Breathing (10 page)

She’s on the phone telling Gina to meet us at the hospital. She’s got one arm around my body with her hand on my chest, like she’s feeling my heartbeat. Dog looks like he’s fixing to be sick himself.

I’ve got to say, it is nice to know they care.

It’s strange being out here instead of, you know, in there. I’m just watching it all happen without being concerned about any of it, except for the fact that I ain’t in my body. That part is sincerely creeping me out.

“I hear the sirens!” Mama shouts.

I feel myself drifting higher than the ceiling. Up there I’m walking on a bright path, and right in front of me is a hand-painted sign on an old slab of wood hanging from a post. There’s sand blowing around it. The yellow letters spell out two words: HOUSEPAINTERS NEEDED.

I start to drift away from it. The ambulance dudes down below rush in and put a mask on my face and start pumping air into me. I try to stay focused on that sign, wondering what it might could mean. But then I feel a jolt of some kind, and everything goes black.

There’s something strange down in my throat making me feel like I’m drowning. It’s choking me. I drag open my eyes and turn my head to see Mama asleep in the recliner beside me. I can’t seem to breathe when I want to. And then air gets pushed into my lungs when I didn’t mean for it to. It’s a terrible feeling, not being in control of my own body, and I am in a serious panic. Somebody moves on my other side. I twist around to see and law! It’s Jackson! Now I know I must be dreaming. That boy is all the way up in Greenville.

I try to call out to him, but I can’t make nary a word come out of my mouth. They’ve got some kind of tube running down my throat, and it’s making it hard to breathe or swallow. I ain’t never had to have that before. And there’s a bunch of machines beeping and moving. This must have been a bad one. I can’t even remember what happened.

“She’s awake,” Mama says, pressing the nurse’s call button. “Don’t try to talk, baby.” She looks spooked, like I just rose from the dead or something.

I make my eyes bug out to tell her I ain’t at all happy about this.

“I know,” she says. “Hang on just a sec.”

The door opens, and I’m expecting old baldy from my last hospital stay to march in. But it’s a young doctor, and as I look at her name badge, I discover I ain’t even at Mercy. It’s got the Wilmington logo on it!

Dr. Arletta Jones has smooth, dark skin and a bright, sunny smile. “How you feeling?” she asks me.

As if I could tell her if I wanted to. Does she not notice the big, fat hose they done stuck into me?
If you’d take this here pipe out my throat, I might could tell you I feel like I been chewed up and spit out
,

is what I’m thinking. But I ain’t exactly got any way of communicating it.

Jackson takes my hand in his and Lordy, part of me just melts. But I’m in too much of a panic to really enjoy it.

“All right, hon, if you can relax, we’ll remove that tube. Otherwise we’ll have to sedate you,” Dr. Jones says.

I squeeze Jackson’s hand real hard, ’cause I’m scareder than a worm on a hook when the fish are biting. He holds my hand in both of his and brings it close to his mouth.

They sure know how to kill a moment. Next thing I know, they’re yanking tape off my face and pulling this big old nasty tube from my throat, and it feels creepy coming up out of me like that. And it makes me gag. Luckily there ain’t nothing in my stomach to come up along with it. That there is just about the worst feeling I done ever felt. It leaves me wore out and, somehow, ashamed.

Then something comes to me, like remembering a dream, foggy at first, then coming clear—the image of a sign—yellow paint on a wood slab, saying: HOUSEPAINTERS NEEDED.

I cross my fingers, hoping it means what I think it might. I smile up at Jackson, relieved now that they got that awful tube out, and tears pour right from my eyes. I don’t even mind them sticking the little bitty oxygen prongs in my nose. “You’re here,” I try to say to Jackson, but don’t one single sound come out, not even a croak.

“You done scared the bejesus out o’ me, girl,” Jackson says.

“I’m sorry,” I say without making a sound, but secretly I’m tickled that I actually found a way to get Mama to bring Jackson to me. I turn to her. “What all happened?” I try to ask. Nothing but gurgles and chokes come out, though I manage to mouth the words. I grab at my throat.

“Your voice should return in a couple of hours,” Dr. Jones explains. “The tube pushed your vocal cords apart. They’ll be back to normal soon enough.”

