Disclaimers in Part 1
****
I can breathe again, but when I look into Donnatella's eyes I find
that I am incapable of speech. I am unable to put voice to the flood
of emotions I am feeling right now. I can feel tears spring to my
eyes, but I can't bring myself to be embarrassed by them. After The
Shooting, and subsequent physical healing, I was emotionally numb for
so long that I wondered if I would ever feel again.
After the President ordered me to see a specialist, the emotions
began to trickle back into life one at a time. But always, they were
dull, dampened by the trauma that had become my life. Despite these
dampened emotions I began to feel…functional…again.
Now, for the first time in over six months, I feel human again. I
feel mortal…vulnerable. I lean my head back against the headrest,
and I can feel Donna's hands turn my head to face her.
Her hands are warm and soft on my face, and the tingling aftereffects
of her touch ripple throughout my entire body.
The corners of my mouth turn up as I gaze at her. She is the reason
I refused to die. Is it possible I forgot to mention that to her?
"Josh! Please talk to me. Tell me what's wrong." She speaks calmly
to me but she begs with her eyes.
"Nothing, Donnatella," I say. She doesn't believe me, and before I
can say anything else, she has pulled my cell phone from her purse
and begun to punch in numbers.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"Canceling your appointment." For some reason, I don't feel the need
to argue with her. "And then I'm taking you to the emergency room."
I take the phone from her hand and close it with a snap. "I don't
need a doctor, Donna."
"You were grabbing your chest and having difficulty breathing, Josh."
"I'm fine now," I say, surprised to realize that I am speaking the
truth. The pain has disappeared and left in its place a marvelous
sense of peace.
"You could have had a minor heart attack. You're forty years old, J—"
"Thirty-nine," I defend.
"Whatever," she shoots back. "My Uncle Gilbert had a massive heart
attack and died when he was forty."
"Did your Uncle Gilbert eat steak at every meal and weigh four
hundred pounds?"
"Joshua," she says in that exasperated tone of hers, "there could be
something wrong with you. This could be a warning sign. You have to
see a doctor as soon as possible. You shouldn't ignore the signs
your body gives you."
"Donna?" I ask. "Would it make you feel better if I had this checked
out by the doctor?"
"Yes," she whispers.
I offer her the car keys and we take a moment to switch seats. We
meet at the front of the car, and I notice that her hands are shaking
slightly. I look down at my own, and for the first time in six
months they are still.
****
The drive to George Washington University Hospital takes less than
five minutes. She drops me off at the emergency exit and speeds off
the park the car. There is nothing I can say to her to make her
believe that I feel fine. I feel better than fine.
When she rushes into the emergency waiting room, I am filling out the
standard forms -- in triplicate. I have no idea what the answers are
to most of these questions. Donna takes the clipboard from me and
busily goes about answering all the pertinent questions about my
life, my insurance coverage, and my medical history. She knows that
I am allergic to strawberries and streptomyacin. How does she know
that? Sometimes I forget that strawberries give me hives.
I watch as she returns the completed forms to front desk. Her face
is flushed and there's a sheen of perspiration on her forehead.
Her hands are still shaking.
When she sits beside me, I take her hand in mine, and note that her
palm is clammy. She's nervous. Though she tries to hide it, I know
that she is worried about me. Her stomach is tied into painful
knots. Just as she was tuned into me, I am now tuned into her. Our
eyes meet, and I clasp her hand tighter, trying to let her know that
I am fine.
"Mr. Lyman?"
I look up at the nurse, who gestures for me to follow. I stand from
the hard, plastic chair. Donna has released my hand and now I feel
strangely bereft. She expects me to leave her in the waiting room.
She expects to sit here and wonder what they are doing me and if the
doctor's news will be good or bad.
I won't do that to her ever again.
I reached down and take her hand, tugging her out of the chair. I
pull her along behind me as I follow the nurse into the exam room.
The, woman, dressed in pink scrubbed and a horrendously decorated lab
coat takes a moment to review my complaint.
"You say you were having chest pains earlier?"
"Yes," Donna answers, as though I am incapable of speaking for myself.
"I see from your chart that you were shot last year. Is that
correct?" Oh, boy is that correct.
"Yes," Donna answers again for me. The nurse must think I am
mute. "He was shot in the chest. His lung collapsed and his
pulmonary artery was transected."
"Take off your shirt, Mr. Lyman." The nurse speaks gently, as though
just discovering I am made of Waterford crystal. "Considering your
history, the doctor will probably want to do an EKG. She should be
with you in a few minutes." The nurse takes her leave of us, and I
thank her as she departs.
I pull off my tie with a single, swift jerk and hand it to Donna. As
my fingers find the buttons of my wrinkled dress shirt, Donna turns
away. "I should--"
"Stay," I tell her. I am only doing this for her benefit so it is
only right that she should be present for every moment of it. I
continue to unbutton my shirt and when I have reached the last button
I tug the shirt from the waistband of my pants and slip out of it.
Reaching to the back of my neck I pull my undershirt off with one
quick tug until I am bare before her.
Her eyes widen at the sight of the surgical scar that bisects my
chest down the middle. To the left of it is the unsightly entry
wound where the single bullet had its damaging way with my chest
cavity. She's never seen the scars. Even during my recovery, when
she was so instrumental in my physical healing, I never allowed her
to see my bare chest.
