the sideline, watching Sharon dance with other people. A few days later, she told me that she felt too overworked and stressed to keep doing dance class. She never once mentioned my episode at the last class. She blamed her labs and her committee obligations; she never blamed me.
Now I write, Do you ever miss it?
Not at all, David. I don’t know why you’re even thinking about this.
I don’t know why, either, but I am.
The next day, Eileen texts me at two in the afternoon.
Eileen: Can I stop by after school before Mom and Dad get there? I have a little problem.
Me: Sure.
The problem isn’t so little, as it turns out. She’s been suspended from school for getting in a fight, which I don’t understand. I picture her friends screaming at each other the way they sometimes do. Why would she get suspended for that?
“It got physical,” she explains. “There was some shoving and some hair pulling. Aysa claims I broke a wire on one of her braces.”
The fight was with her best friend, Aysa?
“I couldn’t help it. She was being really mean to other girls we’re friends with. I don’t know what her problem is.”
She hugs her backpack in her lap. In her own way, Eileen has a high moral bar. She stands by her friends, even though none of them stand by her or seem worth the effort.
“It’s only a one-day suspension. It’s supposed to be a warning to me.”
I notice that her backpack looks empty. If this had happened to me (which it never would, unless you look at being hospitalized as a kind of suspension), I would have filled my backpack with books to catch up on homework. Eileen doesn’t bother.
“I was thinking that maybe instead of staying home, I’d come here tomorrow, and Mom and Dad wouldn’t have to find out.”
Is she serious?
“I’m sure the school has already called them.”
“They did. That’s why I put my phone number on the school forms, not Mom’s.”
“Wait—they called and you pretended to be Mom?” It’s hard to imagine. Even harder to picture is the fact that back in September, she planned this in case she got into trouble.
“You just have to act shocked and mad at your kid. I’m not the first person to do it.”
I have to draw a line. I need to take charge in a way that our parents can’t or won’t. But I also don’t want to get Eileen in more trouble. “Okay, you can come here tomorrow, and I won’t tell Mom and Dad, but I’m going to ask you to do something, and you have to say yes.”
“What is it?”
“Do you promise to say yes?”
“Fine.”
“Okay. I want you to sign up for dance lessons at Starlight.”
She rolls her eyes. Our grandmother, who died two years ago, tried to get her to sign up, too, and she always refused.
“Yeah, no, thanks.”
“I’m serious, Lee-lee.”
She stares at me. I stare back so she knows: I really am serious.
“Take it or leave it. Sign up for dance class at Starlight or I’m calling Mom right now.”
“Why do you want me to take ballroom lessons that are stupid and pointless and I’ll never use?”
“Because I’m starting to think they were the best thing I ever did for myself. They opened my eyes and made me realize the world is a bigger place than I thought.”
True, I was only eleven when I started, so my world was pretty small to begin with, but I met a dance coach who was only fifteen when he emigrated from Russia without his family to find a better life. It put my own problems in perspective. I also met kids from other schools who didn’t know the unathletic loser I really was. Every Wednesday night felt like a fresh start. That’s what Eileen needs, I keep thinking. A fresh start.
“They also taught me a lot about kindness and decency and being thoughtful to other people. Lessons you don’t get in school.”
I know watching Top Hat has made me overromanticize my Starlight days, but I can’t help it. I feel like this is exactly what Eileen needs.
“Plus you got a girlfriend.”
“Plus that.”
“You think I’ll go there and meet some great guy?”
“No, I think the kids there are nice and polite and you need people like that in your life right now.”
“How do you know what I need?”
“It’s a hunch. And you’ll love the dancing part, I swear.” Suddenly, I get another idea, even better than the first. “What if I suggest someone you could do this with? A girl I met here. She’s your age, and I think you’d really like her.”
“No one my age will voluntarily take ballroom dance classes, I can promise you that.”
