Death and other side eff.., p.1
Death and Other Side Effects, page 1
Death
and
Other Side Effects
Rose Maldonado
Rose Maldonado 2020
Table of Contents
Chapter One
“Hello, Goodbye”
Chapter Two
“The Secret”
Chapter Three
“I Don’t Wanna be Sedated”
Chapter Four
The Runaways
Chapter Five
“Whip It”
Chapter Six
“Zombie”
Chapter Seven
“99 Luftballoons”
Chapter Eight
“Just a Girl”
Chapter Nine
“No Surprise”
Chapter Ten
I Think it Was a Dixie Chicks Song…
Chapter Eleven
“Welcome to Paradise”
Chapter Twelve
“Rock N’ Roll Doctor”
Chapter Thirteen
Sushi On The Brain
Chapter Fourteen
“Love You Like a Burrito”
Chapter Fifteen
“Sex and Candy”
Chapter Sixteen
You’re Like a Third Eye Blind Song
Chapter Seventeen
Kerouac or Bust
Chapter Eighteen
“Do You Wanna Come Walk With Me?”
Chapter Nineteen
“Wake Me Up, Before You Go-Go”
Chapter Twenty
Nothing
Chapter Twenty-One
Death
Chapter Twenty-Two
“So Much For The Afterglow”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Brando is my Homeboy
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Hot for Teacher”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“I Need A Factory of Faith”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Orange Juice Blues”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Brain Stew”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“We’re A Happy Family”
Chapter Thirty
“Goodbye My Lover”
Chapter Thirty-One
“Wouldn’t it be Nice”
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Into My Arms”
Chapter Thirty-Three
“Someday We’ll Know”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Seven Hours and Fifteen Days Later…
1
“Hello, Goodbye”
—The Beatles
Just so we’re clear, this story has nothing to do with The Beatles. I don’t even like The Beatles. So, shoot me—
Did you know that there are 852 ways to commit suicide? That’s what my computer search engine says anyway. Number 23 involves a cat and to properly execute number 756, I’d have to go to Utah. Since I can’t see my parents driving me all the way to the desert so that I can off myself, I think I’ll go with something a little simpler...maybe, sleeping pills? I know, not very original, but I don’t have the luxury of creativity and let’s face it—I’m running out of time.
Admittedly, a poetic death is enticing...and it wouldn’t be that hard to pull a Sylvia Plath. I could bake a nice fluffy batch of cranberry orange muffins and let the sweet aroma of citrus and gas fill my nostrils. There’s only one problem—I don’t think that Jonah will go for it. You see, he wants to go out with a bang. Not literally. He says he wants his death to have meaning. He had dreams of being a theater major before the accident. So, I guess I should have expected that he would want to make a dramatic exit. I suggested that we Thelma and Louise it, but he said he didn’t want to die a cliché.
“I want to go out in a blaze of glory,” he said, while we were lying in our beds that otherwise ordinary night.
“Like Inglorious Basterds?”
Jonah just looked at me, eyebrow tilted in confusion.
“When the Italians turn Hitler into Swiss cheese with their AKs,” I explained.
“Yeah, just like that,” he replied, before closing his eyes as the morphine took over.
Jonah is the first person I’ve met at St. Michael’s who is the same age as me. Most of the residents here probably have stock in hemorrhoid cream or denture glue and share an unhealthy penchant for butterscotch candy. The jokes on me, though. I’m the one living in a nursing home. When my condition progressed a few months ago, my doctor thought it would be best for me to be placed somewhere long-term. St. Michael’s was the only place in the area accepting new residents.
Yesterday was my sixteenth birthday, but age doesn’t matter in here. Most of us are just killing time. Saint Michael is said to be the angel who assists souls at the hour of their death, so you could say that Jonah and I met by divine appointment. If you believe in that sort of thing. I think it was most likely the nurses doing, or rather, one nurse in particular. Rhonda, my favorite nurse, is a romantic at heart and I think she fancies herself as quite the little matchmaker. I think I’ve seen her read Emma at least three times since I’ve been here if that says anything. Although I have to hand it to her, she did set up Earl in room 119 with firecracker Bette. That’s what Jonah and I call her because she dyes her hair the color of bright red tomatoes. Earl calls her Bette Davis. I’m not sure what that’s about…Although he does have dementia, so he’s probably not the most credible source these days.
So, whether it was Rhonda or a higher power that brought Jonah and me together; I guess I’ll never know. Most likely, it was the shortage of beds in the nursing home and the fact that we’re the only two people in here who don’t wear depends. In the big scheme of things, our beginning won’t define us, our ending will. Jonah and I are like a good book. Every good story needs a hook, but the thing that keeps you up at night isn’t the first page, it’s those last few sentences before you close the book for good. Maybe, that’s why some people skip to the end before they read the whole story—it’s that overwhelming need to know what happens, how will it end? I guess you could say that our beginning started at the end.
“Hey Lexi,” Jonah says, reaching over and slowly pulling open the curtain that separates our steel-framed beds.
“I thought I told you not to call me that.” I’ve always hated that nickname.