Donna suddenly becomes interested in the tiles on the floor as she
drops her eyes. She's afraid I will think she cannot bear the sight
of me. She drops into the chair next to the exam bed and runs a hand
over her face. I reach down to stroke her cheek, she looks up at me
and I see now that there are tears in her eyes.
"Mr. Lyman?" Another voice interrupts our silent communion.
"Josh," I qualify. The doctor is female and about Donna's age. She
looks up from the chart in her hands and I see that she mentally
notes the patchwork quilt that is my chest.
"I'm Dr. Walker. Would you hop onto the bed, please?"
"I usually get dinner first." I cannot resist. Dr. Walker smiles
lamely. My guess is that she's coming to the end of a thirty-six
hour shift.
Within minutes she has me hooked up to the Electrocardiogram, and
with the flip of the switch my heartbeat can be seen and heard on the
monitor. I watch as the green light beeps up and down at what feels
like a perfectly normal rate. The machine spits out a paper copy of
the monitor's findings in one long strip.
"Donnatella, come here." I gesture for her to step forward I am
mesmerized by the mechanical beeping of my heart. I find it
comforting. Donna stands from her seat and slowly approaches the
bed, her eyes fixed to the monitor. I can feel some of her tension
ease as my heart continues its normal rhythm.
Dr. Walker motions for me to sit up so that she can place a
stethoscope against my back. I breathe deeply when she requests it,
but I am really showing off my now-healthy lungs for Donna's sake.
The doctor takes my blood pressure and makes a note of it on her
chart before picking up the EKG readout to study it.
"What's the verdict, Doctor? Am I gonna live?" Donna cringes and I
am instantly sorry for my crass choice of words.
"Well," she sighs, "I've got goods new and I've got bad news. The
bad news is that you only have fifty years left to live. The good
news is that everything looks normal. Heart beat's strong and your
breath sounds are good. Your blood pressure's on the high side of
normal, though. You might want to lay off the French fries."
Donna is relieved and I hear the breath she has been holding release
through tightened lips. "Thank you, Doctor," she says.
And then she touched me.
Her warm hand on my bare shoulder was all it took. My heart races --
and everyone in the room hears it.
"What was that?" Donna asked, taking a step backwards. "What was
that?" Her tension was returning, and she is looking at me as though
I have purposely been deceiving her with a fake normal heart rate.
My rhythm skyrockets in response to her barely restrained and sudden
hysteria. I exchange eye contact with the doctor, and we share a
look that says we both know what just happened.
"Donna," I warn. "Calm down."
"Mrs. Lyman," the doctor says, "everything is just fine."
Mrs. Lyman. My heart skips again. Purely involuntary. Now what
does that tell you? More importantly, what does that tell me?
"Oh, I'm not--" Donna begins.
"Can we have a moment alone, Doctor Walker?" I cut Donna off.
"Of course," the doctor nods. "We're pretty much through here" She
reaches over and begins to remove the electrodes that connect me to
the lie detector -- I mean, EKG. "You're free to go whenever you
like. Just remember what I told you about the French fries, Mr.
Lyman." I watch as the doctor leaves, waiting for the door to shut
completely behind her.
Silence permeates the air. I don't know if I should wait for her to
speak first, or if I should say something. I have a thousand things
running through my mind, and I wish she would give me some as to
which direction I should take. I grab my undershirt at the foot of
the bed and thread my arms through it. I manage to get the shirt on
without taking my eyes off Donna.
"So, that's it?" she asks.
"That's it." I hop off the bed and reach for my dress shirt.
"But you heard that, Josh. Your heart was out of control. How can
she say that's okay? Is there something wrong with her? Maybe you
should get a second opinion."
I can't seem to take my eyes off of Donna. The intensity of her
concern frightens me. She needs to hear the truth as much as I need
to tell it. The truth I only just discovered tonight.
"Are you listening to me, Josh?"
"I'm listening," I say.
"I heard that. We all heard that. You can't tell me you're fine.
Your heart started racing for no reason."
"There was a reason."
"What?" she demands. "What possible reason could there be? Don't
lie to me about this, Joshua. I need to know the truth. I deserve
to know it." Her hands are flying all about, and her concern is
quickly turning into ire.
"Yes, you do.
"Then what?"
I stand in front of her now, just a breath away. I don't think she
noticed me moving in on her, though I have never been known for my
stealth. In a sudden realization of our proximity her eyes raise to
meet mine. I want to kiss her right here and now, but I am afraid
she would run screaming from the room -- or slap me silly. Instead I
take her face in my hands.
"The whole heart rate thing," I shrug, "it happens all the time.
It's nothing to worry about, okay?"
"It happens all the time?" I realize now that my words, despite
their casual delivery, are not easing her trepidation.
"It happens every time you touch me." There, I've said it. I have
confessed the truth -- well, part of it anyway.
Donna's jaw drops and I know that what I have just told her is taking
the long and winding road through her brain. It might be a while
before she actually has a comeback for that one. I decide to let her
think about it for a bit longer.
"Let's go," I say. "I'll take you home."