“I’ll tell you what happened,” Mama cries. “You near about died, that’s what.” She’s shaking her head and catching her breath like she’s about to bawl herself.

“Let me listen to your lungs, Savannah,” Dr. Jones says, pulling out her stethoscope, which is cold as a witch’s tit. After listening for what feels like forever, she turns to Mama. “Don’t worry, now. She’ll be okay. We need to keep her here a couple of days to work out the meds and see if we can figure out what set her off, so we can all feel reassured this won’t happen again. In the meantime, let’s give her plenty of rest and keep the emotional ups and downs to a minimum, since we know that’s one of her triggers.” She glares at Jackson.

I’m fixing to get all pissed off, thinking she’s suggesting Mama send Jackson on home. Then I realize my angle. Only I still can’t talk. I tap Mama’s arm and gesture for her to hand me an ink pen and some paper. I write:
Jackson best stay close by then, ’cause if he leaves I’m going to be a mess.

“Clever,” the doctor replies, smiling. “I’ll have to watch out for you. Ms. Brown, if I could talk to you out in the hall for a moment.”

Usually that burns me up when they leave me out of the discussion, since it’s clearly about me. But today, all I can think is I got a couple minutes with Jackson all to myself.

I wait till they close the door.
How’d you get here?
I write on the paper.

“Your mama called.” He sounds serious. “I believe she thought you was gonn’ die. Probably figured me being here might give you something to hang on for.”

See there? She knows it as well as I do. I need him. The image of that sign pops into my head again, and come to think of it, wasn’t I up on the ceiling when I saw it?

“You was pretty bad off.”

“Since yesterday. Your mama called me ’bout five a.m., shortly after they brung you in. I tore out the house with barely a word and drove here fast as I could in my daddy’s old truck.”

I set down the pen, hold his hand and bring it to my cheek.

He leans his face in close to mine. “Don’t do that again,” he whispers. “I couldn’t take losing you.”

The chills run all up and down my spine, my arms, and everywhere. I don’t want to nag, but I suddenly can’t help myself. I grab the pen and paper again and start scribbling what’s on my mind.
You’ve got to come back, Jackson. Greenville is just too dang far off. I can’t hardly stand it. You’ve got to come paint houses. There’s this sign with yellow paint somewhere and I believe they’re waiting for you, and
. . . My breathing’s getting raggedy and my nose is stinging from wanting to cry. This writing business is too slow, and I can’t get across how desperately I need him to come on back.

“Hush, now. You have another fit and your mama will surely send me packing. Breathe, girl.”

I lay back, holding tight to his hand, and try to set my breathing to rights. Mama and the doctor come in. Dr. Jones puts the nebulizer on me so the mist and medicine seep into my lungs. She glares at Jackson, but he doesn’t look at her. Pretty soon I’m breathing good again, but I’m plumb wore out. He waits till the doctor steps away, then starts stroking my hair.

Once the doctor leaves, Mama squints up her eyes and looks from me to Jackson. “I appreciate you being here with her,” she says to Jackson. “You’re a good boy.”

How embarrassing. He’s eighteen years old!

“I’ve been thinking an awful lot about what Savannah said happened at that raucous party,” she continues. “I got to tell y’all, I’m wanting to believe her that you didn’t have a thing to do with it. Am I right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jackson says without hesitating.

Mama nods. “What about that fight?” she asks.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he says, standing up tall, “but I ain’t gonn’ tolerate nobody pickin’ at Savannah. We tried to walk away three times, but my cousin just wouldn’t quit. We were aiming to leave when he just pushed it one step too far.”

The nurse comes in right then and makes me breathe into one of them plastic peak-flow doohickeys that measures how hard I can blow air. I’m wishing she would go on and leave, ’cause I’m dying to hear Mama’s reaction to what Jackson just said. I’m huffing and puffing into that clear tube, making myself right dizzy, though the little red marker inside isn’t hardly rising. Finally, the nurse takes it from me and checks my vitals.
Get!
I want to yell at her.

Soon as she steps out, Mama picks up the conversation right where we left off. “You want me to try to talk to the Channings for you?” she asks in a low voice.

Now ain’t that sweet?

“That’s a’ight,” he says. “Best we just give ’em some time to cool down, I expect.”

