Death and other side eff.., p.9
Death and Other Side Effects, page 9
For some reason, the word Paradise reminds me that Earl is dead. He’s really gone. I wonder if they’ll have a funeral for him? I really am going to miss him. The way that he raced down these halls as if there was always somewhere important to get to. I can see him now, his baseball cap resting on the top of his head and the material of his oversized sports jacket swishing as he paces down the hall...
I picture his eulogy in my head. That Earl, he sure was a fast walker, you couldn’t catch him if you tried. I tell ya, he sure knew how to wear a baseball cap—it’s like he invented it. Yup, that was Earl. It’s kind of sad how we can reduce a person’s whole life to a few sentences and if you really made a good impression, maybe a page. I wonder what they would say about me? I can’t even think of anything that I’ve done that’s worth mentioning. I’d like to say that if I had my whole life ahead of me, then that wouldn’t be the case. I’d like to think that I would leave a mark, or a scribble, some kind of something to say that I was here and that my life had significance or value of some sort. I’m not sure that it makes a difference when I die, though. I’m just not one of those people—you know, the ones who really matter, the ones who they write books about, or sing songs about. I don’t even know who would come to my funeral. I hate funerals anyway, they just seem so formal and stagnant...so rehearsed. Maybe, I should write a note for whoever finds me that I don’t want a funeral.
I wonder what they are going to do with Earl’s body? Will he be buried or cremated and does it even matter? Why do people care so much what is done with their body after they’re already dead? It’s not like it makes a difference. I hear people talking about it all the time in here like it’s some big important decision. ‘You mean that you want to be cremated? Oh, I could never...’ Do people think that they can feel themselves burning or is it more metaphorical? Like they don’t want their whole life reduced to a pile of ash… Then, there’s the ones who don’t want to be buried. ‘Can’t you just feel all those bugs crawling on you and eating your flesh and the worms...don’t even get me started on the worms…’Now, if Viking funerals were still around, I think that’d be the way to go, but just like anything else that’s cool, they outlawed it. So, let me get this straight, you want to be laid on top of a pile of hay, in a wooden boat, and you want to float away in the water, while someone shoots flaming arrows at you? Nope, no way, too cool.
I decide to turn the TV on. I have nothing better to do and if I don’t, I’ll just sit here thinking about all of the things that matter and I definitely don’t want to do that. What I need is some mindless entertainment. So, I end up watching one of those horrible shows, about those horrible people, who have tons of money, but no one really knows what they did to get it.
“I can’t believe you’re watching this.”
So, he is alive.
“Yup, I needed some inspiration,” I mutter back to Jonah.
“If this is the kind of crap that inspires you, then I really don’t know you anymore.”
“Guess you don’t know everything—”
“You’re shitting me right?” He asks, and I think to myself…If looks could kill, then I’d be one lucky lady.
“What does that even mean? Like did I crap myself, or crap on you? Who crapped on who?” I ask, mostly just trying to get more of a rise out of him.
“I don’t know what it means. It’s just an expression.”
Oh, goody! He looks really mad now…
“So, you admit it?” I ask, stoking the fire.
“Admit what?”
“That you don’t know everything.”
“Yes, Alex. I admit it. I don’t know everything. Are you happy now?”
“No, I’m not happy, Jonah. Are you?”
“No.”
“Fine. It’s settled. We’re both not happy. Now, can I please watch this mind-numbing show without any more of your little comments?”
“Eat your heart out.”
“Thanks,” I say, turning up the volume.
Jonah pulls the curtain that divides our room shut, making a show of it, almost pulling it off the runner. Good. I didn’t want to look at him anyway. I slouch down in my bed, getting more comfortable, so comfortable that I feel like I could actually fall asleep. Sleep would be nice. So nice. Just as soon as my eyelashes start to flutter closed—
“You suck,” Jonah says, from behind the curtain.
