Last Words: A Diary of Survival Read online

  “I'm only thirty-one,” I argue. “I have plenty of time.”

  “I don’t want you to wait as long as I did, Emma. I feel like an old hen around you and I don’t like it. Plus, whether you like it or not, your clock is ticking, and you’re with the wrong man,” she feels the need to add in.

  “Do you really think I should get involved with a cashier at a fast food restaurant? I’m a career woman with some long-term goals, and memorizing the value meal numbers isn't one of them.”

  This is how lunch goes whenever I meet her during the week. I love Mom to death, and I enjoy spending the time with her, but we don't see eye-to-eye on my love life, my career, my lifestyle, or diet. As a matter of fact, sometimes I kind of feel like I'm on a different planet than she's on. “Mom, don't worry about me so much, okay? I'll figure things out.”

  “I'm always going to worry about you, Emma. You're my daughter. You're not happy, and it's obvious.”

  “I am happy,” I lie, forcing a smile to try and end the conversation, but no one knows me better than she does. I'm like an open book to her.

  “You're not living life to its fullest,” she argues.

  “Mom, Dad left you fifteen years ago, and you've been living alone ever since. How is that happiness? Are you living life to its fullest?”

  “You are my happiness, Emma.”

  Sometimes the guilt is overwhelming, and I think she knows it.

  The moment I slip back into my car, my phone buzzes in my bag, and I silently curse. Between work calls, Mom's calls, and Mike's calls, which have increased to an irritatingly excessive level as of late, I rarely have a moment to breathe. I pull out my phone and see Mike’s name on the display. I do not want to talk to him right now, but the calls will continue until I pick up, so I exhale heavily and answer.

  “Hi,” I say cordially, as I pull out of the parking lot.

  “Do you have a minute?” he asks, then clears his throat. That’s what he does when he’s nervous about something.

  “Sure,” I tell him, though I don't want to hear what he plans to say. Sorry doesn't work for me anymore, and I'm worn out from the endless arguments.

  “Em, I'm sorry for what I said last night,” he begins, sounding nearly robotic, or like he’s on auto-repeat. I’ve heard the same spiel a million times now.

  “Okay,” I reply.

  “What's going on with us?” he asks? The remorse in his voice deliberate, verging on the line of fake. Things are never about us, they’re about him.

  “I don't think this is an issue between us, Mike.”

  “Why is it always me?” As usual, he immediately initiates an argument. What else could I possibly want to do at two in the afternoon during my lunch break?

  “I wasn't the one who came home in a drunken rage last night,” I remind him.

  He grunts indignantly and says, “I wasn't drunk.”

  “I could smell the whiskey from across the room, Mike. Why do you lie about it? I've been very understanding of you going out several nights a week with your friends, even when you come home smelling like weed and perfume. I keep telling myself that you're just a little immature and you'll grow up eventually, but we’re in our thirties and I’m getting tired of waiting.” My life consists of hopping from one Starbucks to another while seeking work-day scenery changes, meeting Mom for lunch, and checking on Grams, while I dread going home each night to the small, desolate house I share with Mike. “On top of that, the house is always a disaster with your socks tossed in every corner, dirty underwear and towels in the entryway of the hall bathroom, and empty pizza boxes stacked up on top of the full trash can—all strategically placed so I have something to clean when I get home at night.” How can I see myself living like that forever?

  “So, what, we’re breaking up for the fourth time this month?” he asks as if it doesn’t faze him. It doesn’t mean anything to Mike because I haven’t been able to keep my word when I tell him we’re done. The worst part is, he’s told me so many times before that I don't have the “balls” to leave him, reminding me I have nowhere to go and that being a freelance designer doesn’t offer me a dependable salary.

  “I don't know if I can be with you,” I tell him honestly. I don't love him like I thought I once did, and despite having to admit that Mom might be right, this isn't the life I want.

  My current state of calmness is unusual for how I typically come off during one of our arguments, because I'm passionate about what I believe in, so I become overheated easily, but now, I feel nothing. “Fine, then move out. I don't care,” he tells me.