“That’s real mature of you,” Mama says. Then she nods at us and looks towards the door. “I’ma go enjoy the afternoon sun. Y’all behave.”

I pull on the back of her shirt to get her attention, then write,
Maybe you should go to work. Jackson’s here to look after me.

“You let me worry about that,” she replies, her smile tight.

I shake my head hard, knowing she’s going to lose her job again. Then she turns and walks right out of the room.

But now me and Jackson are on our own. Granted it ain’t exactly like a whole lot can happen. But it’s time to ourselves nonetheless.

Somehow I just got to make him see how important that yellow sign must be—to the both of us. He’s just got to go looking for it.

 

 

When Mama comes back, I raise the issue about her job once more.
It’s really okay. You can go on to work,
I write on my notepad
.
I can tell by her wrinkled-up forehead she’s worried. Plus she’s got dark bags under her eyes, and she keeps on biting her lip.

“I appreciate your concern, Van. But Jackson does not know your usual meds and dosages, and he is not qualified to make your medical decisions. We’ll do all right. I called Miss Patsy and told her you were under the weather. So your job’s safe. Now quit your worrying.”

Why don’t you tell your boss the same thing?
I write.

“Wouldn’t matter if I did. I haven’t got any sick leave.”

She tries to smile, but I know she’s worrying, not just over the job, but also on how we’ll afford our end of the costs. All I can do is try to get well right quick. I lay back, close my eyes, and breathe.

J
ackson’s mama wants him to hurry on back home. He ain’t even been here but three days. Poor thing’s been sleeping in a recliner chair by my bed every night. First she sends him away. Then she calls him back. Now she can’t even get by for just a few days without him? He’s got this clunky old cell phone she gave him, and it’s ringing every few hours.

She says he needs to get on home and see to getting himself a job right quick. He doesn’t want to leave. He’s still all worried about me, ’cause Dr. Arletta Jones says I’m going to have to stay in the hospital for a few more days, and he figures that can’t be good.

Somehow I’ve got to get him to go look for that wooden sign with the yellow paint. He ain’t left my side once since he got here, which is sweet as hell, but I need him to find that sign!

He says he ain’t got time to drive along the coast to look for some imaginary sign. But I believe it’s the way for us to stay together. He wants to kowtow to his mama and go work at some old machine shop or some such nonsense instead of painting, which he and I both know is what he is meant to do. At least painting houses is closer to his true calling than a body shop. Plus, when he was out by us, he had time to paint pictures, too.

Dr. Arletta Jones keeps on picking at me to make a list of what kicks off my asthma. It’s simple, really. There’s dust and pollen and mold and fertilizer. There’s feeling mad and stressed and overexcited. But here’s what it comes down to: My daddy left and my breathing quit on me. Jackson came into my life and it eased up. He left and I quit breathing again. The solution sure seems clear to me. Jackson’s just going to have to move back out our way.

Only problem is, don’t nobody believe me. When I tried to explain it to Dr. Jones, Mama laughed out loud, saying she just said that when I was little ’cause she was pissed at my daddy. Maybe, but that don’t mean it ain’t true. She doesn’t believe I remember him leaving, but I do, and just thinking about it gets my chest all choked up.

 

 

I wake up early, the light coming in through the blinds dim enough to be dawn. Jackson’s face is just inches from my own. He’s standing over me.

“You ’wake?” he asks.

“What’s wrong?” I answer, sitting up quietly so as not to disturb Mama.

“I got to go. My ma called again. Tyler done run off. She needs me.”

“
I
need you,” I say, knowing I’m pouting, but unable to help myself.

“Come on, now. It won’t be forever.”

“You’re supposed to find that sign. I just know you are,” I tell him.

“I ain’t got time to be chasing some dream sign.” He can see I’m hurt by that one. “You know I trust your special feelings. They done saved my life.”

I don’t tell him that ain’t technically true. I saved him from the train ’cause I was out there spying, but it sounds good, so I let it lie.

“I ain’t got a choice here. I got to go.” And I can tell he’s all tore up about it, so I let him off the hook. But I can’t help my tears spilling out. “Be strong, Savannah. For me?” Then he presses his lips to mine. I grab on to hug him and don’t want to let go.