Seriously! I just wanted to get fifteen minutes of sleep. Fifteen minutes. That’s all I’m asking for!
“Right back at ya, pal.”
He pulls the curtain back so that I can see him or so that he can see me. The point is, we can both see each other.
“Everything sucks,” he continues.
“Yup, The Descendents made a whole album about it.”
“I’m not in the mood to play punk rock trivia with you,” Jonah says, gruffly.
“Fine. You’re right, everything sucks. Life sucks. That’s why we made the pact in the first place.”
“No. The pact is about dignity,” he argues.
“I know that. You think that I don’t know that?”
This is the most we’ve talked since the fight.
“It’s just—It used to seem so easy. I knew exactly what I wanted and now, I don’t know anything,” he says, frustrated.
“What do you want me to say, Jonah? I’m sorry? It’s all my fault.”
“No, I just want to go back to the way things were before.”
“Before the other night?”
“Yeah, before that.”
What he means is before he kissed me, before I kissed him back, and before he told me that he loves me. Loved me. He wants to go back to when I was just a girl that he had a stupid suicide pact with. A girl, who doesn’t mean anything to him...
“Fine. Let’s go back to before, then.”
We both know that there’s no going back in life, but I say it to appease him. If he wants to cut the strings, then let him. I can be a no-strings kind of girl. I invented it. I press the call button with my finger. I need a Jell-O cup…Now. Rhonda opens the door a minute later.
“You called?” she says.
“Yeah, can I have a couple Jell-O cups? A red one and a green one.”
“Girl, it ain’t Christmas yet, and I ain’t yo slave. Get that skinny behind of yours up and get your own damn Jell-O,” she huffs, walking back out the door with a flip of her hair.
Jonah laughs under his breath, but still loud enough for me to hear. Fine. I could use a walk anyway. My butt hurts from laying in bed so long. Actually, my whole body hurts. I walk out of our room without even looking in Jonah’s direction. Usually, I would ask what flavor he wants, but everything’s different now, and I’m not feeling very hospitable at the moment. Everyone is in the cafeteria when I get there. Must be lunchtime. The first person I see is Bette. She’s sitting next to Millie like she always does at lunchtime. She looks terrible. Her hair is not even done and for Bette, that’s saying something. Something compels me to go over and talk to her. I’m terrible at this kind of stuff, but I feel that I owe it to Bette. I slide onto the chair next to her and wait for Mildred to finish what she’s saying.
“Hi Bette, hi Millie.”
“Hey sweetie,” they both say.
“Look, Bette...I’m really sorry about Earl. He was a cool guy. I mean, he was-”
“I know what you mean, sweetheart. Earl was one badass mofo,” she says, with complete sincerity.
I don’t say anything, because I’m too busy choking…
“What? That’s what you kids today are sayin,’ right?” Bette asks, raising one of her red-penciled brows.
“Yeah Bette, that’s what we’re sayin’. Earl, was definitely one badass mofo,” I say, drawing out the words.
She’s laughing as the tears stream down her wrinkled face, smearing her cobalt blue eyeliner. She embraces me in a hug and the fragility of her frame is all that I can concentrate on. She keeps hugging me, though and I start to feel other things. I can feel the love that she has for people, for me, the disparity in her bones, the need that she has for me to hug her back. I hug her tighter until I feel like our skin is the same temperature.
“I love you, Bette.”
“Love you too, sweetheart. Now listen here, because I’m an old lady and that means that I know about stuff. You hold onto that boy with everything you have. You don’t ever let him get away, because he’s one of the good ones, like Earl, and let me tell you, those don’t come up often. If you’re lucky, once in a lifetime.”
“Ok, Bette,” I manage to choke out.
“I mean it, sweetheart, hold onto him.”
