A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (8 page)

“
Ah!
”
she says.

“
Sorry,
”
I say.

“
It
’
s
cold
”

“
It
’
s
ice.
”

“
I know it
’
s ice.
”

“
Well,
ice
is
cold
”

I still have to apply pressure to the nose, so with my left hand I apply pressure, and with my right I hold the ice to the bridge of her nose. It
’
s awkward, and I can
’
t do both things while sitting on the arm of the couch and still be in a position to see the television.

I try kneeling on the floor next to the couch. I reach over the arm of the couch to apply the ice with one hand, and pressure with the other. This works fine, but after a short while my neck gets sore, having to turn ninety degrees to see the screen. It
’
s all wrong.

I have an inspiration. I climb onto the top of the couch, above the cushions, on top of the back of the couch. I stretch out on the top, the cushions shhhing as I settle my weight upon them. I reach down so my head and arms are both aiming in the same direction, with my arms just reaching her nose and my head resting comfortably on the top of the couch, with a nice view of the set. Perfect. She looks up at me and rolls her eyes. I give her a thumbs up. Then she spits green fluid into the half-moon receptacle.

My father had not moved. Beth stood in the entranceway to the family room and waited. He was about ten feet from the street. He was kneeling, but with his hands on the ground, fingers extended down, like roots from a riverbed tree. He was not praying. His head tilted back for a moment as he looked up, not to the sky, but to the trees in the neighbor
’
s backyard. He was still on his knees. He had gone to
get
the newspaper.

The half-moon container is full. There are now three colors in the half-moon container—green, red, and black. The blood, which is coming through her nose, is also coming through her mouth. I study the container, noting the way the three fluids do not mix, the green fluid being more viscous, the blood, this blood so thin, just swishing around on top. There is some black liquid in the corner. Maybe that is bile.

“
What
’
s the black stuff?
”
I ask, pointing to it from my perch above her.

“
That
’
s probably bile,
”
she says.

A.H.W.O.S.G.
 
                                                                                   
21

A car pulls into the driveway and into the garage. The door connecting the garage to the laundry room opens and closes and then the door to the bathroom opens and closes. Beth is home.

Beth has been working out. Beth likes it when I am home from college for the weekends because then she can work out. She needs her workouts, she says. Toph
’
s shoes continue to rumble. Beth comes into the room. She is wearing a sweatshirt and spandex leggings. Her hair is up though it
’
s usually down.

“
Hi,
”
I say.

“
Hi,
”
Beth says.

“
Hi,
”
Mom says.

“
What are you doing on top of the couch?
”
Beth asks.

“
It
’
s easier this way.
”

“
What is?
”

“
Nosebleed,
”
I say.

“
Shit. How long?
”

“
Forty minutes maybe.
”

“
Did you call the nurse?
”

“
Yeah, she said to put ice on.
”

“
That didn
’
t work last time.
”

“
You tried ice before?
”

“
Of course.
”

“
You didn
’
t tell me that, Mom.
”

“
Mom?
”

“
I
’
m not going back in.
”

My father, a man of minor miracles, had done something pretty incredible. This is what he did: six months or so ago, he had sat us down, Beth and I—not Bill, Bill was in D.C., and not Toph, who for reasons that are obvious enough was not invited—in the family room. Our mother was not there for some reason, I can
’
t remember exactly where she was—but so we were there, sitting as far
away as possible from the customary cloud of smoke around him and his cigarette. The conversation, if it had followed the standard procedure for such things, would have included warm-up talk, some talk of things generally, and how what he was about to say was very difficult, etcetera, but we were just settling in, kind of well obviously not expecting—
“
Your mother
’
s going to die.
”

I have Beth take my place, holding the ice and squeezing the nose. Eschewing my innovation, she sits on the arm of the couch instead of on the top of the couch. The towel is soaked. The blood is warm and wet against my palm. I go to the laundry room and toss the towel into the washbasin, where it lands with a slap. I shake the cramps out of my hands and get another towel, and Toph
’
s shoes, out of the dryer. I give the towel to Beth.

I go downstairs to check on Toph. I sit on the stairs, which afford a view of the basement, a rec room converted into a bedroom and then converted again into a rec room.

