Ticker

Ticker - Part 1

“It’ll happen on a weekend night, when people are wreckless and out of control.  Speeding.  Drinking.  Fighting,” he says.  “So if the phone rings, answer it.”  

I look down at my pale feet, dangling off the end of the examination table.  “Fifteen in one hundred die while waiting, Doc."

“And the other eighty-five?” he says, clicking his pen.  He hands over a prescription and looks at me through his wire-rimmed glasses, “We’re going to schedule a VAD to buy more time.”

“My mom wants this.  I don’t.”

“Ariel, you know what’s going to happen if you keep refusing.”

“I’m ready.”

“No twenty-two-year-old is ready to die.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Doc.  This is a role I’ve been preparing for my entire life.”

Mom drives me home from the appointment and the whole way I keep imagining those fifteen people with their suitcases packed and waiting.  Toothbrush.  Slippers.  A trashy book to pass the days in post-op recovery that would never come.  I refuse to feel bad for them.  They were all suckers because they believed.  They had hope.  Everybody knows hope kills you the second you look it in the eye. 

Later, there’s a hesitant tap on my bedroom door.  I move slowly toward it, every step an effort.  It’s been another long day.  I’m fading.  When I open up, Mom’s standing there with the beat-up red suitcase in her hand and a tight smile on her face.  I hate the way she looks at me.  The worry.  The hovering.  In return, I drink.  I smoke.  I want her to smell it on my clothes.  I want her to know that I represent death in every way.  I’ve come to grips with my mortality.  We’re all given a certain amount of time on this planet, mine’s just shorter than most.  

I spend my days working hard to get Mom to despise me so she won’t be sad when I’m gone.  My father detached ages ago.  I think a huge part of him checked out the day I was born and he saw what he got dealt ― a two pound purple weakling who should have never come into the world.  Eighteen months later, my sister was born.  A second try to get things right, one that fit the mold of what a daughter of his should be.  He got his star athlete, got to be Coach Dad.  Prayers answered. 

I reach out to take the suitcase from Mom’s hand but she says, “Sweetheart, you shouldn’t.  Let me bring it in for you.”

I yank the case from her and slam the door. 

This effort takes my breath away and my legs start to collapse.  My condition is getting worse.  The bed catches me and the familiar symptoms overtake my body as I struggle to gain my strength.  I lay there listening to the noise of the neighborhood through the open window.  There’s the bouncing basketball of some kids across the street and the pumping dance music from Kara and Renee next door.  Car doors shut and alarms beep.  Dogs bark to greet their owners.  And there’s a distant squeak-squeak-squeak I’ve never been able to figure out.  I’ve spent so many hours in this room, listening to the sounds of other people’s lives ― my sister coming home from dates with boyfriends or packing for college ― Mom banging around in the kitchen, rattling dishes with her nervous urgency of getting nothing done, just as she’s doing right now. 

I listen until I get my wind back, and then I unzip the suitcase.  It smells of vacations, but not mine.  I haven’t been on a trip in four years.  Instead it’s my father and sister taking off for another adventure.  They always make sure to send a postcard though.  Thanks, guys.

To make Mom and Doc happy, I go through the motions of their plan, and I start to pack.  I pull out some socks, a few pairs of underwear, and place them into the case.  Throw in a couple of magazines.  I scan the room, my eyes falling on the iPod on the nightstand.  Now that, I will not pack.  I need my music when I check out.