1010
Three hours staring at the ceiling so far, crying. Maybe two. Maybe twenty minutes. She did not know. All she knew was the indescribable feeling in the pit of her stomach: what most people would call butterflies. But, what she had were not butterflies. Butterflies were something you got before a big surgery, a confrontation. Butterflies were synonymous to nervousness. This feeling, permeating her insides, was far worse than that.
Nervousness was definitely a feeling inside her. But, it was mixed with so much more. The mixtures of feelings inside her were so tangled and convoluted that they were evasive. She could not label them. She could not pinpoint them. Was she scared? Tired? Hopeful? Nervous? Nauseous?
They were untouchable.
Everything was untouchable, unfathomable, undoable.
She wanted to grab it, but she couldn't touch it. She wanted to understand it, but she couldn't fathom it. She wanted to get up, to run, to pick up the boys, to perform a hysterectomy, to dance, to jump, to do everything that the cancer was not letting her do. But she couldn't. She just couldn't do it.
She had been bombarded by the facts that morning. She had been bombarded by the fact that she could die. She could die in a month: in two. She could die in a year: in three.
She had seen it before. There was the seven-year-old girl with gold shoes. Her lips were blue and her face pale as she lay on the gurney, her shoes glimmering under the fluorescent glare of the lights in the ER. She had leukemia and she died suddenly from an infection after her first round of chemo. Then there was the eighty-four-year-old man with the army uniform. Every week for three years he was wheeled into the ER. Always a complication – an infection, a bleed, low blood counts, seizures, hallucinations, kidney failure, etc. And every week for three years he would wear his army uniform – the black boots, the khaki pants, the pins, the hat. He wanted to die in it: "Like a soldier," he said. After three years his expected visits into the ER just stopped. She never knew what had happened – had he moved, gone into remission, died? Then, six years later, she saw that uniform once again. He entered the ER, black boots and all, and passed away from old age, completely free of cancer.
Would she be the little girl with gold shoes? Would she be the old man with the army uniform? Or, would she be someone else entirely? Would she be like Carolyn Shepherd and fight until the fight was not worth it? Or would she be like the little boy with Derek's eyes. He fought passed that moment – when life was just not worth it. He fought five brain surgeries; three relapses; two bone-marrow transplants and a clinical trial. He fought when he had no one to fight for – an orphan among millions, abandoned by all. Why? "You just never know," he said, drifting off to sleep before an emergency kidney transplant. "You just never know what?" she asked herself. What's going to happen when you wake up? If someone will love you? If someone will care? If you'll wake up? If you'll live? If you'll die?
She never found out. He died during surgery.
Meredith threw the covers off of herself, feeling the cold air prickle the skin on her arms. It was cold, but it was liberating at the same time. She needed to be free from the bed. It was suffocating. Without looking, without thinking, only motivated by the thought of escape, she pushed herself up and stood up.
Why she didn't regret this she did not know. Her knees wobbled and she felt she was going to throw up. But something more powerful then the feeling of complete and utter sickness overtook her. An unexplainable drive that acted for her; that moved for her. One step: two steps: three. Where she was going she did not know. What she was doing she did not know. She was just moving; just walking. She was simply, just walking. And it felt amazing. One step: two steps: three: to the window and then back to the bed. And then, again: back and forth, back and forth. Why she didn't walk somewhere else she did not know. Why not out her room? Why not down the stairs? Why not to the kitchen? Why just back and forth? Simply to the window and back – a straight line. It was thoughtless – one step: two steps: three. It was boring – nothing to see, nothing to look at, no one to talk to. But with such simplicity – such thoughtlessness and bore – came such liberation. She was simply, just walking. There was no destination. There was no intent. She was simply, just walking – not thinking, not crying, just walking. Just walking for three hours. Maybe two. Maybe twenty minutes. She did not know. All she knew was one step in front of the other. One step: two steps –
" What are you doing?"
