The Heart Does Not Grow Back: A Novel (10 page)

Why does suicide get such a bad rap? Why is it considered cowardly? Take a gun and put it in your mouth, monitor yourself and feel that heart rate spike. Taste the barrel. Imagine the bullet blowing through the back of your head, shrugging away flesh and bone as it buries into the wall, an item to be examined as police scrub the crime scene for evidence, ruling it a suicide, and everyone judges you as a coward when they would never have had the balls to pull that trigger, or jump off that bridge, or tighten that noose.

Call suicide what you want, but a cowardly act it is not. If you’re not blowing your brains out, you’re dying by neglect. You’re ignoring that suspicious mole, or smoking, or cultivating that roll of belly fat, or eating too much sodium, or fucking without a condom, or snorting coke, or driving without a seat belt.

Simply put, some deaths are acceptable because everyone loves salt, but most can’t stand the taste of a gun barrel.

*   *   *

Before I bought the gun, the empty days came and went with dizzying speed. The only person I really talked to was Mack, and even then, the calls were infrequent and sounded eerily similar to the ones that preceded them. The same versions of different stories. We danced around it. I waited, hoping that the empty days were like little air pockets that could cushion me from what happened to us. I let them build, paralyzed by how fast they could go, and it became a game with myself—how long could I keep this up? How long could I squeeze the weed whacker’s trigger instead of the pistol’s? I waited for the answer. I cut grass, ate, bathed occasionally, and bought groceries at odd hours to avoid people. I watched television. I ate cereal out of mixing bowls for multiple meals throughout the day. I told myself, “Tomorrow, I’m going to buy a newspaper and look at the classifieds. I’m going to get a real job and meet new people. I’m going to forget about my regenerating hand and Regina and Verner.”

Mack tried to figure things out with his dick. He usually called on Friday afternoons to tell me he was on his way to a party, or orgy, or bar, or to pick up a girl for a date. We talked about the chicks he was fucking, about the spiral-bound notebook he was filling up with names or descriptions: “Janice Carter,” he read. “Gloria Something-or-Other. English major with red hair and matching pubes. Stinky bitch from West Frankfurt.” He went on. “I’ve started to give them wrestler names, like, the tall volleyball player that blew me during a frat party; she was a big one, a beast, so I wrote her in as ‘Hulk Blowgan.’” He chuckled at himself. “What’s up with you?”

We never lingered on this question for long. Whatever I could come up with, which wasn’t much, would usually remind him of another story—a woman exploited, a fight won, a social victory, each story a grain of truth pumped up on steroids, on the fatness of obvious lies. I let him talk without pressing him because Mack needed at least one person who believed him without question. We spoke a veiled language. We told each other each Friday, in subtle code,
No, I haven’t figured anything out yet, I’m not on my way anywhere, I don’t know where I’m going, and I cannot let go. I can’t let go. Help me.

“I’ll pump her once for you.” He said this quite a bit before hanging up the phone for a weekend adventure. “Give her the shocker for me,” I would say, and this was how we said,
We’ll make it, you’re my best friend and we can still make it.

He never truly invited me down. He would say, “You should come stay a weekend sometime,” but I never pushed the issue and he never pulled on it. His calls became less and less frequent. I never called him, always thinking he was busy with class or girls or shoulder rehab. I figured the growing lapses between phone calls were for the best—each conversation was loaded with the shadows of the past. For him, he could smell the ball diamond and hear the satisfying aluminum crack of a high school home run. He could smell the perfume of girls he actually liked before screwing them. I remembered him urging me into Regina, into a void of love and gray matter. We thought these things but never spoke of them, as if saying them aloud could make them real again.

I felt I could keep up this nothing forever, especially if I kept telling myself I was
this close
to turning it all around.

*   *   *

I spent my twenty-first birthday alone, celebrating by buying my first legitimately acquired case of beer. I put a note on my fridge:
Today is the first day of the rest of your life.
People believe that shit, and if I saw it every single day, maybe I’d end up believing it too. I’ll wake up and take my vitamins, wash them down with a whole liter of mineral water. I’ll eat a low-fat, high-fiber breakfast and keep the television off while I work out and then go to a good-paying, fulfilling job in some company that does good things for a customer base of equally good people.

