A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (9 page)
Read A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius Online
Authors: Dave Eggers
Tags: #Family, #Terminally ill parents, #Family & Relationships, #Personal Memoirs, #Death; Grief; Bereavement, #Biography & Autobiography, #Young men, #Editors; Journalists; Publishers
I pour the contents of the container over the food collected inside the disposal. I turn on the water, then the disposal, and it grinds everything up. I can hear Beth in the family room.
“
Mom, we should go in.
”
“
No.
”
“
Seriously.
”
“
No.
”
“
We have to.
”
“
We do not.
”
“
What do you want to do?
”
“
Stay here.
”
“
We can
’
t. You
’
re bleeding.
”
“
You said we would stay here.
”
“
But, Mom. C
’
mon.
”
“
You promised.
”
“
This is crazy.
”
“
You promised.
”
“
You can
’
t just keep bleeding.
”
“
Call the nurse again.
”
“
We already called the nurse again. The nurse said we had to go in. They
’
re waiting for us.
”
“
Call another nurse.
”
“
Mom, please.
”
“
This is stupid.
”
“
Don
’
t call me stupid.
”
“
I didn
’
t call you stupid.
”
“
Who were you calling stupid?
”
“
No one. I said it was stupid.
”
“
What
’
s stupid?
”
“
Dying of a bloody nose.
”
“
I
’
m not going to die of a bloody nose.
”
“
The nurse said you could.
”
“
The doctor said you could.
”
“
If we go in, I
’
ll never leave.
”
“
Yes you will.
”
“
I won
’
t.
”
“
Oh Jesus.
”
“
I don
’
t want to go back in there.
”
“
Don
’
t cry, Mom, Jesus.
”
“
Don
’
t say that.
”
“
Sorry.
”
“
We
’
ll get you out.
”
“
Mom?
”
“
What!
”
“
You
’
ll get out.
”
“
You want me in there.
”
“
Oh, God.
”
“
Look at you two, Tweedledum and Tweedledee.
”
“
Huh?
”
“
You want to go out tonight, that
’
s what it is.
”
“
Jesus.
”
“
It
’
s New Year
’
s Eve. You two have plans!
”
“
Fine, bleed. Sit there and bleed to death.
”
“
Mom, please?
”
“
Just bleed. But we don
’
t have enough towels for all the blood. I
’
ll have to get more towels.
”
“
Mom?
”
“
And you
’
ll ruin the couch.
”
“
Where
’
s Toph?
”
she asks.
“
Downstairs.
”
“
What
’
s he doing?
”
“
Playing his game.
”
“
What will he do?
”
“
He
’
ll have to come with.
”
At the end of the driveway my father knelt. Beth watched and it was kind of pretty for a second, him just kneeling there in the gray winter window. Then she knew. He had been falling. In the kitchen, the shower. She ran and flung open the door, threw the screen wide and ran to him.
I clear out the backseat of the station wagon and put a blanket down, then put a pillow against the side door and lock it. I come back into the living room.
“
How am I going to get in the car?
”
she says.
“
I
’
m gonna carry you,
”
I say.
“
You?
”
“
Yeah.
”
“
Ha!
”
We get her jacket. We get another blanket. We
get
the half-moon receptacle. We
get
the IV bag. Another nightgown. Slippers. Some snacks for Toph. Beth puts everything in the car.
I open the basement door.
“
Toph, let
’
s go.
”
“
Where?
”
“
To the hospital.
”
“
Why?
”
“
For a checkup.
”
“
Now?
”
“
Yes.
”
“
Do I have to go?
”
“
Yes.
”
“
Why? I can stay with Beth.
”
“
Beth
’
s coming with.
”
“
I can stay alone.
”
“
No, you can
’
t.
”
“
Why?
”
“
Because you can
’
t.
”
“
But why?
”
“
Jesus, Toph, get up here!
”
“
Okay.
”
I am not sure I can lift her. I don
’
t know how heavy she
’
ll be. She could be a hundred pounds, she could be a hundred and fifty pounds. I open the door to the garage and come back. I move the table away from the couch. I kneel in front of her. I put one arm under her legs, and the other behind her back. She has tried to sit up.
