Never Coming Back(31)

One year of walking around in my body, this body that might or might not be carrying a gene mutation. One year of thinking with these brain cells that might or might not already be forming plaque. One year of not knowing if the things I couldn’t remember were things I couldn’t remember because I was a human being or because I was a human being who carried the eFAD gene mutation.

“You mean, are there things that we argue about?” Brown said. “Subjects we disagree on so deeply that it’s not worth bringing them up?”

“Like if I were libertarian and Brown were socialist,” Sunshine said, “that kind of thing?”

“No. More like, are there things that neither of you talks about with anyone. Secrets.”

“Small secrets, like some kind of strange toenail-clipping technique?” Brown said. “Or a big secret, like me being a serial killer?”

“Wait, are you a serial killer, Brown?” Sunshine said. “Because, as your wife, that is something I would like to know.”

“No, I am not a serial killer. Although think about it. Would I tell you if I were?”

He picked up the skewer we were using to test the doneness of the foil packets, held it high in the air in both hands, then ran it straight through the packet nearest him. Creepy.

“Yeah, that kind of thing,” I said. “Something big.”

“We don’t talk about my disease,” Sunshine said. “We don’t talk about survival rates, life expectancy, et cetera. We don’t use the word cancer.”

“That’s true,” Brown said. “We hate talking about that kind of shit.”

“Do you think about it, though?”

“Sometimes,” Sunshine said. She laced her hands over the place where her breasts used to be. “Sometimes I think about my boobs. I miss them.”

“I miss your boobs too,” Brown said. “Your boobs were gorgeous. We should have had someone paint a picture of you naked before they got chopped off. An oil painting. Then we could’ve hung it in the living room and said our prayers before your boobs every morning.”

“If we were the prayer type,” Sunshine said.

“Which we’re not,” Brown said.

I knelt by the coals and used the tongs to extract each of the foil packets. Done. Paper plates and forks and foil packets all around. It was the in-between time, before true darkness fell over the face of the forest and the fairy lights began to glimmer.

“So, the c-word,” Sunshine said. “That’s a big thing we don’t talk about.”

“But you both don’t talk about it,” I said. “It’s not a secret. You both don’t talk about it because you already have talked about it, talked it all the way through.”

“And all the way back again,” Brown said. “Put a fork in it, it’s done. Overdone in fact.”

“And what I’m thinking about is something else,” I said. “Something like a big thing, a huge thing that you just carry around inside yourself, an awful thing that no one else in the world knows about.”

They were quiet. I looked down at my paper plate. Steam rose from the opened foil. Everything was done, cooked to perfection, bits of char here and there on the roasted carrots and potatoes. Smell of onions and sausage. In my head I pictured the coyotes and fisher cats and raccoons, watchful in the brush and forest beyond the clearing.

“Clara?” Brown said. “Is there something you’re not telling us?”





* * *





My messed-up heart saved me from answering.

“Your heart thing again?” Sunshine said, at the same time that Brown said, “Oh Jesus, again with the heart. Lie down, Clara.”

I lay down on the bench by the fire pit, staring up at the crown of the nearest white pine, my heart fluttering in my chest. Above me they were talking. It always freaks me out, Brown said, no matter how many times I’ve seen it happen, and Sunshine was saying, At some point she’s going to once and for all get sick of having to lie down in the middle of whatever she’s doing and then she’ll finally get it fixed, and Brown was saying, It’s not even that complicated a thing, right? It’s not even like actual heart surgery, right? and Sunshine was saying, It’s really taking a toll on her. She might not be able to see it, but we can. And, like, what about driving? That can’t be safe, right?

“Hello. I’m right here. I can hear you.”

Except that I must not have said that out loud, because neither of them heard me. They talked on, murmuring in the whispery way they did whenever my heart flared up and I had to lie down, about the first time they ever saw it happen, that autumn day freshman year, how we were sitting on the top row of bleachers at the football field and then suddenly I was lying down. Right there on the bleacher, remember? Brown said. Of course I remember, Sunshine said. I remember thinking, Wait, I don’t know CPR, why didn’t I take CPR in high school, because it looks as if my roommate is having a heart attack right here on this bleacher and if I had only taken CPR then I would know what to do.

On and on their voices went. They were used to waiting for my heart to slow down, used to telling others, Nah, she’s fine—it’s just a weird heart thing. Benign. Just then my heart reverted into its normal rhythm—beat, beat, beat—and I opened my eyes.