Noah was standing in the doorway. He had been standing there for a good five minutes, watching her: back and forth, back and forth. It was a monotonous motion – boring. He wondered why she hadn't noticed him. She should notice him, he thought. He was interesting. He was noticeable. He shouldn't be invisible. He was her son: she should always notice him. Why wasn't she looking at him? Why was she just walking? Why wasn't she holding him? Why wasn't she asking him how his day was? Why wasn't she asking him about Ryan Madison, who he wanted to punch in the face for laughing during his show-and-tell, but didn't, because it would get him detention and would make her angry, but probably more worried, which he kind of wanted, but didn't, because he liked to protect her from bad feelings.
But, he still wanted her to worry.
"Walking," she said, hoping it sounded rational. She looked guilty, like a little kid caught with their hands in a cookie jar. When she took a step towards him it felt stupid. Walking suddenly felt stupid. It felt embarrassing as she made her way – one step: two steps: three – towards him. But when she reached him, she forgot about feeling stupid and remembered just how much she missed him. When she grabbed him and hugged him, walking felt like the most rational thing in the world. She wrapped her arms around his waist and nuzzled her head in his hair, taking in his smell. He smelled like chocolate, dirt, pineapple, and lavender.
"Stop it!" he said in a way that sounded like he was choking. He liked to pretend that he didn't like hugs, but he liked them very much because he held on to her just as tightly, nuzzling his head into her chest. He missed her. He missed her smell of lavender. That's why he used her shampoo today. He wanted to smell like her. But she didn't smell like lavender today. She smelled like sweat, puke, and toothpaste. Her skin was hot against his skin. He thought of his science book. He thought of heat and how it travels from hot to cold. He knew that she was hotter than he was. And because he knew that he worried. She had a fever and smelled like puke and Dad was scared and always wanted to cry. He knew that too. He worried.
" I came home early from school because I felt sick." He wanted her to worry too. It wasn't fair that he was the only one worrying. Her face scrunched and her lips tightened. She was worried. It made him feel guilty and happy at the same time. She put her hand on his forehead and this made him feel even guiltier.
" You are a little warm," she mumbled, pressing her hand to his cheeks and under his chin. He did the same to her to show her that he loved her. She was really warm. He worried.
They sat down on the bed. She didn't realize how exhausted she was until she sat down. Her body ached and her head wanted to implode. She was freezing and all she wanted to do was sleep, wrapping herself under the covers of the bed. It used to seem like a prison but now it seemed like a haven. But she didn't. She couldn't. She wanted to, but the thought of it repulsed her, because there, next to her, was her son. And while her body longed for sleep, she longed for her son, to be with him, talking, conscious, not asleep or throwing up.
"What's that?" She asked. He was wearing what looked like a cardboard clock around his neck. But instead of numbers, it had feelings: happy, sad, angry, worried, relaxed, anxious, etc.
" It's what I showed at show-and-tell. I made it yesterday."
"What is it?"
" It's an e-motion clock. It tells people what you're feeling. So, instead of people asking how you are they can just look at the clock. And if you're happy people will know it's okay to talk to you, but if you're angry people will know it's not. Because when I'm angry I don't like it when people talk to me, but sometimes they do because they don't know that I'm angry. But now they will."
Meredith stared at Noah and then at the clock. She didn't know if she should be worried about this.
"Why is it set to angry?"
Noah hid the clock under his shirt. "What's that?" he asked, pointing to her watch.
"It's a watch. Noah, why are you angry?"
"It's uglier than your other one. Where's your pretty one?"
" Daddy got me a new one. Noah, are you going to answer my question?"