“Ok, what should I call you then?”
“You can call me ‘The Lexicon Devil,’ or just Alex.”
“No way! You like The Germs?”
Duh.
“Yeah, I was supposed to marry Darby, before he went all Romeo on me and offed himself.”
“Wait—you weren’t even born yet,” Jonah says, lifting his thick brow in confusion.
“That’s totally beside the point, man. We were in love.”
“Darby was a weirdo—A great frontman, but still…A weirdo,” Jonah says while picking at one of the bandages on his arm.
“You know what they say, keep Portland weird.”
“But we live in Seattle—”
“Close enough.”
I adjust myself, pushing a dark chunk of hair out of my eyes so that I can see Jonah better. He looks like a cartoon character with all the thick, white, gauze-like bandages covering his body. He lost his right leg in the accident—had to have it amputated below the knee. Which means that a wheelchair is pretty much his only means of transportation. He could get a prosthetic, but he doesn’t want to. I’m not sure why and so far, I’ve been too much of a pansy to just point blank ask him… He also bruised his ribs pretty badly, and there’s a gnarly scar going down the left side of his face. I’ve only seen it a handful of times, though. I think that’s why he asked for the bed on the farthest side of the room, next to the window, that way you can only see the scar if he’s looking directly at you. Personally, I think it makes him look pretty badass—like a Spartan warrior or Al Pacino in that one movie.
“How’s your head today?” Jonah asks, breaking the silence.
His hazel eyes rake over me, patiently waiting for my response.
“Well, it hasn’t killed me yet.”
The ray of light shining through the window dances on Jonah’s angular face, as he tilts his head back and laughs. His Adam’s apple bobs like a buoy. I love that I can joke about things with him. Ever since the tumor, it’s like everyone is afraid that they’ll break me, everyone but Jonah. I don’t have the heart to tell my parents that I’m already broken.
“How about you? You’re starting to look a little better.”
“Ah, well, I figure after I eat my apple sauce and saltines, courtesy of the lovely Rhonda—I might go over to Bette’s room and see if she wants to go rollerblading downtown.”
“Hmmm...Bette doesn’t seem like the rollerblading type.”
“Really?” Jonah asks.
“Nah, she seems more like the jet-skiing type.”
Jonah laughs so hard that he pulls the IV out of his hand. I reach over and push his call button for him. He doesn’t even notice. Rhonda’s in the room faster than you can say Iggy and the Stooges.
“Girl, what have you done now?” She says, with one hand on her round hip.
“What makes you think it was me?” Somehow, I’m always the culprit.
“Well, the cat ate the canary grin on your face, for one.”
“I think this guy was trying to escape,” I say, crooking my thumb in Jonah’s direction.
Jonah puts his hands up in mock surre nder and Rhonda smirks, shaking her head at the two of us.
“You two are gonna be the death of me.”
Rhonda positions both hands on her hips and I can tell she means business. This is her power play. If her left eye starts twitching, then we’ll really be in trouble. Rhonda’s as white as toothpaste, but she has more attitude than a Puerto Rican woman defending J.Lo.
“You two are trippin’. I got real work to do and you better not try anything funny on my watch. You got me?” She adds, for good measure.
“Got it,” Jonah says, trying his best not to smile.
“Yo Rhonda, hold up—you know any dealers in this joint?” I ask, doing my best impersonation of Mac Dre, but it comes out sounding a lot more Fresh Prince of Bel-Air than Vallejo, California.
“Why? You two lookin’ to throw a party in here and you didn’t even invite me. I see how it is.”
“Rhonda you know we wouldn’t do you like that. It’s just that, my boy here—” I tilt my head toward Jonah. “Well, he needs some M, if you know what I mean?”
“You gone and lost yo minds if you think that I’m gonna get the two of you molly.”
Rhonda’s as serious as a heart attack, which are pretty serious around here. Jonah and I can’t contain ourselves anymore. Rhonda looks at us like we’re a couple of mental health transfers.
“Morphine,” I manage to say. “I meant—morphine, Rhonda.”
I’m finally able to catch my breath and Jonah is curled forward, clutching his bruised ribs. A knowing look spreads over Rhonda’s face when she notices Jonah’s IV is unhooked.
“Girl, why didn’t you just tell me that in the first place?”
“I could have, but that wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun.”
“Thanks, Rhonda,” Jonah says after she’s fixed his IV.
“Your welcome, sweetie. You just remember what I said, no funny business.”
“Me? Funny? Never,” Jonah replies, as Rhonda sways out the door.
“I can’t believe she thought we wanted molly,” I say, turning to look at Jonah.
“I can’t believe she knows what molly is.”
“Right? My parents don’t even know what a tweaker is. My mom thought it was a homeless person. One time she told me,
‘Don’t give the tweakers any money, but food is ok.’”
“Wow, that should be a bumper sticker,” Jonah says.
It seems like his thoughts are somewhere else, though. He has that far off look in his eyes that he gets sometimes. I start to ask Jonah about his parents and the accident but decide not to. I wish he would open up a little, but I don’t want to push him.
“You want to watch TV?” Jonah asks, with the remote already in hand.
