Pulse Check

The drive to my sister’s house was gray. Cold for September, the skies threatened to mimic my tears the entire way north to Philadelphia. I didn’t mind. The gray was a calm contrast to the chaos of the last month of my life.

It wasn’t the route I usually took. Normally, I’d stay on I-95 and pay Delaware’s toll without thinking twice. But I had no cash, no access to money, and no toll roads.

It was the second time in my life that I could remember a day being so appropriately gray; the first was the day my mother died. I will never forget the sky that day - late October and the gray blanketed the remaining autumn leaves, suffocating the vibrant colors that trick us every fall into thinking death is beautiful.

I continued along the road I used to take “home” for so many years, but today, I had no idea where home was. The empty, long stretch of highway dragged while I drove. Voices from a familiar podcast broke through the monotonous murmur of rubber-on-road, filling the vehicle with other people’s laughter and morning-show sound effects. Their voices allowed me to hide in humor for a moment and I could feel myself cracking a smile before making awkward eye contact with myself in the rearview mirror. Instantly I remembered why I had been driving alone on this road I knew so well, but despite the familiarity, I was lost.

I sat across from my sister; my hands left a brief damp print on her hundred-year old dining room table before vanishing into the silent air.

“Can we get you some dinner? What do you feel like eating?” Kendall said with the most loving smile.

Her kindness felt inappropriate. I had just tried to sabotage my entire life. I had been a lit match in a dry cornfield and I set everything and everyone I loved on fire. Why was she being so nice to me?

“Chipotle?” I asked.

I hadn’t kept solid food down in three days, but I wanted something comforting; something that felt - normal – and that would remind me of him.

“Done. Pete can run out and pick it up. What do you want to do? We need to figure out what to do next…” She stopped herself as she saw my face, horrified and confused, not having the slightest idea of what I had been going to do next. “I’m… I’m… I am just so glad you’re here,” she pivoted.

My sister and I were always close, closer than you would expect given our eight year age difference. We fought of course - we got jealous of each other like any other siblings and I was always the annoying younger sister. We were nothing alike, we looked nothing alike, but we had fun and loved each other.

“I’m just so tired.” I said, emotionless. I was tired. Tired of fighting, tired of lying, and tired of running away.

After three bites, I crawled into bed and stayed there in a swampy mixture of sweat and selfish tears for nearly two days. Every so often I would hear the guest bedroom door creak open - Kendall anxiously checking on me, channeling the mother we no longer had. Too ashamed to assure her I was okay, I buried myself back under the damp duvet cover and fell back into a restless sleep until it was dark again.

“Okay sweetie, I have to go to work today but Pete will be here…” My sister spoke softly but the worry carried through her voice as she nervously left me for the day. I had to get up. I decided right then and there that I would no longer spend another day in bed hiding from the world or feeling sorry for myself. I stood in the shower, taking as long as I could before having to go downstairs and face my brother-in-law.

Confident I no longer smelled, I found an old t-shirt and Umbro shorts in my sister’s guest room and walked downstairs. I felt like a child. I was wearing Kendall’s old clothes from 1997, I had no money or freedom, and I wasn’t in my own home. I was 30. I felt ridiculous.

“Well hello!” Pete bellowed at me with a smile. Even if any of my misery had been justified, I couldn’t hide my tiny smile at his whimsical greeting given the situation.

“Ha, hi…” I replied sheepishly. Pete and I had always had a friendly relationship in the five years he had been with my sister, but we certainly had not reached a level of closeness where I was ready to admit my life had fallen apart in the last six months, and their house was the only place left I could go. We both allowed the truth of why I was there to linger in the air unacknowledged and he suggested we go eat. Again, I felt like a little kid, about to go eat with their babysitter.

Before we left, I poured the largest glass of orange juice I had ever had. The thickness hit my tongue before the cold did, and I remember worrying for a moment that I wouldn’t keep it down. But the juice sloshed around nicely in my semi-empty stomach so I continued to drink. Every sip extinguished tiny brush fires in my belly while my brother-in-law just stared at me as I poured another glass and immediately gulped it down. I must have looked like someone who had been stranded on an island without food or water for days.

“Ready?” Pete asked, trying not to look like someone watching a zoo animal.

“Yeah,” I said after my lips were finished smacking against themselves in satisfaction.

The anxiety started to return while in line at the prepared foods section in Whole Foods. It wasn’t particularly crowded - late morning on a weekday. Women in yoga pants massaged watermelons, somehow knowing which ones were still acceptable this late in the season. Would I ever know how to do that? Pick out perfect fruits to feed my family? My mom always seemed to know when a cantaloupe was ready and I would delight in using the funny little tool that made perfect juicy balls out of one big giant ball. Would I ever scoop tiny melon balls for my daughter?