I nod at her once, because I can’t exactly tell a woman who just lost the man that she loved, that the one that I love doesn’t want to be held onto any longer. I know Bette is right. Jonah is a once in a lifetime kind of guy. Especially, since I don’t exactly have a whole lifetime, but I can’t make Jonah love me anymore than I can make time stop. If I could make time stop, cancer would be irrelevant. Age would really be just a number— Unless you were like already eighty, then I guess that would be kind of weird to be frozen in time at the end of your life, but if time stopped, there wouldn’t be a such thing as the end of life...Death would be nonexistent. Still, time is one of the laws of nature, if it is altered than so is everything else. Plus, everyone would want to be twenty-one forever and they’d probably all shop at that store and then the world would just be run rampant with confused hipsters, who can’t decide if their look should be retro-homeless or Grandma-chic.
Yeah, so this whole time- freezing thing— probably not a great idea...Come to think of it, none of my ideas are that great. When I was ten, I used to want a tattoo of a strawberry sprinkled donut, with a Unicorn jumping through the center. Now the whole thing sounds so commonplace because unicorns and donuts are all the rage these days. I wonder what’s going to be cool next, Jabberwockies and Jell-o? Jell-O! I almost forgot.
“Hello Alexis,” a silver-haired man, says to me, as I make my way to the counter where all of the Jell-O cups are.
“Umm...Hi,” I say because I don’t remember ever meeting the kind-faced, old man.
The counter looks like a rainbow, with every flavor imaginable, even bright blue. I snag two red ones because I’m not feeling all that adventurous and the green just reminds me of Christmas, after what Rhonda said. I almost make it to the hallway, when I decide to turn back and grab a blue one too. Blue is Jonah’s favorite color. I feel like a true American, with my sweatshirt pockets full of red and blue Jell-O cups. When I get to our room, Jonah is looking up at me from his bed, so I chuck the blue one at him. He catches it before it hits his face.
“Surprise,” I say.
“Uh, thanks.”
“Yup.”
“Did you get any spoons?” Jonah asks.
“Crap, I knew I was forgetting something.”
“It’s cool,” he says, peeling the lid back and squeezing the plastic container until all of the Jell-O is in his mouth.
“Gross, dude.”
“No, it actu-wally reary good,” he says, around a mouthful of smurf blue Jell-o.
“Uh, yeah. It looks good,” I tell him, as the jello dribbles down his chin.
I’m still looking at Jonah, when I hear from behind me, “Hi sweetie, hi Jonah.”
“Oh, uh…hi Mom, hey Dad,” I say, turning around so that I can see them.
“Thought we’d surprise you,” Dad says.
“Yeah, you did.”
“You two weren’t in the middle of anything, were you?” Mom asks, looking us over.
“No Mom, nothing going on here.”
“Oh ok, it just seems like we interrupted something.”
“Mom, just sit down,” I say, patting my bed.
“Ok, sweetie. I’ll sit.”
“Your stomach is getting so huge,” I say when I feel it press up against my side.
“Well, I am eight months pregnant.”
“That, you are.”
“I think the proper response is, don’t worry Mom, you still look great,” she says, correcting me.
“You look great, Mom. Not a day over six months.”
“Thanks, honey,” she says, rolling her eyes at me.
“Five months?...”
“Just stop while you’re ahead,” she says, brushing my bangs from my forehead.
“Well, I tried.”
Dad plants his knuckles on the top of my scalp, giving me a noogie.
“Don’t you think that I’m a little old for that now?”
“As long as you’re my kid, you’re never too old for noogies.”
“Ugh…Why couldn’t I have been somebody else’s kid?” I say, teasing my parents.
“So, how are you?” the dreaded question slips out between my mother’s lips, effectively changing the mood.
“The same.”
“So, not worse?” Dad asks, carefully, because he knows that I hate this line of questioning.
“Yeah, not worse, I guess.”
“What about the headaches, sweetie?” my mom, chirps.
“Still there.”
“The doctor mentioned that you could give radiation or chemo a try, you know…if you want to try something with more permanent results than medication…” Mom says, with an air of hopefulness.
