Everyone in This Room Will Someday Be Dead Read online

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  For Christina and Matthew

  part one Advent

  There must have been an explosion. I hear ringing interspersed with a woman’s muffled screams. Everything is black. I blink repeatedly.

  Black. Black. Black.

  I blink once more and see sunlight. The towering silhouette of a streetlight forms in front of me. The light is green, but I am not moving. I glance behind me. A beige van is expelling smoke from its bent hood. There is shattered glass across the concrete road—

  I remember now. I was about to sip my coffee. I heard a car horn, looked into my rearview mirror, and watched as that minivan plowed into the trunk of my car. My airbag exploded, and I involuntarily punched myself in the face.

  I am now covered in both the scorching guts of my erupted thermos, as well as a concerning gray dust that was emitted when my airbag detonated. I turn my hazard lights on and glance again at my mirror. The screaming woman has emerged from her van. She is rushing toward me.

  I am overwhelmed by the smell of my deceased coffee as it resurrects itself in the form of stains on my car’s upholstery and burn scars on my chest. Sunlight beams directly into my eyes, and I still hear ringing. I close my eyes and focus on the blackness behind my eyelids.

  The woman raps her knuckles on my window, but I keep my eyes sealed shut. I tend to cry when I am overstimulated. Keeping my eyes closed might stop me from succumbing to that humbling tendency.

  “She’s not opening her eyes!” The woman’s muffled voice shrieks through my window.

  “Is she dead?”

  I keep my eyes closed but wave an arm to demonstrate that I am alive.

  “Why are your eyes shut?” she asks. “I thought I’d killed you!”

  Does this woman think that all dead people shut their eyes?

  “Can you hear me?” She knocks on the window again.

  Rather than fill her in regarding how I am closing my eyes to avoid crying in public or exposing her to the dark realities of wide-eyed death, I decide the easiest thing to do now is open my eyes.

  White light floods my vision.

  I hear the woman say, “Oh, honey,” pacifyingly as tears begin to throw themselves off the cliff of my nose.

  “I’m fine,” I lie.

  * * *

  I discovered the corpse of my pet rabbit when I was ten years old. I was planning to split my apple with her. Instead of sharing a moment and some fruit with my pet, I came face-to-face with her lifeless remains. Eyes wide open. Dead.

  * * *

  “Are you okay? You’re bleeding, you know.”

  I lean my face closer to the rearview mirror and stare into my reflection. My nose is bleeding. My moment with the mirror also reveals that I have bloodshot eyes and a pale, watery complexion; however, it is possible that these afflictions beset me before the accident. I haven’t been looking in mirrors that much lately.

  “And your arm…” She gestures toward my arm.

  I look down to discover that one of my arms is sitting abnormally in my lap. The impact of the airbag has either broken or dislocated it.

  * * *

  Despite both my car and my arm being broken, I am driving myself to the emergency room. I resolved not to involve an ambulance because I do not like to be a spectacle. I would rather be run over by another van than be surrounded by paramedics touching me inside such a conspicuous vehicle.

  My foot is pressing down on my gas pedal so delicately that I am barely moving. I am crawling down the road with the airbag hanging out of my steering wheel like it has been disemboweled.

  A large white truck is tailgating me. Its driver keeps honking its horn.

  I grip the steering wheel, cognizant of the fact that if another car rear-ends me right now, there will be nothing left to cushion the blow.

  I glare at the truck as it passes me like it is a predator hunting me. I clench my steering wheel while I stew intensely with the reality that I am a living, breathing thing that is one day going to die. Reckless drivers can snuff me out. I am trapped inside this fragile body. I could be run off the road. I could be crushed by a van. I could choke on a grape. I could be allergic to bees; I am so impermanent that a measly bug could hop from a daisy to my arm, sting me, and I could be erased. Black. Nothing.

  I stare at the creases in my knuckles and begin consciously breathing.

  I am an animal; an organism made up of bones and blood.

  I study the trees as I crawl past them. I do this to occupy my mind with thoughts that are not related to my own fragile mortality.

  That is a pine tree.

  A maple.

  Another pine.

  Spruce.

  My death, and the death of everyone I love, is inevitable.

  Pine again.

  * * *

  I head toward the receptionist’s desk and position myself in the center of his view. I wait patiently for him to look up from his paperwork to greet me. I read the posters plastered on the wall behind his desk, to appear occupied, and to distract myself from the fact that every passing moment brings me closer to my ultimate destination. (Death.)