Months passed and the note turned brown around the edges, the corners curling as if it wanted to ball up and die. I threw it away and replaced it with
You’re one second away from turning this around. One second.
As if saying it twice made it real. Perhaps it was true. I can still star in a big movie or save a life or win a poker tournament on ESPN. What would it mean? Nothing. Everything. The suffering of human potential comes from the lack of a true pinnacle.

After that I tried,
There is no try, there is only do, or do not.
It was from
Star Wars
—sound advice from Yoda himself. Worked for Luke, so what the hell, right? Yet here came the bowl of Captain Crunch, me eating the same fucking thing to start another useless day staring at a note on the fridge. I hated that note immediately, so I figured I’d try yet again. I took a Post-it Note and wrote down the very first thing that came to mind, trying my best to not let a thought process interfere with the contents.

The result was:
If you’re reading this, take this fucking note down and do something.

So I did something. One night I put the barrel in my mouth. How could I not think of the shooting? I tested the very brink of the trigger’s pressure, knowing I was a millimeter away from death. My breath got tight. My eyes burned. I did this for three nights in a row and it didn’t get any easier.

I tried thinking of Regina and couldn’t do it. I thought of my mother, and still my finger wouldn’t press any farther. I thought of the countless and painful days in front of me. I thought of the bank account that perpetually stayed at around two hundred bucks. I thought of trying to pick up the phone and call someone about a real job or some food stamps. Nothing worked. Finally, I thought of Doc Venhaus. I thought of a way to keep going, the only job I was truly qualified for.

Doc was one-stop shopping for medical care in Grayson. He could diagnose you, write the prescription, fill it on-site, or cart your ass into the back room for minor surgery. I remembered my mother driving us to Grayson after our usual pediatrician infuriated her by suggesting she’d allowed my strep throat to linger too long. Venhaus was casual and kind. He took one look at my tonsils and said, “It’s a revolt back there. We’ll have to scoop those bad boys out.” He spoke with a weathered voice, a voice that conjured smoke and rocks. I remembered manicured hands and glasses and a proper haircut made of edges and angles. I remembered him giving me a cherry sucker after the visit and how much my mother liked him.

He might remember the boy who had the rotten tonsils, and if he didn’t, his file would. Either way, I drove to Grayson to see how Doc Venhaus would react when he saw my tonsils had returned.

TEN

Doc Venhaus wasn’t the man I remembered. He hadn’t aged well, his face crinkling into folds and creases when he peered down his nose and through his glasses. His hair was gone on top and cropped close on the sides, a reddish-brown dusted with gray.

“I’m having a problem with my tonsils,” I told him.

He smiled, never once looking up from the chart. The flesh below his eyes sagged below the rim of his glasses. He had
jowls.

“That’s interesting,” he said. “I remember you, actually. Sounds to me like you need a different type of doctor, Dale, since your tonsils are gone. They haunting your dreams, son?”

I opened wide. He paused awkwardly, but clicked his pen light on and took a look. He clicked his light off and stared at me. “What is this?” he asked.

“I need you to remove one of my kidneys to see if it’ll grow back.”

“Is this a prank?”

“I think I can snag twenty grand for one, but I want to know if I can make a career out of this.”

“I don’t think this is funny,” he said.

“I don’t either.” I held up my hand. “My fingers have grown back twice. Check my medical records. St. Mary’s Hospital down south. You’ll see I had most of my right hand shot off.”

He clicked his pen a few times. We both stared at the wall. “I’m fuckin’ starving,” I said, snakes of hunger rolling and flopping in my midsection.

“Your tonsils are clearly there,” he said, more to himself than to me.

“You got any food around here? I haven’t been home all day. Skipped lunch.”

“Let me look again,” he said, clicking on his penlight. I opened wide. He stared into the back of my mouth until the joints of my jaw ached.

“I must have … made a mistake. It was a long time ago. I’ll have you know, son, I’ve been through far too much to have a prank like this played on me.”