  That should have hurt me, but I still feel nothing. I don't know what to say, but I know this is the closest I've come to walking away from Mike. I just need to keep going without looking back this time. “I'll come get my stuff tonight,” I tell him.

  “Whatever,” he says. “You'll be back tomorrow, telling me how much you love and need me. We've been through this crap a million times, Emma.”

  I pull into Grams's driveway knowing that I need to end this conversation with Mike before I go inside. Her feelings on Mike mimic Mom’s thoughts. “Are you going to be home tonight?” I ask him with a tone of finality to rush this along.

  “I had plans to go out with the guys. Devin is leaving for a month sabbatical tomorrow, so we're having drinks.”

  “Okay then, I'll probably be gone by the time you get home.”

  “Right,” he snickers. “You'll be asleep in my bed. This drama is unnecessary, Emma, so just stop. I have to get back to work now that I've wasted my entire lunch break listening to your empty threats.”

  You’re the one who called me; I want to tell him. “Okay,” I calmly say again. “Have a good day?” I hang up the phone and wish I could erase Mike from my life as easily as I could delete him from my phone contacts. Whatever the case, I need to remove that man from my thoughts for a bit so I can put on a smile for Grams. She can always tell something is wrong by the way I blink.

  I let myself into her house, finding her leaning against an end table in her living room. “Grams, what's wrong?” I ask.

  She appears startled as she jumps and clutches at the collar of her blouse. “Emma,” she huffs. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  I look past her, toward the microwave. “It's two fifteen on the dot,” I say. It's the same time I come by most days. Mom checks in on her in the morning before she goes to work, I usually check on her midday, and Aunt Annie checks on her just before dinner time. Thankfully, we all live in a close vicinity.

  “Oh, right, right…sorry,” she says.

  “It's okay,” I tell her as I gently place my hand on her shoulder and guide her into the family room. “Is something wrong?”

  “Yes,” she says, the word vibrating against the hollow of her throat.

  “Are you in pain? What's going on?” I ask, immediately filled with concern, but I already know about the palpitations she was getting earlier.

  “I think I'm going to die today,” she says, sounding helpless.

  “No, you're not,” I say as I help her take a seat.

  Grams sits carefully, sinking into the plushness of her worn heather gray recliner. “I'm ninety-two, Emma. It's seventy-four years longer than I expected to live.”

  I take a seat on the arm of the chair and rest my head on her frail shoulder. “Why are you talking like this?” I ask.

  With an exhausted sigh and a slight shake of her head, she replies, “I don't know.” Her hand drops to her lap, and her eyes go wide as if she's staring through a wall across the room, or staring at a ghost. “It's just the truth. I shouldn't be here.” I'm very confused by what she’s saying, and I wish Grams would explain herself a bit more. “My heart aches. My hands are shaky and my voice always quakes, but I know I’m not ready for the end.”

  I spring to my feet. “I'll call 9-1-1, then your doctor. Did you take a baby aspirin this morning?”

  “No,” she snaps before tugging at my arm so I'll sit back down. “It hurts insid
e. I’m scared.”

  “I don't understand what you're talking about?” She doesn't speak this way. She’s strong and brave, never afraid.

  “It has been more than seventy-four years,” she says again.

  “Since what?” I ask.

  “It isn't important,” she says as she presses her head into the indentation she has made on her chair over the years. Her eyelids close, and she places her soft hand on mine. “Emma, you will always be my sweetheart. You know that, right?”

  “Grams,” I shout, startled. I press my hands into her shoulders and shake her. “Grams!”

  No, no, no! I run to grab my phone, trembling as I dial 9-1-1, and the world freezes in time as I wait what seems like an eternity before my call is connected.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Emma

  Minutes have turned into hours as Mom, Aunt Annie, and I sit in the waiting room, panicking with anticipation. How did she know something bad was going to happen today? We don't even know if Grams is alive, and the feeling of the unknown is making us sick to our stomachs, which is evident since there are no words exchanged between us.