“
You
’
ll never get up if you
’
re kneeling.
”
“
Okay.
”
I
get
off my knees and crouch.
“
Put your arm around my neck,
”
I say.
“
Be careful,
”
she says.
She puts her arm around my neck. Her hand is hot.
I remember to use my legs. I keep her nightgown between my hand and the back of her knees. I do not know what her skin there will feel like. I am afraid of what is under her nightgown— bruises, spots, holes. There are bruises, soft spots...where things have rotted through? As I stand up, she reaches her other arm around to meet the one around my neck, and grabs one hand with the other. She is not as heavy as I thought she would be. She is not as bony as I feared she would be. I step around the chair next to the couch. I had once seen them both, my mother and father, on the couch, both sitting there. I head toward the hallway to the garage. The whites of her eyes are yellow.
“
Don
’
t let my head hit.
”
“
I won
’
t.
”
“
Don
’
t.
”
“
I won
’
t.
”
We pass the first doorway. The wood molding cracks.
“
Ow!
”
“
Sorry.
”
“
Owwwwwooooooh.
”
“
Sorry, sorry, sorry. You okay?
”
“
Mmmmm.
”
“
Sorry.
”
The door to the garage is open. The air in the garage is frozen. She pulls her head in and I clear the doorway. I think of honeymoons, the threshold. She is pregnant. She is a knocked-up bride. The tumor is a balloon. The tumor is a fruit, an empty gourd. She is lighter than I thought she would be. I had expected the tumor to create more weight. The tumor is large and round. She wears her pants over it, wore her pants over it, the ones with the elastic waistband, the last time she wore pants, before the nightgowns. But she is light. The tumor is a light tumor, empty, a balloon. The tumor is rotten fruit, graying at the edges. Or an insects
’
hive,
something festering and black and alive, fuzzy on its sides. Something with eyes. A spider. A tarantula, the legs fanning out, metastasizing. A balloon covered in dirt. The color is the color of dirt. Or blacker, shinier. Caviar. Like caviar in color and also in the shape and size of its components. She had had Toph late. She was forty-two then. She had prayed in church every day while pregnant. When she was ready, they cut her stomach open to
get
him but he was fine, perfect.
I step down into the garage and she spits. It is audible, the gurgling sound. She does not have the towel or the half-moon receptacle. The green fluid comes over her chin and lands on her nightgown. A second wave comes but she holds her mouth closed, her cheeks puffed out. There is green fluid on her face.
The car door is open and I aim her head in first. She shrugs her shoulders, tries to make herself smaller for an easier fit. I shuffle my feet, adjust my grip. I move in slow motion. I am barely moving. She is a vase, a doll. A giant vase. A giant fruit. A prize-winning vegetable. I pass her through the door. I lean down and place her on the seat. She is suddenly girlish in the nightgown, selfconsciously pushing it down to cover her legs. She adjusts the pillow against the door, behind her, and slides back into it.
When she is settled she reaches for a towel on the floor of the car and brings it to her mouth and spits into it and wipes off her chin.
“
Thank you,
”
she says.
I close the door and wait in the passenger seat. Beth comes out with Toph, who is in his winter coat and is wearing mittens. Beth opens the station wagon
’
s hatchback and Toph climbs in.
“
Hi, sweetie,
”
Mom says, craning her head back, looking up at him.
“
Hi,
”
says Toph.
Beth gets in the driver
’
s seat, turns around and claps her hands together.
“
Road trip!
”
You should have seen my father
’
s service. People came, third-grade teachers, friends of my mother, a few people from my father
’
s office, no one knew them, parents of our friends, everyone bundled up, huffing inside, glassy-eyed from the cold, kicking their snowy feet on the mats. It was the third week in November, and prematurely freezing, the roads covered with ice, the worst in years.
All the guests looked stricken. Everyone knew my mother was sick, were expecting this sort of thing from
her,
but this, this from him was a surprise. No one knew what do to, what to say. Not that many people knew him—he didn
’
t socialize much, at least not in town, had maintained only a handful of friends—but they knew my mother, and they must have felt like they were at the funeral for the husband of a ghost.