“We’ve already been over this, Mom. And if I’m refusing over the counter meds, do you really think that I want to try radiation or chemo?”
“But, sweetie. The doctor said—”
“I don’t care what the doctor said, Mom. It’s a load of crap. The doctor also said that both radiation and chemo are not going to cure me. And I’m not a candidate for surgery either. You know all of this…At the most, I’d get a couple extra years and who knows what kind of quality those years would even be.”
“I know, I just—”
My mother breaks down, tears gushing out of her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I just don’t know what to tell you,” I say, placing my arm slackly around her wan frame.
“It’s not—” she can barely get the words out, “your fault, honey,” she finishes, wiping her nose with her shirt sleeve.
“We should probably get going, honey,” my dad says, glancing at me and gently taking my mom by the arm.
We’ve never really been any good at this kind of stuff. The hard stuff. I know it’s partly my own fault, but I just can’t seem to be what everyone wants me to be. The idea of conforming is like a dull razor for me, or nails on a chalkboard, it just makes me cringe on the inside. I don’t mean to be difficult. My parents just see things differently than I do. They see radiation or chemo as something that could save me, but I just see it as something that would suck more of the life out of me. The whole science behind chemo is treating cancer with cancer...I mean, it actually kills the cells in your body, the bad ones, and the good ones, that’s why the side effects are so terrible. Why would I want to do that? My parents just don’t get it. They think that I should just keep trying, that I should get treatment, even if it only means nine more months, two years tops, but I don’t want to prolong it anymore than I already have to, and it is, after all, my life.
“So, your mom, that sucks,” Jonah says, surprising me.
“Yeah, I don’t know. They just want something that I can’t give them.”
“You mean won’t.”
“Yeah, what’s the difference? Either way, a part of me dies.” Why am I explaining this to him? It’s none of his business, anyway.
“What if the treatment worked?” Jonah asks, matter of fact.
“You mean, what if it worked for a year, and then what? Then, I’m right back here. What’s the point? I thought that you were the one person who understood, but now I see that you don’t, you’re just like everybody else.”
“Screw you, Alex. You know, there’s more than one answer to everything. You don’t get to always be the one who’s right.”
“I do when it’s my body.”
“Yeah, but what about your parents? Do you know what I would do for just one more day with mine? You don’t get it. This is what I’ve been trying to tell you—you don’t see what you have.”
“I see exactly—”
“Alex—Alex? Alexis!”
“Someone help! Rhonda! Help, someone—”
“What is it, boy?”
“She’s, I don’t know. I think she’s having a seizure!”
“Alexis, sweetie. Alexis, look at me, it’s gonna be alright.”
“Can’t you make it stop? She’s biting her tongue! Do something! Help her—”
“Calm down, sweetie. Jonah, listen to me, I need you to stay calm. I need to get her on her side.”
“Jonah?” I ask confused.
“Sweet baby Jesus! See, I told you she’d be fine. You got me all kinds of worked up, boy.”
“Rhonda, what’s going on?” I ask.
“You had a seizure, sweetheart.”
Jonah is still staring at me. He hasn’t said a word. He looks terrified. I don’t know why that surprises me. Unless—I was wrong about him. Maybe, he does still care about me. Why else would he look so upset right now?
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“Why are you sorry? I’m the one—I’m the one who should be sorry. I just made you have a seizure,” he says, still horrified by what just happened.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You didn’t make me have it, it just happened. It’s one of the side effects.”
“Yeah, but I was practically yelling at you and then—”
“It’s not your fault. Ok?”
“I guess.”
“Really, Jonah. I’m fine.”
“You didn’t look fine. You—that was the scariest thing that I’ve ever seen. Well, other than the accident, but that was different.”
“Sorry,” I say.
“Would you quit apologizing. I already feel terrible, as it is.”
“I told you—”
“I know, but I still feel like I brought it on somehow,” he says, with a trace of guilt in each word.
