Something To Dream On (28 page)

Suddenly my tension releases. Coolness blows at me from behind, not like air conditioning, but more like a sense of peace. My silver cord is fading. Harold’s previous words ring in my brain, “That silver tail coming off of your rump means you are tethered to that body. When it goes, so do you.”

I’ve got to find my way back to Jensen.

Bertha’s V8 roar is like a brain massage. “Don’t worry about this part of life,” she says. “You are safe with me.”

Though her ticker may have its trials, her armor surrounds me in the comfort that even if I careen into a ditch, she’s got me covered. Had I been in her instead of at work when Paul’s call came, that may have happened. That call was a kick to my head, but his words jumpstarted my heart.

“Too much fluid.”

My foot presses harder on the gas. I not only need to hurry, I have to drown out Paul’s haunting words.
 

“Emergency surgery.”

He tried to give me the news like it was a baseball score I didn’t give a crap about, but some of the words spoke far louder than the tone used to convey them.

“They have to drill into her skull—”

Then he started to lose it.

“to remove the pressure—in more than one spot.”

Which means multiple holes—like three of them.

They want to turn my angel’s head into a bowling ball.

Nightmarish visions clog my brain like a cheesy horror film filled with screams of agony and a whirling drill. My bowling ball analogy doesn’t help. My head needs to clear. I can’t let devastation rule me, or I won’t be able to do what I know Lizetta would want. We need to stop feeling helpless and take matters into our own hands. Tonight, I’ll be the one to do it.

My work boots thunder down the hospital corridor. Although everyone is going about their business, all eyes seem to be on the bag I carry. Is this how terrorists feel while on a suicide mission?

Inside Lizetta’s room her family paces, twiddles their thumbs, and is generally freaked out over the impending surgery. I don’t bother with hellos for fear of causing my resolve to falter. I bring Lizetta’s bed into a seated position. Paul and Jimmy come in to assist. Either they can read my mind or they just trust me that much. No one raises a question as I grab a rubber band out of my pocket and tie her hair back. If anyone flinches when I pull out the scissors, I don’t notice.

I can barely get the words out. “If we are going to lose even the smallest part of her, it is going to happen with dignity." I dive in with the intention of cutting as close to the root as possible, and then retract. I can’t do this.

No. Don’t think; just do. Lizetta’s suffering does not need to be in vain.

I suck it up and make the first cut. I once told Lizetta I wanted to create a little blonde haired girl with her; now we will. With each snip of the scissors, I banish the pain of our loss. The first cut represents Lizetta’s love of life. The second her compassion. The third is for the peace she brings into my world. Each snip is another reminder of how special this woman is.

The hair goes into the bag and my emotions lose all peace. I pull her head into my chest. Hot tears pour as my eyes squeeze out the guilt from having been the one to rob my girl of the locks she loves so much. The doctors may try, but I truly will find a way to keep Lizetta alive, even if it is in the form of a wig on a cancer patient’s head.

My sobs grow loud. I don't give a shit who hears or what they think of a man who is falling to pieces.
Dammit, God! This is so fucking unfair!

“Thank you. Lizetta would want this.” Jimmy reaches for the bag. He gets it. He gets me, and he’s sobbing just as damn hard and just as without shame. “Here, I’ll take in the donation. Let me share this burden with you, brother."

How the hell did you allow this to happen? I’m serious, God. What the fuck were you thinking? And what makes us all so unworthy that you won’t answer our prayers?

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Tuesday, July 25

The news from the doctors is always conflicting. One says Lizetta has only a few days, no matter what we do, while another says that if we continue to take action it could be weeks. One says she’s aware of what's going on around her, while another claims she hasn’t a clue. The only thing they all agree on is that the surgery was a success—for now.

Mom says there is an old belief that people in comas are straddling the line between here and the afterlife. I choose to believe that Mom is right and that Lizetta can understand everything I say, so I'm going to make damn sure she knows it’s time to stop straddling and come back.

How is it Lizetta is in front of me, yet I feel like she is next to me? Right now I swear my cheek is buzzing with her touch. Pretty much the only time I ever feel like she isn’t by my side is when I’m in the bathroom. I press her hand to my heart. “I miss you, baby. I stopped by the florist after work. Some of those bright daisies you want for the wedding are next to your bed. I also put down the deposit for the wedding.” It took everything I had to keep from losing it when I handed the woman my credit card. I got this far in my new life on faith, and I’m not going to stop believing now.

The bandages on her head feel like they are clogging my throat. It’s hard not to stare at them. I’d much rather stare at her eyes, and I would give my legs if it meant she would open them. She’s gonna be pissed when she sees the scratch near her left one. First thing she’ll probably do when she wakes is go for her makeup bag. Any minute, she is going to freak out and look for that thing.
 