“She will. Trust me. You’ll like this girl. She volunteers here, but she also goes to Northwoods. Don’t ask too many questions. You’re doing this. Think about Baba. She’ll be watching you from heaven, and it’ll make her very happy.”
“And if I do this, you won’t tell Mom and Dad?”
“I promise.”
“Fine.”
Later that afternoon, I tell Jamie my idea the minute she walks in, and I’m surprised: she seems more dubious about this idea than Eileen.
“Just because I like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movies doesn’t mean I can dance. You know that, right?”
“Right, except you’ll love it! I know you will!” I tell her about my grandmother and taking lessons for six years. “It’s also a good sport for someone who doesn’t reliably breathe well. Once you do it for a while, though, you get to love it, I swear. And the more you learn, the more you appreciate the people who do it well. Like Fred and Ginger.”
I’m putting on a full-court press here, invoking their names.
“It’s not that I don’t want to—” she starts to say, and stops. I fear what’s coming: It’s just that I don’t want to.
I thought she would jump at this: nerdy kids, an old-fashioned activity. It seems like it would be right up the alley of a girl who loves black-and-white movies from the 1930s.
“Okay, the truth is, I want my sister to do it, but she’ll be more responsible if someone signs up with her. She needs to make some new friends. The kids at the dance studio are different from the ones at our school.”
Jamie looks worried, and it occurs to me: maybe she already knows Eileen and the trouble she’s been in.
“You can take one class for free. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to keep going.” Do I sound desperate? I can’t tell.
“I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m shy, and I get nervous about going into new situations, but you’re right. I should try it.”
Her neck is flushed, like she really is shy and what I’m asking is hard.
“How about this? If you sign up for a dance class with Eileen, I’ll watch one movie every day for the next week. You pick which ones. Except not too scary. I scare pretty easily.”
“You’ll let me choose?”
“Absolutely.”<
br />
She laughs. “Hitchcock it is then. You should start with Rear Window.”
“Did you hear that part I said about ‘not too scary’?”
“I did. But you also said I get to pick.”
This has obviously cheered her up. She smiles as she opens the origami book.
“I also want you to try folding a frog today. That’s an advanced-beginner animal, but I think you’re ready for it.”
She sets up the movie and says she’ll come back after she finishes her rounds. At the door, she turns. “Did you say your sister’s name is Eileen?”
“Yeah. Do you know her?” I hope my fake-casual tone isn’t obvious.
“I do. She’s in my life science class. I can’t believe she’s your sister. She seems so—”
I get ready to hear the worst: Scary? Dangerous?
“I don’t know—more artsy than you.”
I laugh. “I guess that’s one way to describe her.”
JAMIE
I don’t know how to break this to him, but I’ve watched Eileen in class and there’s no way she’ll want to sign up for dance lessons with me. She might not have the high-achieving crowd that David has, but she’s just as popular as he is.
“The thing is, she has a lot of friends, David.”
“Right, it might seem like that, but they’re not great people. All they do is get her in trouble. She needs better influences in her life.”
“And you think I’d be a good influence?”
“No offense, Jamie. But yes.”
His smile makes my breath catch. I can’t say no. Even if I wanted to, which I don’t. He looks more like his old self these days. His eyes have a sparkle again; his smile is so big his glasses ride up.
In life science, I watch Eileen from my seat three rows behind her. She looks nothing like David. His hair is light brown and curly; hers is much darker, maybe even dyed, to go along with her general alternative look, which includes heavy black boots, torn stockings, and a confusing mix of accessories: a scarf tied around her wrist, her hair pulled into a messy bun with Mardi Gras beads. I’ve noticed her before, mostly because of things like the beads. She dresses with an artist’s eye for color. One day she’ll wear layered T-shirts in Gauguin reds and oranges, the next she’ll be all Van Gogh yellows and blues. It’s interesting. She looks nothing like my old group of friends, who always shopped together and dress alike in a standard uniform of T-shirts and jeans.
Just Breathe Page 5