“
Hi,
”
I say.

“
Hi,
”
Toph says.

“
How
’
s it going?
”

“
Fine.
”

“
Are you still hungry?
”

“
What?
”

“
Are you still hungry?
”

“
What?
”

“
Pause the stupid game.
”

“
Okay.
”

“
Can you hear me?
”

“
Yes.
”

“
Are you listening?
”

“
Yes.
”

“
Do you still want food?
”

“
Yeah.
”

“
We
’
ll
get
some pizza in a while.
”

“
Okay.
”

“
Here
’
s your shoes.
”

“
Are they dry?
”

“
Yeah.
”

I go back upstairs.

“
We need to empty this,
”
Beth says, indicating the half-moon receptacle.

“
Why me?
”

“
Why not you?
”

I slowly lift the half-moon receptacle over Mom
’
s head and walk it to the kitchen. It is full to the brim. It is swishing forward and back. Halfway into the kitchen I spill most of it down my leg, immediately wondering how acidic the contents of the half-moon receptacle are, with the bile and all.
Will the fluid burn through my pants?
I stand still and watch to see if it burns through, like acid, expecting to see smoke, a gradually growing hole—as happens when one spills alien blood.

But it does not burn. I decide to change my pants anyway.

Beth holds the nose for a while. She sits on the arm of the couch, next to Mom
’
s head. From the kitchen, I turn up the volume on the TV. It
’
s been an hour.

With the nose still bleeding, Beth meets me in the kitchen.
“
What are we going to do?
”
she whispers.
“
We have to go in, right?
”
“
We can
’
t.
”
“
Why?
”

“
We promised.
”
“
Oh c
’
mon.
”

“
What?
”

“
This can
’
t be
it.
”

“
It could be it.
”

“
I know it could be it, but it shouldn
’
t be it.
”

“
She wants it to be it.
”

“
No, she doesn
’
t.
”

“
I think she does.
”

“
No she doesn
’
t.
”

“
She said so.
”

“
She didn
’
t mean it.
”

“
I think she might.
”

“
No way. That
’
s ridiculous.
”

“
Did you hear her?
”

“
No, but even so.
”

“
What do you think?
”

“
I think she
’
s scared.
”

“
Yeah.
”

“
And I think she
’
s not ready. I mean, are you ready?
”

“
No, of course not. You?
”

“
No. No, no.
”

