Jessica Winter - Break in Case of Emergency

I just — this thing happened — and I think — I think the accident gave me the opportunity — no — I think the accident created an occasion for me to say, “This happened to me, and here’s what could have been better, and here’s what could have been worse, and here’s how it could have been prevented.” And saying that has involved me talking to people with a certain degree of power: congressmen, community representatives, police representatives. And it still does, because I want change to happen. I want laws to change.

That amazing moment when you realize again that everything happens for a reason.

Okay. Fine. Sure. Yeah.

Do you see that journey we just went on together, Pam? Only a few minutes ago you were saying that this accident had no purpose. But we’ve realized together that it had a great purpose for you.

No, I just — I was just agreeing with you.

Pardon?

I was just agreeing with you to be polite. I don’t want to argue, you know.

We only want the truth here. That’s what these conversations are — they’re a search for the truth. The truth of your spirit, the truth of your soul, the truth of Pam’s purpose here on earth.

Yeah, no, I get that.

So, then, what is your truth, Pam?

I don’t know. I really don’t know. Um, so do you guys think you have enough material to work with now?

The time-elapsed bar at the bottom of the screen showed about thirty seconds left on the video, but Jen closed the tab, exited the video player, leaned over, and vomited neatly into her wastepaper basket. The ginger ale was amenable, she’d found, but she’d have to remember to chew the saltines more thoroughly.

whatDaisyknew: I’ll be right back with some water and paper towels

Jen pushed the wastepaper basket under her desk with her foot and watched the package of saltines. She was surprised to find herself still seated inside the pocket of time, as if pressing play on the video had pressed pause on the autonomic avalanche to come.

“The biker,” a deep, familiar voice was saying.

Jen looked up at an out-of-focus image of Donna standing in front of her desk, where Pam had just stood. Donna’s face was a picture of heavy-lidded perturbance, as if her umbrage had rudely awakened her from a late-afternoon nap.

“The biker?” Jen asked, guarding Donna from her breath by sipping from her ginger ale.

“The biker.”

“The biker,” Jen repeated.

“Friend of yours.”

“Pam?”

“The biker.”

“Are you asking,” Jen said, holding her hand over her mouth in what she hoped looked like a pensive gesture, “for general impressions of my friend Pam, whose interview with you didn’t go as well as either of you had hoped?”

Donna stared back at her impassively. “You need to put a collar and a leash on that attitude and take it out for a long, hard run.”

Jen pressed her lips against the can of ginger ale and pretended to sip to keep from laughing.

“And,” Donna said, “you need to think twice before you put your friends’ needs ahead of the organization’s needs.”

A bolt of pain cracked a ragged diagonal down Jen’s lower abdomen, and she hugged her waist and leaned forward, wincing. “Message received, Donna,” she said to the carpet.

“What is wrong with you?” Donna asked.

“I’m fine,” Jen gasped, surprised by pain.

“Well,” Donna said, swallowing the word in hesitation, unsure whether or not she should press her advantage, “we can’t use that footage. Of your friend. Total waste of time.” Jen could sense Donna shifting on her feet, her bangles jostling one another in discomfort.

A hand stroked Jen’s back. Daisy was standing beside her, holding a glass of water.

“I don’t think she is feeling very good right now, Donna,” Daisy said.

Jen, doubled over, heard Donna exhale through her nose. “You set a good example for us all, Daisy. We can learn from you. You can teach us. And I hope you feel better, Julie,” Donna said as she clinked and clanged away.

Later, Jen remembered feeling happy for Daisy just then, that she had inspired such words of praise from the LIFt board chair. She made a mental note to remind Daisy to mention it in her six-month performance review. That happiness in turn produced a secondary happiness in Jen, that she was capable of considering the feelings of others even at a moment when she was bending and folding into herself, crumpling into a ball under the terrifying pressure of at least two types of pain, and she had no one but herself to blame for the pain, and no more space left in the pocket of time to put off the pain and its outrageous demands.

Sometimes it was crying, sometimes it was sobbing, and sometimes it was something else. The something else felt as though there was too much oxygen inside her, too much air— too much life, Jen thought; ha ha what a hilarious notion —expanding and kicking against either side of her rib cage until it would crack, air pushing, pushing, air bottlenecked just below her sternum, air that could escape only in small gulps, a mouth wide open but so little coming out of it, a wet ripping sound producing nothing but more of itself.

Nothing will come of nothing

Speak again

Jen would squeeze her eyes shut and pound her fist on the duvet, on the sofa, on the edge of the obscene bathtub under the screaming bathroom lights, as she tried to push, push the air out, again and again.

So much effort and so much time and so much waste and for what? she thought, as water roared out of the tap.

—

The thing that happened started happening on a Friday evening. Jen didn’t want Jim to see what was happening. She locked herself in their bathroom for hours, for an entire day. He went to the bar down the street to use the men’s room. They called no one but the doctor’s office. She went to the doctor’s office alone, which was a mistake.

“I’m sorry, honey, I’m so sorry,” she cried into Jim’s chest after she came back from the doctor’s office. “Who does that? Why did I do that? I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry. I left us alone. I left us alone.”

“No, you didn’t,” Jim said. “You never did. I’m here. We’re here.”

“I’m sorry,” Jen said.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Jim said.

“I’m sorry,” Jen said again, and after that she did not recognize the sounds spurting from her as her own.

—

The crying turned into sobbing and it turned into something else. Jim held Jen as she shook and shrieked with the effort of pushing, pushing the air.

“It’s just — it’s just air,” Jen cried.

“It’s okay,” Jim whispered into her hair.

“It’s just — panic — panic—”

“Shhh, you’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”

Jen fell asleep crying and woke up crying. By the second day both of her eyes were swollen almost shut. She hurt already and the crying made the parts that hurt hurt even more. But she couldn’t stop.

—

She dreamed that the blood in her veins turned to blackstrap molasses. A nurse with a giant needle struggled to tap a viable vein, then extracted four vials and offered her a taste. Jen refused, and the nurse shrugged and took a sip.

“I wasn’t expecting it to be bitter,” the nurse said, licking her lips.

Jen had other dreams, dreams that she tried to forget, dreams that made her think part of her mind had gone rotten and pestilent, that it should be cut away before it infected the rest.

—

They never called the thing that happened by its name. After it was over, Jim never asked about it, and Jen never brought it up. The thing that happened was a country unto itself. Its borders were permanently closed. It spoke for itself in the event of itself, once, and it brooked no further discussion.