“Why do doctors always think it’s a mistake when something strange happens?”

“Because I’ve made mistakes before,” he said, then jotted something on his clipboard. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

The jotting was a signature. He was done. “I’ve got patients to see. Take this to the front desk. I’m supposed to be off on Monday, but we’ll keep the whole day open. Run some tests. That sound okay?”

He handed me a piece of paper. I looked where he had circled my condition—infection. Antibiotics prescribed. He handed me a slip of paper with the prescription. “Don’t fill this,” he said. “It’s a ruse. I don’t want my staff involved with what we’re dealing with here. Not yet, anyway.”

Ah, the good doctor, keeping his little medical freak to himself. Monday I would be his own personal playground.

“How much is this going to cost me? I don’t have insurance.”

“My treat,” he said.

“As long as we test my kidney.”

“Selling organs is against the law.”

“So is writing fake prescriptions.”

“See you next week, Mr. Sampson. And if you’re hungry, drug reps bring food here all the damn time. I’ll tell Grace to give you a sandwich to go.”

Grace stuck my next appointment in the computer. She was an older woman with thin, yellow hair. She had big moles on her arms. I realized that it had been a long time since a woman talked to me who wasn’t wearing a name tag. She closed out my non-insured billing and I headed for the door with a turkey-and-Swiss sandwich.

*   *   *

When I got home, I checked my landline and saw six missed calls from Mack. That was a year’s worth within one hour, so I figured something was up.

I collected myself, drank a glass of water, and called him back.

We started with the usual chatter about female conquests, only this timeline had a purpose, since the trail of girls was taking him away from Carbondale, crossing the state lines, heading west, and ending in California.

He was devoid of true excitement, as if giving a police statement.

His tone brightened when he talked about the reality television show called
Dedications.

“There’s this girl, Lori, fake tits, real hot. We’ve sort of been dating since March. At least she’s under that impression. So anyway, I applied for the show and ended up getting a call. I’m like, okay, there’s a shot here. After an interview and a few follow-ups, I made the cut, dude! The fuckers want Mack Tucker on TV!”

The dream of fame. The fastball was dead, but the dream wasn’t.

“I hate to be a buzzkill, but it sounds like you’re not doing the college thing anymore?”

“The casting interview was during exam week. I can get college credits any fucking time.”

“Then good for you,” I said.

“Good for us. Convertible trip to California, brother. I haven’t forgotten. But there’s one tiny complication with the casting. They want me to propose to her on the show.”

“I know you don’t want to get married,” I said. “And you’ve only dated this Lori for what, ten weeks?”

“Two and a half months, fucknuts. It’s a relationship, not a newborn. But they won’t let me on the show if I don’t propose,” he said. “It’s kind of the point of the show. But don’t worry. I got this figured out—she won’t say yes. It’ll be their signature episode, where I get rejected. I can do autograph signings at malls, maybe get some momentum for a bachelor show of some sort. Chicks will feel sorry for me. Pity pussy galore!”

I could tell he never actually watched the show, which was buried on a shitty cable network that only a guy with a life like mine would run into. But the women always said yes. A typical episode consisted of Some Tool hell bent on getting married, spewing his story to Music Star during the first segment. In the second segment, Star and Tool sit in a studio together as Star writes a song specifically for Tool’s One and Only Love. In the last segment, One and Only Love—who was usually a gorgeous woman who had no business being with Tool—got dragged into a restaurant or park significant to their relationship so that Star could perform the song as Tool holds her hand with tears in his eyes as he proposes.

“So you think she’ll say no?” I asked. “You think any woman can say no when she knows she’s on TV and being judged by a whole audience? When she has had a song from some famous, sexy pop star written and performed just for her?”

“You’re right,” he said. “Good thing for me my episode won’t have anyone sexy or famous. I don’t even know his name. Ben McSomething. It’s some black dude who plays the piano and isn’t blind. How good could he be? Anyway, this is a special occasion. They seemed really fucking-A pleased with what I bring to the table. This is the launch pad, bro. So I’m thinking, steakhouse. Me, you, a few pitchers. You in?”