“Sure, whatever you want to do.”
Turning my gaze towards the TV, I watch The Andy Griffith Show with Jonah, but my mind is somewhere else, as well. I can’t stop thinking about Jonah’s family. The only thing he’s ever told me is that his mom looked like Farrah Fawcett and she loved Tom Petty more than a good Catholic loves the Pope and Mother Mary combined. I wish I could have met her, but mostly I wish Jonah hadn’t lost her. I wish I could bring back his family, or stop the accident from ever happening. I guess I just wish things were different. I wish we could have met at a dog park on a sunny afternoon, instead of a nursing home.
The thing is, I have enough wishes to fill a fountain and I’m running out of pennies.
2
“The Secret”
—Pennywise
Sometimes I feel like the world could be good again. When I look over at Jonah and his floppy hair, laughing at something Don Knotts just said on the black and white TV screen—I feel hopeful. It comes in sudden, unexpected bursts these days. My chest swells, my heart takes flight, and
suddenly, I feel like I’m jumping on a trampoline in slow motion while listening to The New Radicals, “You Get What You Give.” Momentarily, I’m transported to another time and place, but these moments are fleeting, never lasting long enough.
Most teenagers worry about their GPA’s and the disappointing amount of likes they’ve received on their last selfie, but my days are spent here, wondering which will be my last, or if today will be the day that I take fate into my own hands… There’s a lot of things that I’m uncertain about these days, like the fact that some days don’t even feel like days anymore—they’re just pieces of something, floating around in time or space, I’m not quite sure. I guess I don’t care enough to figure it out. The mysteries of the Universe no longer entice me. The only thing I care about now is keeping our secret safe.
Mom always used to tell me that secrets cause cancer, but what do I care? I’m already dying. I think she just wanted to keep me honest and what better way to teach honesty than to lie to a little kid. Growing up, I was so afraid of secrets that I made sure I never had any. I even lost my best friend in Second grade, because I couldn’t keep her biggest secret. She told me not to tell anyone about her imaginary friend, Bo Bo. She said if anyone found out about him, he would leave and never come back again. The way I saw it, it was either Bo Bo or me… So, I spilled my guts to Mom. Bo Bo and a piece of my childhood innocence may have died that day, but at least his death was quick and pain-free.
As it turns out, Mom was wrong, and secrets don’t actually cause cancer, but just about everything else does. So, when you’re at that lovely summer barbecue, munching on some tasty Franken-corn, covered in casein, remember to put your sunblock on people, because if the food doesn’t kill you, the sun will. Think about that the next time you decide to plan a family reunion at the beach.
The truth is, I’d love nothing more than to dig my toes into the sand and let the waves crash against my shins, while the sun beats down on my face. I told myself that I wouldn’t get bitter, I wouldn’t become a cynic, but living in this place, day in and day out, for the last three months, has sucked the life out of me. The people here drop like flies, which makes it kind of hard to get close to anyone. My parents said that the doctor put me in here because of my tumor, but the real reason isn’t that simple. It’s in the words that my parents don’t say and the shared glances that they think I don’t see.
I tried to kill myself.
It was a few days after I found out that I had a brain tumor, grade 4 glioblastoma, inoperable…to be more specific. I could hear my mom crying in her room. She’d been in there for hours without coming out, not even to go to the bathroom. I couldn’t handle it. I started thinking about life and death and how everything I thought I knew didn’t matter anymore. I was dying. Instead of the normal process, where old cells die and are replaced by new ones, my brain was being infiltrated with cancer cells, which were reproducing and dividing at any given time, that’s how the doctor put it, anyways. I could almost feel the tumor growing if I concentrated really hard. I could feel everything at once, bulging, pushing itself out of every orifice in my skull, until it was all too much. My pain, my parent’s anguish, helplessness so thick, it wrapped its fingers around my neck, strangling me.
I welcomed death.
I wanted to feel its coolness, like water bathing my soul and swallowing me up. My lungs hurt so bad, but nothing could make me pull my head above the surface, nothing except my mother’s trembling fingers. Screaming, sobbing, begging me to breathe. “Dammit, breathe!” She slapped me hard across the face and water poured out from my mouth. Against my will, I took in a single breath. My chest felt like it was going to implode. I wanted to die.
Why couldn’t she just let me die?
After that day, Mom lost it. She threw out all the kitchen knives, even the butter knives. She rid the entire house of sharp objects and anything that I could possibly use to strangle myself, even the living room curtains. I felt like I was going crazy too. She took everything out of my room, except for my vinyl records and my bed. I drew the line there. She did take my pillow, though. I guess, she thought that I might try to suffocate myself with it. It didn’t occur to her that I could just steal her pillow or Dad’s, or even one of the fancy ones on the couch that she changed seasonally would do… There were still plenty of ways that I could kill myself, but I decided that I wouldn’t do it at home. I should have never tried to drown myself in the tub anyway, it’d be a shallow way to go. I decided that my death was going to have depth, substance, meaning. Jonah was right, it has to have meaning. I turn my head so that I can see him, but the curtain is drawn shut.