I kiss her engagement ring before pulling her makeup bag out of the nightstand. I should bring her a mirror, because if she has to deal with the tiny one in that compact, it’ll make her crazy. I resume my position of holding her hand next to my heart, then smile at the thought of Lizetta waking in a panic over how she looks.

Heels click down the hall. They slow, stop, and start up again before black boots cross the threshold. The vibe goes from depressing to chaotic. Laura puts her hands out to stop me even though I haven't moved. "Don't get upset.”

Is she serious? My pseudo-ex-girlfriend has suddenly popped in on my comatose fiancée. Of course I'm upset.

"Since you’ve been avoiding me, I had to catch you here. I found something you will want." Before I can tell her there isn't anything that she could possibly have that I would ever want, she scuttles over to hand me a stack of photos. Great. I didn't realize she had blackmail material. I guess it's not surprising.

I'm afraid to look for fear of what compromising position these show me in. Maybe it's shots of the condiment incident, in which case I want to know but … Dear God, I really don't want to know.

My eyes hit the photos, and that feeling you get when you see something surprising, painful, and pleasant, all at the same time, creeps up my insides. These are pictures of girls playing on monkey bars. One of them is a blond who looks to be giving it her all. "Is that—Is that Lizetta?"

Laura pulls up a chair next to me. “Yeah. Recognize that sandy blonde?”

“You know Lizetta?”

“We grew up together.”

“Why didn't you say something sooner?”

“I didn't realize she was your girlfriend, until I saw that engagement photo. It kind of threw me. Also, you were so against my being around that it just felt like more drama for you. Then I found these and thought you might want them.”

Liar! If I were in my body and had blood, it would be boiling. Laura has always been full of hooey, but this really takes the Snickerdoodles !

I catch a glimpse of the pictures. Is she kidding? That's not me! That girl is too thin. What kind of trick is she playing?

I take a closer look. That’s me all right, but I thought I was at least twice that size. Even then, was I really not as big as I thought?

Son of a monkey! I never thought I was huge until Laura came around. Why did I let her distort my view? I know exactly when that photo was taken. It was the day I lost my self-esteem, and I've never fully recovered.

Laura could swing and flip like a ballerina on the monkey bars. Her eyes were so determined, yet her smile was bold. I loved how her hair danced in the sunlight. I imagined mine doing that, but the best I could do was jump and grab the bar. I hoped that if I could do just one pull-up, Laura would show me more.

Every morning I’d get to school early and fight to bring my chin up. Some days I saw big gains, while others I struggled. Finally, my chin went over the bar and I was elated in the hope of becoming athletic!

That afternoon, I scarcely had a bite of lunch, not wanting to weigh myself down. It took forever for Laura to nibble down half of her sandwich before heading off. Sure enough, she went straight for the monkey bars. I walked behind, but my heart raced like I was sprinting. She jumped and grabbed the bar, flicked her legs up, and hung. “Hey, Laura, would you please show me how to do some of that stuff you do?”

“What? Like this?” She pulled herself into a double spin.

“Yeah!” Anticipation filled me!

“Umm … Can you even do a chin-up?”

“Yes! I did one this morning.” I jumped up and grabbed the bar, ready to show her.

“One? I can do twenty. Do you really think that because you can do one chin-up you have the strength to flip yourself around?” The verbal slap would have been fine, if it was politely stated, but her arrogance came through loud and clear. Even if it hadn’t, her glaring eyes that scanned my body and landed on my stomach spoke volumes. “Besides, you’d never be able to bend back enough to get your legs past your gut and over the bar. Talk to me when you lose thirty pounds.”

What? The doctor said I only need to lose five! I looked down to the roll of gut that was exposed from my shirt being drawn up while I hung. I felt sick and immediately released my grip. The moment I landed, I covered my flesh. How dare the doctor lie and say I only needed to lose five pounds! The burn of shame welled in my eyes. I grabbed my lunchbox and headed for the bathroom to hide in a stall. Food was shameful. If I didn’t think I would get in trouble with Mom, I would have tossed the box in the trash.

Still, the depression didn’t stop my stomach from grumbling. Sitting in class while the whole room mocked my noisy gut would lead to more embarrassment. I nibbled at my sandwich, intending to eat only half like Laura did. Meanwhile, the Ho-Ho in my lunch box glared at me. Laura’s judging eyes were glued in my mind, filling me with self-loathing. I had to lose weight, and I would never do it by eating Ho-Hos.