Judy Budnitz - Flying Leap

But now it looks like I have to pay my debts with my heart instead. Under these circumstances, I don’t have a choice. I’m almost glad; it seems easier this way. I’ll just give her a piece of muscle and then I’ll be free of her forever, all my debts paid. One quick operation will be so much easier than struggling for the rest of my life to do back to her all the things she thinks she’s done for me.

It seems like a good bargain.

When I tell my mother the news, she cries a little, and smiles, and says, “Oh, I didn’t expect it. Oh, not for a minute. I wouldn’t expect such a sacrifice from you, Arnie, I wouldn’t dare even to mention such a thing. It’s more than any mother could expect of her son. I’m so proud of you. I guess I did a good job raising you after all. You’ve turned into such a fine, good person. I worried that I may have made mistakes when I was bringing you up, but now I know I didn’t.”

On and on she goes.

And the aunts. They cry, and clutch my arms, not so tightly as before. They say they doubted me but they never will again. “What a good son,” they keep saying. Looking at them now, they seem smaller than they did before, shriveled.

I call Mandy, and she dashes over to the hospital. She kisses all over my face with her cherry-flavored Chap Stick, and she hugs me and presses her ear against my chest. She tells me she knew I’d do the right thing. I’m feeling pretty good now; I light up a cigarette. She takes it away from me and mashes it beneath her heel. “That belongs to your mother now,” she says.

They all give me flowers. I feel like a hero. I kiss my mother’s cheek.

I hop on a stretcher. They wheel me out. They sedate me slightly, strip me, shave me.

And then they put the mask on and knock me out good; it’s like I’m falling, falling down a deep well, and the circle of daylight above me grows smaller and smaller and smaller, until it is a tiny white bird swooping and fluttering against a vast night sky.

How does it feel to have no heart? It feels light, hollow, rattly. Something huge is missing; it leaves an ache, like the ghost of a severed limb. I’m so light inside, but so heavy on the outside. Like gravity increased a hundredfold. Gravity holding me to the bed like the ropes and pegs of a thousand Lilliputians.

I lie at the bottom of a pool. Up above I see the light on the surface. It wavers, ripples, breaks, and comes together again. I can see the people moving about, far above, in the light. I am down here in the dark, cradled in the algae. Curious fish nibble my eyelashes.

After a while I see a smooth pink face above me. The doctor? “Arnie,” he says. “The operation went very well. Your mother is doing wonderfully. She loves the new heart.” His words begin far away and drift closer, growing louder and louder, until they plunk down next to me like pebbles.

“Arnie,” he calls. The pool’s surface shivers. His face balloons, shrinks to a dot, then unfolds itself. “Arnie, about you—we’re having a little trouble. There’s a shortage of spare hearts in this country right now. We’re looking for some kind of replacement. But don’t worry, you’ll be fine.”

Later I see Aunt Fran and Aunt Nina. They lean close; they’re huge. Their faces bleed and run together like wet watercolors. “Your mother’s doing so well!” they call. “She loves you. Oh, she’s so excited. She’ll be in to see you soon!”

And later it’s my mother gliding in, her face pink, her hair curled. “Arnie … Arnie … you good boy …” she calls, and then they wheel her out.

They leave me alone for a long time. I lie in the deep. It sways me like a hammock. There is a deep, low humming all around, like whales moaning. My mother does not visit again. When do I get to go out and play?

Alone in the dark, no footsteps, no click of the light switch.

Then the doctor looms above me. “Your mother,” he says, “is not doing well. The heart does not fit as well as we thought. It’s a bit too small.” He turns away, then leans over again. “As for you, we’re working on it. There’s nothing available at the moment. But don’t worry.”

And then Fran and Nina are back. “How could you?” they scream, their voices shattering the surface into fragments. “Giving your mother a bad heart. How could you? What kind of son are you? She’s dying—your mother’s dying, all because of you.” They weep together.

For a long time no one comes. I know without anyone telling me that my mother is dead. It is my heart. When it ceases to beat, I know. A high keening rises from the depths.

The doctor comes to tell me how sorry he is. “She was doing so well at first. But then it turned out the heart just wasn’t enough. I tell you, though, she was thinking of you when she died. She asked for you.” He sits quietly for a moment. “We haven’t managed to find a heart for you. But you’ll be fine. We’ve shot you up full of preservatives. You’ll stay fresh for a while yet.” He goes away.

Aunt Fran and Aunt Nina no longer visit.

Mandy? Gone.

I lie listening to the emptiness in my chest, like wind wailing through canyons.

These days the doctor comes in often to chat with me.

One day he tells me a story: “You know, when your mother died, we managed to save your heart. It was still healthy. We thought about giving it back to you. But there was a little girl here, about eight years old, and she needed a new heart, too. Cute little blond girl. One time a basketball star came here to visit her and there were TV cameras and photographers and everything. She was in the papers a lot. Kids were always sending her cards. Anyway, we decided to give her your heart. She’s only a kid, after all; she’s got a whole life ahead of her. Why should we deny her that? I’m sure your mother would have wanted it that way. She was such a caring, selfless woman. I’m sure deep down you want her to have it, too, don’t you?”

Of course I do.

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The woman lies spread-eagled across the tracks, beneath the noonday sun in the middle of the prairie. The sage ripples in the breeze. Her breasts heave; the sweat trickles down between them. Her dress is lace-trimmed, scattered with flowers. The skirt rises, and falls, and flaps in the wind. A bleached steer skull leers in the grass nearby. Above, a vulture circles and stares with red eyes, cocking his bald head. His shadow passes over her face. Her eyes are closed; she doesn’t notice.

The land fades into the distance, rolling and overlapping, like giant tangled bodies under bedclothes. The sky: baked, hazy. Thunder rumbles far away. It rolls like smoke, thick and uncoiling. A mosquito buzzes and lands, drawing a perfect drop of blood from the smooth inside of her arm.

I should add, I suppose, that her hair is golden, her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes are blue. But I think you know that; you have seen this picture before. You know already the way her hair blows, and her neck arches, and her body writhes against the tracks.

The metal of the tracks is warm against her wrists and ankles. The tracks stretch out unbroken on either side of her; they lie snugly against the ground’s curve, a belt holding the earth’s fat belly.