Noah grabbed Meredith's wrist and looked at the watch. He expected it to show him the time, but it didn't. Instead it read off a temperature: one hundred point seven. He worried. He wanted to change his clock to worried, but he didn't because it would make her worry, which he wanted to protect her from, even though he knew he had already failed. Sometimes – he didn't know why – he purposefully made her worry, like when he told her he was sick or when he showed her his clock. But now, because he felt ashamed, he wanted to protect her from more worry and show her that he loved her. He put his hand to her forehead and then rested his head against her shoulder as he traced the screen of the watch with his finger. " Why does it show a temperature? Is that you're temperature? It's really –"
"Noah," Meredith interrupted, pulling her wrist away from him. " Why are you angry? Is this about Grandma?"
" I'm always angry about grandma so I don't put that on my watch. Can I try yours on?"
Meredith sighed and leaned her head against his head as she took off her watch and gave it to him. " Are you still angry at me?"
"No," he said, paying more attention to the watch then to their conversation.
"Who are you angry at?"
"Grandma. How does it work?"
" Why are you angry at grandma?"
" She told Dad not to save her. Does it have like a thermal sensor or something?"
" How did you find out about that?"
" I overheard you and Dad talking one night. Will you hook the latch for me? I can never get it."
Meredith put the watch on his tiny wrist. It looked even more ugly from another perspective – a black bulk protruding from the skin.
" Don't be mad at grandma."
Noah looked down at the watch, mesmerized by it. He wanted to know everything about it. How it sensed your temperature. What was inside it – its mechanics, the intricate details twisting and turning under the ugly blackness of it? He could hear his mom talking about grandma, of course. But he didn't want to deal with that right now. It always made him angry or mad. And it always made her sad or hurt, which is something he wanted to protect her from, especially now, because he knew something was wrong. Why did she have this watch? Why had she been in bed for three days? Why was she so hot? Why did she smell like toothpaste and barf? Why did it look like she was crying? Why did it look like Dad was crying? Why was he crying? Yesterday? When he was holding her in his arms? Why was she mumbling? Talking about things that didn't make sense? He saw this. He knew he wasn't supposed to, but he wanted to know what was going on. So, he quietly opened the door and watched. He watched all night, until he heard Izzie coming up the stairs to check on him. He saw Dad crying, wrapping his arms around her and whispering in her ear. He saw her shaking. And then he heard her mumbling – things about grilled cheese and gold shoes, lavender and black boots, prom night and blue eyes. That was when Izzie came up the stairs. But, later on, he heard the puking, the flushing of the toilet, and the running of the bath.
And, he worried about her. He worried about her more than he already did. Because he worried about her a lot, especially after he found what was hidden in the basement two months ago. No one knew that he knew. But, he did. And, it scared him. And, he worried.
He heard a beep and looked down at the watch: ninety-eight point six.
"Look," he said smiling; hoping that seeing him healthy would make her happy.
She sighed, giving up on talking about grandmother, and then smiled, ruffling his hair with her hand. "Perfect."
"Mom?"
"Yeah?"
He wanted to ask her all the questions he had in his head, but he couldn't. He was nervous and he didn't know why. Maybe it was because he knew something was really wrong? Maybe it was because he didn't want to know? He wanted to live under a banner and pretend everything was okay.
"I'm tired. Can I take a nap here with you?"
"Of course," she smiled.
She got under the covers and laid down, a relief to her tired body. She felt she could be asleep in seconds as she closed her eyes. She felt Noah climb over her and join her under the covers. She felt him grab her hand and interlace his fingers through hers as he rested his head on her shoulder.
He looked up at her. She was beautiful, but she looked so tired. She was pale and her lips were chapped. He worried. He lifted up his hand, the one that wasn't holding on to hers, and pressed it against her cheeks and chin. It was hot. He worried. Then he remembered he still had her watch on. Carefully, in case she was already asleep, he took it off and put it back on her wrist. Seconds later he heard a beep and looked down: one hundred and one. He worried.
"Mom?"
No response.
"Mom?"
"Hmm," she grunted.
"I love you,"
"Hmm Hmm Hmm Hmm," she mumbled. But, he knew that meant "I love you too."
He shifted closer towards her body and rested his head against her shoulder, wrapping his arms around hers as he slowly drifted off to sleep.
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