Page 48
“I’ll talk to you in the morning,” I say, and drift off to sleep.
Are you still there?
I am (her)e. S-(or)-ry. -Am I?-
Not funny.
Prog(no-sis) = Not good.
You could have killed us both.
(you too?)k my life, st(ill) had [non]e. 1 + 1 = 0 Two lives, n/ever/ lived.
Why do I even try to talk to you?
I listen.
“Welcome to the cardiac center.”
The woman at the front desk isn’t as pretty as the one in the brochure, but given that none of the children looked ill and all the staff had perfect teeth, I assumed they were models anyway. This woman’s teeth aren’t that great, but she smiles like she means it, so she either is truly happy to greet me, or there’s a pull string in her back.
“Thank you,” Mom says, dropping one of my bags to the floor with a huff. There’s a fine sheen of sweat on her upper lip. It must be exhausting carrying around all my issues.
My scalp is still prickling from a brush with the sun, warm fingers touching parts of my skin that have never felt its rays. I hold on to the last gasp of fresh air that I have inside me, knowing that once it’s expelled all I’m pulling in is recycled exhales of sick people made pleasantly cool by air-conditioning. I don’t know what I’m breathing in, but I know I’m letting out my last taste of the outside world. It leaves me in a rush and I feel its departure like an energy drain.
I’m just like them now. And I don’t even mean the people in the pamphlet, because they clearly did their photo shoot and promptly vacated. The girl who wanders through reception has a nurse on each arm and an IV tree so loaded with bags it probably weighs more than she does. She puts each foot in front of the other with grim determination, even though the best thing she’s possibly headed toward is her favorite flavor of Jell-O.
I get an ID bracelet with my name, birthdate, and blood type neatly printed. The letters that make up my name have never looked so dark, fresh toner bleeding onto the whiteness of the paper. I am Sasha Stone, a name that used to mean something, a girl who got what she wanted, a force to be reckoned with. As the pneumatic doors shut behind me and Mom tells the receptionist how nice she thinks it is that I can wear my own clothes at the center I become simply:
STONE, SASHA (O NEG)
This is all that matters now, a quick identification for when I finally have that embolism, or complete cardiac failure.
“I can’t do this,” I say, staring straight ahead at the duffel bag Dad has flung over his shoulder. It’s packed to bursting with all the clothes they thought I could use, loose-fitting, for easier access to all the parts that might need to be poked, punctured, or simply torn open to get everything working again should all systems fail.
“You have to, honey,” Mom says tightly through her teeth, as if I might be embarrassing her.
But I don’t have to, that’s the thing. I thought it through a few nights ago, weighing the pros and cons of asking Mom and Dad to just take me home and let me die. Maybe I could go out while blowing on the high end of a Handel, my heart exploding at the perfect time. Maybe I could die under the pines, Isaac’s hair swaying in my face and the moonlight surrounding us as everything I had in me left in a breath. Maybe I could have an embolism sitting right in front of my computer, a sudden, stone-cold death for my friends to witness.
I open my mouth to make the suggestion, and the receptionist pops a party favor into it, a ridiculous paper thing that creates something north of an F sharp and then splits down the middle to die, making a fart noise. It’s so ludicrous I start laughing, and Mom squeezes my hand.
“Your room is this way, Sasha,” the receptionist says, like she’s the concierge somewhere really expensive. On second thought, I guess that’s exactly what she is. We walk down the hall, me now wearing a paper tiara that reads “WELCOME” in turquoise, Dad carrying a balloon bouquet that no one ordered and probably cost more than we want to know.
“Karen.” The receptionist nods at a nurse coming our direction. “I want you to meet Sasha, our newest resident.”
“Hello, Sasha,” Karen says, and comes in for a hug without asking. Luckily someone opens up a door and my balloons get caught up in a cross draft, a wall of rubber and helium protecting me from overenthusiastic friendliness.
“Hi,” I say, giving her a nod and keeping the balloons between us. She gets the point and settles for nodding back.
“You’re going to be very comfortable here,” Karen says, and I wonder if that’s the highest thing I can aspire to now. Dying in comfort. “Your room is right down this wing with the other girls your age.”
She motions toward a corridor painted sky blue, and we all head that direction, a funeral procession missing the coffin. I glance into the other rooms as we pass, but I only see a patient in one of them, lying on her side, back to the hallway, arms curled protectively around herself.
My room is 211 and I pause in front of it, noticing the scratch marks where the name placard underneath has been changed many, many times. Did this room open up for me because someone got better, or worse?
“This is nice, isn’t it?” Mom waltzes past me to push open the curtains, the outside light flooding what I have to admit is, in fact, a pretty nice room. They’ve gone out of their way to make it look more like a hotel and less like a hospital. I have a sofa and a dresser to put clothes in. The sheets on the bed are extra long so that they touch the floor on both sides of the mattress, which makes it look luxurious but will also hide all the cords attached to me. Finally, the TV isn’t mounted on the ceiling, which instantly makes any room feel institutionalized.
“Yeah, not bad,” I have to agree.