  “She was acting kind of strange right before it happened,” I mutter while plucking a loose thread off my torn jeans.

  “Like how?” Mom asks.

  “I don't know. She was talking about it being more than seventy-four years for something. She seemed confused.”

  “Seventy-four years?” Annie repeats.

  I place my phone down on the little wooden table in front of us, annoyed by the constant vibrating messages from Facebook, incoming calls, and work emails.

  “Who is sending you so many messages?” Mom asks.

  “I don’t know,” I mumble against my fist.

  “Well, can you tell them you're busy with a family emergency?”

  Rather than doing that, I lean forward to shut the phone off completely, but of course, Mike must call at the exact second I'm pressing the power button.

  I pick up the phone since I've already somehow pressed the answer button. “What?”

  “Really? We're there now?” he asks with exasperation like he’s the one I should be concerned about right now.

  “Mike, I don't have time right this second. Grams passed out—we’re at the hospital. We don't know what’s going on. It's just not a good time. We’ll talk later.”

  “Oh, shit, Emma, I’m so sorry,” he says. “Which hospital are you at?”

  “Mass General,” I say. Not like it matters to him.

  “I’ll be right down.”

  “Mike, no, its fine—” He disconnects the call. It is neither the place nor the time to try and reconcile our problems. I’m sure he has an apology floating around in that empty head of his, and he thinks he’ll catch me in a moment of weakness with Grams being ill, but I don't want to hear it today.

  “Don't tell me he’s coming down here?” Mom groans.

  “What was I supposed to do? He hung up on me.”

  “Well, call him back and tell him no. It’s family only.”

  She's right, and I go to call him back, but just as I find his number, a doctor opens the door to the tiny waiting room we’re occupying. We all stand as if waiting to be sentenced in a courtroom. “Doctor, what's going on?” I ask.

  The doctor is young, maybe fresh out of residency, but I already appreciate his bedside manner, seeing the reassuring smile on his face. “Amelia is going to be just fine,” he says.

  Without thought, we all lunge at him and wrap our arms around his neck. “Oh my gosh, thank you so much,” I tell him. Out of the three of us, I'm probably the only one who can speak since Mom and Annie are crying. “So, what was it?”

  We peel ourselves away from the poor man, and he pulls up a chair as the four of us take a seat. The doctor has kind eyes—a look that emanates ease and comfort. His smile is sort of charming, and it’s clear he knows how to handle a roomful of teary eyes. “First, I'm Doctor Beck.” He places his hand on his chest before leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “I’ve been the one taking care of your mother—grandmother,” he says, looking between Mom and Annie, then me. “Amelia did have a mild stroke, but we were able to dissolve the clot with a special drug meant specifically for these situations. Fortunately, we were able to prevent the stroke from progressing and doing more damage.”

  “But you just said she was okay?” I question.

  “What's the damage?” Mom finally asks.

  Dr. Beck sits up and leans back against his chair, maintaining a level of comfort, which keeps us calm. “As of right now, there doesn't appear to be any physical damage other than a very slight weakness in her left arm and leg, but she does seem a bit confused, which is normal after a stroke.”

  Annie is breathing heavily, losing herself in thought like she often does. I know her well enough to assume she’s going through the long list of “what ifs” in her head. “Will the confusion subside?” she asks.

  “In most situations, it resolves itself with time. In my experience, I’ve seen mild cases of memory loss or delusion, but with cognitive therapy, it's something that can improve.” Dr. Beck folds his hands on his lap as he continues to explain everything to us in a way we understand. “To be honest, though, we should be focused on the fact that this could have been much worse, and since you acted so quickly, she has minimal damage.” Mom and Annie place their hands on my back, silently thanking me for being there when this happened. It was just luck, though. I hate to think what could have happened if I wasn’t there.

  “When can we see her?” Mom asks Dr. Beck.