I placed my fingers against my neck and waited for the pulsing rhythm to assure me I wasn’t dead. This gesture had become more of an indication of my mental state rather than any sort of medical diagnosis. The more I checked my pulse, the worse I was. There was no logical justification for it; was I expecting not to have a pulse? I wasn’t using the information. I would check it and regardless of whether it was racing or going too slow, I would panic. My husband used to catch me doing it. He would ask me what I was doing, like a parent catching their child hiding something. I had become like a child to him. A burden.

I missed him. Although I know he hated it, he always understood why I was checking my pulse. But now, without him, I was just a crazy person checking her pulse by the Whole Foods hot food bar with no one near me to know what it meant.

Pete masked the fact that he was babysitting me well. After we got home from lunch – (and after I poured myself another glass of orange juice – he suggested we watch TV.

“There’s a few jail shows on here that I’ve been watching that are pretty good,” Pete continued to act as if this was totally normal for a Thursday.

“Jail shows?” I asked. Seemed appropriate. I wasn’t in jail by any means, but my freedom was confined to their house for the time being so I figured, sure. “Jail shows.”

The reality show played and soon I was back asleep, this time on their couch. The outing to Whole Foods wore me out; Whole Foods and the life-ruining, but probably mostly Whole Foods.

The next day, I had to get out. I couldn’t sleep or watch jail shows anymore. I couldn’t stare at my phone waiting for messages that were never coming.

Kendall had to go to work so it was me and Pete again. He worked the night before. As a police officer, Pete worked erratic shifts; I am sure the last thing he wanted to do when he woke up was hang out with his sad sister-in-law, but he did it anyway.

It was time to start figuring out what to do. For the past eight years of my life, I had been living as a fraud. Something snapped in my brain when my mom got sick again and I tried everything in my power to become more destructive to myself than her being sick and dying ever could be. Once she passed, I lost myself in avoidance, anger, and grief.

Eight months before I washed up on my sister’s doorstep, I had spent my 30th birthday in a detox facility. While my peers had been celebrating their “dirty-thirties” out at the bars in Georgetown or New York, I was spending the night in a nondescript office building in North Carolina where I had to check my shoelaces at the front desk. Lola worked the food line, specifically desserts. As I approached her section she caught my eye and smiled wide behind her oversized sassy readers and hairnet.

“I have something for you Miss Model.” Because of my height, I had gained a nickname already. Funny, at the time I felt ugliest, I gained the nickname “Miss Model.”

Lola shuffled over to a tray covered with foil, and when she returned, revealed a single slice of yellow cake with vanilla frosting and sprinkles.

My eyes swelled as I thanked her and walked over to my small group of new friends. The girl with the blue hair whose name I now feel bad for forgetting whispered, “We told them it was your birthday, no one should have to have a big birthday alone in a place like this.”

As I sat and waited for my Pete to wake up, I remembered Blue Hair and Lola’s kindness. I decided to make my bed, and began making my bed every morning. I needed a routine. I was still feeling restless when Pete reminded me there was a school track less than 100 yards from their house if I wanted to go for a walk. No one was letting me drive anywhere yet and the rest of my family wasn’t quite ready to see me so I figured - why not? I have been running in circles for the past two years or so, why not walk in circles for a bit?

The limited freedom felt nice. I walked down to the track and felt the late September sun wake up my pores. Tiny beads of sweat began to form on my forehead before I even got to the track. I still wasn’t feeling 100% after spending the better part of a month sustaining myself on a liquid diet. I reveled a bit in the slight sweet aroma of my sweat. The last remnants of my fucked up fermented life wafted under my nose and I felt motivated to run, not walk, and sweat more - release more.

The swish of scratching gravel grew faster under my feet. I felt terrible and awesome all at once. For the first time in so long I was alone and felt at peace in my own mind - but also like I might throw up. I slowed my pace down like a runner who had just crossed the finish line after the race of their life. I had run a quarter of a mile but it felt like a marathon accomplishment. It was the first thing I had done in a while that didn’t make me hate myself - baby steps.

“How did it go?” Pete asked, his voice booming and jolly, as if I had actually just done something important.

“It was good. I ran a whole lap around the track.” The words came out of my mouth searching for his approval. It was so stupid but I was excited to tell him I ran a lap. After sleeping and doing nothing for three days, I was hoping my police officer brother-in-law would see that I wasn’t the train wreck everyone thought and that he wouldn’t regret letting me crash his and my sister’s life.

The next morning, I made my bed again. I poured a glass of orange juice without shaking hands. I went grocery shopping without checking my pulse.

As I stepped out their front door, I decided I’d run two laps today. I didn’t know what would come after that. But for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t afraid to find out