Mara Purnhagen - Beyond The Grave

The first one had occurred when I was at home by myself. The second time, I’d been grocery shopping with Noah. A little kid had bumped into a display of canned vegetables, and the sound of the cans crashing had caused me to double over. Noah had practically carried me to the car, leaving our shopping cart behind as he’d whispered, “Please be okay, please be okay.”

I understood the cause of the panic attacks, but I had no idea how to stop them. Annalise thought it was a classic case of post-traumatic stress syndrome. She consulted her former roommate, a psychology major, through daily emails and forced me to participate in annoying mental health exercises. I complained about it constantly to my best friend.

“She’s your sister,” Avery said as we sat in her room one day, organizing the things she was going to take with her to college. “She feels helpless and wants to do something for you.

Let her. She’ll feel better and maybe she’ll find something that helps you, too.”

“I had to draw a picture of sadness for her.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Okay, that’s bad. What’d you draw?”

“A crying clown.”

We burst into giggles. It felt good to laugh, especially with Avery. She was going to be leaving soon for college, and I couldn’t bear to think about saying goodbye. It would be another absence to adjust to. We planned to call and email and stay in close touch, but I knew it was easy to make promises like that. Once she started school and her busy new life, would she have time for our long-distance friendship?

Satisfied that my salad was complete, I pulled the steaming rolls from the microwave. Dad walked into the kitchen and clapped his hands together. “Smells great!” I winced at his forced enthusiasm. Without Mom, he was miserable, but he tried to keep up a positive front for everyone. It had to be exhausting to pretend so much.

“It’s all Annalise,” I said, knowing that I was pretending, too.

My sister smiled. “Charlotte made the salad.”

I couldn’t tell if she was trying to warn Dad or give me credit for helping with dinner.

“Shane called,” Dad said. “They’re running a few minutes behind. Trisha got a call from Ryan as they were leaving.”

Ryan was Trisha’s oldest son. He was serving in Afghanistan, and a call from him was a big deal. She hadn’t seen him in over a year, but he was finally coming back this summer. So was Jeff, Trisha’s other son, who was also serving in the military. Trisha was planning her wedding to Shane around her sons’ return so that all three of her kids would be there for the big event. “I don’t care if it rains or snows or the reception hall catches fire,” she told us. “As long as I have Shane and my boys there, it will be perfect.”

Also as long as Mom was there, I wanted to add. It couldn’t be perfect without her. But the doctors had warned us that she might never wake up. Then they spoke to Dad in hushed voices, advising him of the “options.” I knew what that word meant—it meant pulling out the feeding tube and wires that kept Mom alive. It meant giving up and letting her die.

Dad said no. After Mom was transferred to the long-term care facility, he had to endure more kind yet firm speeches from a new team of doctors. They somehow convinced him that if Mom didn’t show any brain activity within the next six months, they would need to “reevaluate the options.” Six months, and there would be no options left. It was a death sentence, like pleasant words wrapped in shiny paper. Mom had until January to get better, even if it was only minor improvement.

For now, our lives were on hold, and that included the wedding. Shane had promised me that. “She’ll be there no matter what,” he’d said after the engagement was announced. “We won’t have the ceremony without her.”

It was a promise I was going to make him keep, although I wondered what he meant by “no matter what.” At first, I thought he meant that she would be there even if we had to push her in a wheelchair. But maybe not. Maybe Shane didn’t think she would come out of the coma. Maybe he thought Mom would be there in spirit, not in person.

“You haven’t given up on her, have you?” I asked him.

The question earned me a look of sad shock. “No,” he said, pulling me into a hug. “I have not given up. And don’t you give up, either. Keep hoping. It’s all we can do.”

Maybe it was all he could do, but I had other plans. Despite my fear of accidentally triggering the Watcher, I was determined to help my mom. I was the reason, the main reason why she was lying in a hospital bed, which meant that I had to try my best to get her out of it.

Annalise checked on her lasagna and turned the heat down on the oven. “I can keep this warm until they get here. Any idea how long that will be?”

“Soon.” Dad peered at my salad. “This is very colorful, Charlotte.”

He sounded apprehensive, but I knew he would like it. Annalise had given me a foolproof job. How could I mess up salad?

“Have you guys given any more thought to your living arrangements?” Annalise asked. She tried to sound casual, but I could hear the worry in her voice.

“I thought we’d settled all that,” Dad said. “Shane will be staying here with Charlotte while I’m gone. In fact, he’s moving out of his apartment next week.”

Annalise busied herself with selecting a salad dressing from the fridge. Her lack of response made it clear that she was not happy with Dad’s decision, a decision he had made weeks ago but one my sister was hoping could be reversed through persistent questions.

It had begun after Mom was transferred to the long-term care facility near Charleston. It was the best place for her to heal and recover, but the distance meant that Dad would need to commute over an hour each way. He decided that he wanted to stay with Mom in her room during the week. Annalise would be able to visit often, as well, and promised that when Dad wasn’t there, she would be.

Then there was me. My plans for the future had changed overnight. I deferred acceptance to college and instead decided to take courses at the local community college. I talked with an admissions officer, who told me as long as I got C’s in my classes, the credits would transfer. I was staying home for at least one more year and filling my schedule with the basics: English 101, Calculus 101, Biology 102. I reasoned that my schedule would let me begin at a university as a sophomore and I could take the interesting electives there. Dad didn’t protest too much when I told him my new college plan. He barely said anything at all.

Annalise, however, had a lot to say. “You can’t stop living!” she cried when I told her about my revised educational plan. “Mom would want you to move forward.”

“I am moving forward.” I appreciated my sister’s concern, even if it seemed a tad too dramatic, but she was beginning to border on the controlling. I was eighteen now. I didn’t need permission from her to live at home. I changed my tactic. “Dad needs me,” I said. “I can take care of the house. Do you really want him to be stressed about that?”

She backed down. “No. No, that’s not what I want.” She sighed. “I worry, though. Dad’s so withdrawn and you’re having panic attacks and if you need me I’ll be hours away.”

“You’ll be a phone call away.”

“It’s not the same.”

It wasn’t, but it was all we had for now. I did not want to move to Charleston, which was Annalise’s first suggestion. So much had happened in such a short amount of time that I decided I would not willingly make any more changes for a while, so when my sister came up with the idea that we should sell the house and relocate to a town closer to the treatment facility, I bristled. So did Dad, and I wondered if it was for the same reason: moving toward Mom meant that we were giving up on her ever getting better. And she had to get better. Although doctors couldn’t tell us when, or how, or anything other than that she was stable, we believed that she was strong enough to come out of it.