  “Just as soon as we go over one more thing,” he says. “Amelia has a condition called atrial fibrillation. This condition causes an arrhythmic heartbeat. Basically, when the heart is beating erratically, it can cause the heart to spit out blood clots. The clot can then become lodged in an artery, causing a shortage of blood to the brain, which is more than likely what caused this stroke.”

  I feel like I just heard a whole lot of gibberish. “What does that mean? She could have another stroke?” Annie asks. The tone of her voice is one step away from a total meltdown. I can sense it coming.

  “What I'd like to do is place a pacemaker in her chest cavity, which will hopefully keep her heart beating in a regular rhythm. Doing this will help lessen the chances of another stroke.”

  She's ninety-two. This can't be a good idea.

  “What if we decide against the procedure?” Mom asks.

  Dr. Beck pulls in a sharp breath and holds it for a second before continuing. “Honestly, the likelihood of another stroke is moderate to high,” he says.

  I look over at Mom and Annie who appear to be struggling with the decision. “Do it,” I tell him.

  “Emma!” Mom snaps.

  “It's the right thing to do.”

  “What about the risks involved in the surgery?” Annie questions.

  “In my opinion, the risk of inserting a pacemaker is small, but the risk of another stroke without a pacemaker is concerning,” Dr. Beck says. “You can come on back and see her now. Talk everything over with her, and let me know when you’ve made a decision.”

  We follow Dr. Beck through the door and into the ICU. The sounds of odd beeps and air pumping through machines behind closed curtains are noises that I never want to hear again after today. My chest tightens as we reach the end of the hall, knowing how hard it’s going to be to see Grams lying helpless in a hospital bed.

  She has been a force of nature my entire life. Nothing has ever slowed her down or kept her from doing the things she's wanted to do. Up until now, she has driven her own car, shopped, taken walks, and she even goes out for dinner with friends. I can only hope I'm the same way at her age. Now, though, when I enter the room, she's lying quietly in a hospital bed, asleep, with wires hooked up to various parts of her body. She's pale, and her hair is a mess—this is not the woman I know. My heart breaks at the sight of her, and I grab my chest as if that will help me hold its broken pieces toget
her.

  “Grams,” I say softly, making my way to the side of her bed.

  “Mom,” Annie follows.

  Grams opens her eyes slowly as a tentative smile presses against the corners of her lips into the dimples of her soft powdery cheeks. “My girls,” she says, sounding so frail. “I thought today was going to be the day.”

  “We're not letting anything happen to you,” I tell her, taking her limp hand within mine as I stroke my thumb across the wrinkled skin on her knuckles.

  “Where is Charlie?” she asks as her forehead furrows with concern?

  “Who is Charlie?” Annie asks Grams.

  “Oh, you know Charlie, girls.” She laughs at us as if we're ridiculous for not knowing this man.

  Grandpa's name was Max, so I don't think she'd be confusing the names. “We don't know anyone named Charlie,” I tell her.

  “Oh, sure you do, silly. Of course, you know Charlie Crane.”

  I share a look with Mom and Annie, each of us as confused as the other. Dr. Beck has been silently standing behind us, patiently waiting to check in with Grams. “This is the confusion I mentioned,” Dr. Beck says. “She was sharing some stories from the past, and I'm not sure she understands what year it is.”

  “You all have such beautiful hair,” Grams says, struggling to lift her hand before twirling one of my waves around her finger. “So…beautiful.”

  I don't understand why she’s talking to us this way. “Thanks, Grams,” I tell her, taking her hand back within mine. “You're going to be okay.”

  “I know, but you three may not be if you don't get out of here soon. I don't want the Nazis to find you in the sick bay.”

  That word fills my chest with a dark fear. We know little of Grams's history, mainly just that she survived the Holocaust, but her story stopped there. She didn't want us to know details or to live through the same nightmare she did, so we promised never to talk about it.

  “Emma,” Grams whispers, pulling me down toward her face. “Get my book, will you, sweetie?”

  “Book? Grams, I don't know what book you're talking about.”