Beth goes back to the family room. I wash out the half-moon receptacle, my head struggling with the logistics. So. Okay. At this rate, with the blood coming out slowly but continuously, how long would it actually take? A day? No, no, less—it
’
s not
all
the blood, well before all the blood was gone it would be— We wouldn
’
t actually be waiting for
all
the blood to drain; rather, after a while, things would break down, would—
Jesus, how much blood?
A gallon? Less? We could find out. We could call the nurse again. No, no, we can
’
t. If we ask someone they
’
ll make us bring her in. And if they knew we needed to bring her in, and we didn
’
t bring her in, we
’
d be murderers. We could call the emergency room, ask hypothetically:
“
Hi, I
’
m doing a report for school about slow blood leakage and...
”
Fuck. Would we have enough towels? God no. We
could use sheets, we have plenty of sheets— It might be only a few hours. Would that be enough time? What
’
s enough time? We would talk a lot. Yes. We would sum up. Would we be serious, sober, or funny? We would be serious for a few minutes— Okay okay okay okay. Fuck, what if we ran out of things to say and— We
’
ve already made the necessary arrangements. Yes, yes, we wouldn
’
t need to talk details. We
’
d have Toph come up. Would we have Toph come up? Of course, but... oh he shouldn
’
t be there, should he? Who wants to be there at the very end? No one, no one. But for her to be alone...of course she won
’
t be alone, you
’
ll be there, Beth
’
ll be there, dumb-ass. Fuck. We
’
d have to get Bill on the phone. Who else? Which relatives? No grandparents, her parents long gone, in-laws gone, her sister Ruth gone, her sister Ann not dead but gone, out of touch, hiding, that hippie freak— Fuck. Some of those people hadn
’
t called in years. Friends then. Which? The ones from volleyball, from Montessori— Shit, we
’
ll definitely forget some people... Hell, we
’
ll forget some people, people will understand, they
’
ll have to— Fuck it, we
’
re leaving anyway, we
’
re moving away after all this, fuck it— A conference call? No, no— tacky. Tacky but practical, definitely practical, and it might also be fun, people chatting, lots of voices, we could use noise and distraction, not quiet, not quiet, quiet not good—need noise. We
’
d have to prime them, warn them, but shit, what to say?
“
Things are happening quickly
”
—something like that, vague but clear enough, do it quietly, everything implicit, get on the kitchen extension, out of earshot, say something before Mom gets on the phone— That would do the trick, all the people on the line at once— I
’
ll have to call the phone company, get some kind of hookup— Are we already signed up for that kind of thing? Call-waiting, sure, but conference calling—probably not, definitely not, fuck— We need a speakerphone is what we need. That would do it, a speakerphone— I could go get one, I
’
d have to go all the way up to Kmart, take Dad
’
s car even, faster than Mom
’
s, much
faster— Is that a stick? No, no, automatic, I can drive it, haven
’
t driven it before but could drive it, no problem, fast car, open it up there on the highway— But fuck, it
’
s easily twenty minutes there and back, plus shopping time and what if they didn
’
t have— I could call first, of course I
’
d call, dumbshit, ask them if they have the speakerphone... I
’
d have to know what kind of phone I
’
ve got here, for compatibility, okay, Sony and then— But why the fuck should I go? Beth
’
s been here all year, had all the extra time, Beth should go, of course Beth, Beth
’
ll go Beth
’
ll go— But she won
’
t think the speakerphone is necessary, she
’
ll say forget it— Fuck, maybe we should just screw it— Screw it. Screw it. Screw it. Would the speakerphone really make it easier? Of course not, we
’
d still need the conference-call hookup deal— We
’
ll call Bill and Aunt Jane and the cousins, Susie and Janie, Ruth
’
s daughters, maybe cousin Mark, too. That
’
s it. So the phone call would be twenty minutes maybe, then we
’
d bring Toph upstairs for a while, a little visit, again, casual, light, fun, loose, loose, fun, light— So twenty minutes or so of Toph upstairs, then— All right, all right, wait: how much time total are we talking? How long for the nose? Two hours maybe, easily more, for sure, could be a day—Jesus, does anyone know this?—the conservative estimate would be two hours— Wait. I can stop the nosebleed. I will stop the nosebleed. Yes. I will find a way. More ice. Rearrange her—a reverse incline; gravity, yes. I will hold the nose tighter, tighter this time; I probably wasn
’
t holding tight enough before— Fuck. What if it doesn
’
t work? It won
’
t work. We shouldn
’
t spend the last hours fighting it; no, we will know and let it go—turn the TV off right away, of course— But would that be too dramatic? Fuck, we can be dramatic here, we can— Well, we
’
d ask her, of course, dumbshit, it
’
d be up to Mom of course, the TV, whether it was on or off—it
’
s her show of course—that
’
s a dumb way of putting it,
“
her show,
”
so crass, such disrespect, you fucking dumbshit. Fuck. Okay, so we
’
d have some time, we could sit there, hang out, just sit there, it
’
d be
nice— Jesus, it
’
s not going to be
nice,
not with the blood everywhere— The blood is going to make it unbearable— But maybe not, it
’
s so slow, the blood— Oh, it
’
ll be days, days before it drains, enough drains, but maybe that
’
ll be good, natural, a slow draining, like a leeching—not like a leeching, asshole you
sick fucking asshole
—not a
goddamn motherfucking leeching
— Would we tell people how it happened? No, no. This would be a
“
died at home
”
thing, nice phrase, the phrase they used, come to think of it, for that one guy from high school who shot himself after graduating, the guy from art class with those Marty Feldman eyes. Also when that one woman, the one with bone cancer, locked herself in the house and burned it down. That was incredible. Was it brave, or unhinged? Would that have made it easier, the burning of everything? Yes. No.
“
Died at home.
”
That
’
s how we
’
ll do it, say nothing else. People will know anyway. No one
’
ll say a thing. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine.