The Brink of Life

Chapter 1: The Brink of Life

I was born on March 1st, 2001, in a hospital in Pittsburgh. My parents had no idea if I was going to live; I was coming early and my umbilical cord was wrapped around my neck. My dad passed out from a panic attack, which is easy to imagine knowing his soft emotional security system. I didn't cry when I was born, but simply looked around, squinting like I was wondering why it was so bright in there as I took my first breath. The nurses took me away and worked their magic, and eventually I was returned safely to my mother's arms, who couldn't believe that I was breathing.

This was my mother's favorite party story. She spoke gracefully, with smooth movements, until she started drinking, and her gestures became sharp and fierce After she'd got a few gin and tonics in her, she'd embark on this elaborate tale of my birth. The story changed every time - sometimes it began at my grandmother's house when my mother's water broke, or it broke in the car on the way to the hospital, or it broke at the hospital. I imagine the alcohol had something to do with this fluctuation. My mother, the police officer, screamed to my father in the car, "Go, Jack! I don't give a damn about the speed limit! If I'm not at the hospital in one goddamn minute I'll arrest you myself."

Unlike my father, my mother is a hard woman to crack. I'd only seen her cry once before my death, when cancer took Grandma. My mother found out over the phone, which rang obnoxiously during dinner. Usually Mom doesn't answer the phone during meals, but in retrospect she was probably expecting news. She shuffled quickly to the phone, picked it up with shaking hands, said a few words, and hung up. Her face was blank when she sat back down, and then she put her head in her hands. I never saw her face, but her quiet sobs told the whole story. My father escorted my sister Gina and I out of the room. We waited anxiously by our bedroom door for our father to come in and smile, tell us it was all okay, just work stuff. Gina and I fell asleep on the floor that night, waiting for my father's smiling reassurance that everything was fine. It never came.

I suppose the roles of that dreadful night reversed on the day of my death. My parents held each other, next to the phone, waiting and waiting for my name to pop up on the screen; for my smooth voice to apologize for my absence; for the chance to hear me tell them I love them just one more time. That call never came; they waited and waited and waited and waited. I waited with them, in the hollow light, in the empty.

On the morning of the last day of my life, I awoke suddenly. I dreamt of flying colors - of purples and turquoise and vermilion. I was running through the colors, feeling warmth on my skin and grass beneath my bare feet. Then suddenly everything was cold - I woke freezing, my air conditioner blasting a chill onto my bare skin. It was dark, but my alarm read 5:58am in red, boisterous letters, illuminating the space. I sighed heavily, closing my eyes again, wanting so badly to drift back into the colors for the remaining two minutes before I had to get up.

It was my last month of my last year at high school, before I'm shipped off to college by my parents, alone in the wilderness of adulthood. In December, I got accepted into Yale University (I know, right?) and I couldn't wait to go. It took every bit of energy to pull myself out of bed. I forced my legs to stand, to part from the warmth of my soft comforter.

My room was a pretty basic one; the periwinkle walls were decorated with posters of my favorite bands, my shelves littered with books I hadn't gotten to yet. I had a million notebooks I'd yet to fill and half-empty notebooks scattered everywhere. Little doodles in sharpie dotted the walls. My clothes for my last day hung on my closet door - the same uniform I wore daily for school. The baby blue and white worked well together, and I recalled the excitement of my first day of freshman year, hurriedly dressing in the uniform I now dreaded to put on. I wish I had stayed home. I should've stayed home; I should have fallen back asleep. I never should have left the house.