Jessica Sankiewicz - If Only We

Chevy is not only at a loss for words but he's also shaking. He is in no shape to be driving. I speak up, “If he can’t, I can drive him, Noreen.”

She looks relieved. “Thank you. Chevy, get the keys to my car. I will see you there.” She climbs into the front seat of the ambulance.

I grab Chevy’s hand and we run into the house. He finds her keys in the bowl on the table next to the door.

We drive to the hospital in near silence. I speed, but only slightly since I can’t stop looking over at him. His right hand is gripping the handle on the door so tightly his knuckles are turning white. The rest of him is shaking. Slowing down, I reach over and take his trembling hand in mine. He looks down at it, then to me. I squeeze his hand, and then turn my eyes back to the road.

When we get there, we run into the emergency room so quickly I don’t get the chance to brace myself for the smell. It hits me like a wall, causing me to stop. But I can’t stop now.

Not now.

Chevy stares at me. “Are you okay?” he asks, clearly concerned. He knows why I stopped.

This doesn’t matter though. John matters. Chevy matters. And he needs me.

I stare at him, holding my hand to my chest. Breathe in, breathe out. I can do this. I can do this. I need to push through the pain to help someone I care about. One deep breath later and I am in control. I take hold of Chevy’s arm and say, “I’m fine,” as I guide us to the nurse’s station. Noreen is nowhere in sight in the waiting room. She must be with John.

The nurse behind the counter turns out to be one of my mom’s hospital friends, Teresa. When she sees me, the expression on my face must scare her. “Adrienne! What’s wrong?”

I take in another deep breath and ask, “We’re looking for the man who was just brought in. John Thompson. Possible heart attack.” Chevy holds onto me tighter.

Teresa gasps. “Oh my,” she says. “They just took him in and the doctors are working on him now.”

I nod. “Okay. Where is the woman who came in with the paramedics?”

Chevy speaks up. “Yes, where's my mom?”

She looks to the double doors. “She's in there with them.”

Chevy leans on the counter and says, “Can we go back there? Please . I need to see him.”

Teresa gets a pained look on her face. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I can’t let anyone else back there.”

“But he’s my father!”

“Let me see what I can do, honey.” She picks up the phone and dials. “Please, have a seat,” she says, gesturing toward the waiting room. “I’ll call out for you when I get a hold of somebody.”

Chevy doesn’t move, so I tap his arm and say, “Come on,” taking him with me to the chairs. Just as we sit down, the double doors open and Noreen appears. We both stand up immediately. One look at Noreen’s face tells us all we need to know.

John didn’t make it.

When they let Chevy and his mom go back to say goodbye, I sit there in disbelief. Everything I had worked toward. Everything I had maneuvered. Everything I had done.

It all just vanished when John drew his last breath.

A couple of minutes go by, and then I see someone in teal scrubs walk toward me. It's my mom. Teresa must have paged her. She kneels down in front of me, wrapping me in a hug. I blink a couple times, not realizing until this moment that my eyes are ready to overflow. I choke out, “He died,” right before the tears spill out. I reach my arms around her, gripping tightly.

“I know,” she says, her voice breaking. She smoothes down my hair and holds me until I stop shaking.

I am numb. I can’t feel anything. My life is like a leaf caught in the wind. Just tossed around forever and ever until the wind stops. The end is just a puddle full of mud, sucking me under and into itself. When it dries, I just dry up and wither away into nothing.

Into dust.

With all that has been done, everything that I have tried to do to help, everything that has happened and changed—why not this?

After putting on the black dress, I sit at my vanity and look in the mirror. The face that looks back at me is just like the face I saw the day at the cemetery. I slowly gather my hair into a messy bun. Even though I don’t want to bother, I put on a little bit of makeup.

Once I am done, I can’t look at the girl staring back at me any longer. She isn’t who I am. She is someone who can’t do anything right. Someone who gets herself into disasters and can’t find a way out. Someone who gets a second chance and still fails at making things right.

Someone who can’t even protect the ones she loves.

When I got home that night, I found my list and tore it up. There was no point to the list now that the most important item on it wasn’t possible anymore.

I can barely get a bite of food in me. The thought of swallowing one more thing makes my stomach clench. I sit in silence, touching my fork to my eggs, while Maurice and my mom talk. I can't focus on the words. All I notice is how they seem so calm, so normal. Like this is supposed to be normal.

Like death is supposed to be normal.

That is how it felt when I was younger and I went to funerals for family members I never even met before. Like my mom’s aunt Beatrice from Florida. We visited her when I was a baby so, of course, I didn’t remember who she was. Walking into the funeral home, I clutched my mom’s skirt, wide-eyed and wondering what everyone was crying over. My mom lifted me up so I could see inside the coffin. She told me that Beatrice died. I knew I was supposed to feel something, something like sadness. It looked like she was sleeping and that was it. I didn’t understand. I didn’t know who she was.

I didn’t feel anything.

Looking back on my limited experiences of death, I can’t glean anything useful. I can’t pin down the feelings that are pushing on my whole body with their sparks and twinges of pain and shame and misery. It is nothing I have felt before.

In the car, I didn't anticipate how much I would fidget. I can’t sit still, not even for a second. My foot taps, my fingers tap, I crack my knuckles, and I pick at the edges of my fingernails. I must be driving Kaitlin up the wall with my incessant moving, but I can’t tell. I think she knows I'm having a rough time and she lets it go for my sake. My mom and Maurice keep quiet, although I feel my mom wanting to try to talk to me. She has tried since Monday but I haven't been responding. My mind was spinning, reeling over what has come about. Being alone with my thoughts wasn’t what I wanted, but how could she begin to understand what I'm going through when I can barely understand?

Stepping into the funeral home, I am greeted with wall-to-wall black clothing. I scan the crowds looking for Chevy, but all I see are people from school and neighbors. I look away before they make eye contact. I don’t want to talk to them. I don’t want to talk at all. I'm afraid even to talk to Chevy, but I need to. He's been avoiding me since the hospital. I tried to call him, I tried stopping by. He would not talk to or see anyone. Roger has been trying to help him out as well, to no avail. Seymour is the one I talked to every time all week. He has been attempting to keep Noreen above water but has not been able to reach Chevy.

Lyndsay wordlessly comes up to me and pulls me into her arms. She holds me tight and then whispers into my ear, “I’ll sit with you if you would like me to.” I nod yes while she is still holding me. “Okay,” she says. “You’re going to be alright.” She takes my arm in hers and our families all enter the room.

By the time I find Chevy standing near the front of the room, there’s not enough time before the eulogy starts for me to go up to him. I am barely able to listen to what is said. I keep thinking I'm going to see John. Like this whole section of my second time through this life is the part that is really a dream. The heart attack was just a horrible prank that my subconscious is playing on me. I am going to wake up, and he will be alive. It needs to be fake because there is no way this can be real.