  One poster is titled: THE HUMAN PAPILLOMAVIRUS! The odd use of an exclamation mark is what drew my eye. The model hired to pose for the poster is grinning so aggressively that I can see every single one of her enormous teeth. I am staring into her beaming eyes, wondering how I too can achieve happiness. Does living a life unburdened by the fear of catching HPV result in that level of euphoria? If so, shoot me up.

  “What’s the problem today?” the nurse finally asks me.

  I want to tell him that my problem might be that I have yet to receive my HPV vaccine; however, I have already been mentally reciting what to say, and so I announce: “I was just in a small car accident.”

  “What?” He glances up at me, surprised. “Were you really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, dear. Are you okay?”

  That is a strange question, I think. My presence as a prospective patient in this emergency room implies that I am not okay.

  Despite thinking the question is strange, I tell him, “Yes, I’m fine.” I add, “Well, I think that I may have broken my arm, but I am okay in general. How are you?”

  He stands up to look at my arm. He then looks me dead in the eyes and squints. “You are a lot calmer than you usually are when you come in here.”

  Failing to fashion a more articulate response, I stammer, “Th-thank you.”

  Compelled now to direct the conversation away from my usual lack of composure, I decide now is the moment to share: “And I would like to be immunized for HPV, please.”

  * * *

  While waiting for my number to be called, I occupy myself by amateurishly diagnosing everyone in the waiting room with the condition that I imagine they are suffering from.

  That man has the flu.

  That lady has cancer.

  That kid is faking it.

  After completing my assessment of everyone in the room, I hear a familiar voice shout, “Hey there!”

  I can see through my peripheral vision that a nurse is waving at me.

  I pretend not to see her. I act very focused on the floor tiles.

 
Not intuitive enough to recognize that I do not want to be addressed, she re-shouts, “Hello!”

  I grit my back molars and look up at her.

  “Nice to see you!” she hollers.

  I smile weakly. “Nice to see you too, Ethel.”

  She smiles back at me while a different nurse, whose name is Larry, walks toward her. Larry also looks over at me. He waves. “Back again, are we?”

  I nod.

  “Do you work here, or something?” the patient sitting next to me pries.

  “No,” I reply—just as Frank, one of the hospital janitors, points at me and shouts, “Hey, girl!”

  * * *

  I am being interviewed before I can see the doctor.

  “Are you on any medication?”

  “No,” I reply. “Well, I have been taking a lot of vitamin D recently.”

  Last week when I came to the ER they told me that nothing was wrong with me, and that I should consider taking a vitamin D supplement.

  “Just vitamin D? No other medication?”

  “No.”

  “Does your family have a history of heart problems?”

  “No.”

  “Is there any chance that you could be pregnant?”

  “No.”

  The nurse purses her lips as she writes down my responses. I interpret her pursed lips as an indication that she is judging me. I responded that I take no medication, which means no birth control, and I responded that there is no chance that I could be pregnant—consequently suggesting that I am likely celibate. I am not. I am just gay, and thus blessedly exempt from the hazard of pregnancy.

  “No chance at all?” she repeats.

  “No,” I say, watching her lips purse again.

  * * *

  “This might hurt a little,” the doctor warns me.

  “That’s okay.” I nod.

  She moves my arm quickly. It makes a disconcerting popping sound.

  The nurse in the room raises her eyebrows at me, impressed.

  She says, “Wow, you didn’t even flinch. You sure are brave.”

  “Thank you.” I nod.

  I did not flinch because it did not hurt. I am not going to admit that, however, because I would prefer to impress this nurse with my bravery. I would also prefer pretending that I am brave because I suspect that it should have hurt, and the fact that it didn’t is likely a symptom of some much larger medical problem.

  The nurse is staring at me.

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  “What?” I look at her.

  “Are you all right?” she asks me again.

  “Oh.” I nod. “Yes, I’m fine.”

  * * *

  I broke my arm once before. I was in the fourth grade. I made a dicey acrobatic move on the monkey bars and sunk into the gravel below the jungle gym like a shot bird. I lay there, staring up into the faces of my rapt classmates as they crowded around me.

  I have always hated being the center of attention. Despite my arm being broken, and despite what I would classify as stunning pain, I assured everyone that I was fine until they disbanded.

  I was not fine. I had fractured two bones in my arm.

  * * *

  “I need you to check for redness around the cast every day,” the doctor instructs.

  “Okay.” I nod.

  “And if your arm ever feels warm, or if you develop a fever, come back to the ER, okay?”

  “All right.” I nod again.

  She flips through some papers on her clipboard. “I see that you’ve been coming into this hospital a lot recently. You’ve been complaining about chest pains and breathing problems. Is that an ongoing issue?”

  “Yes,” I reply. “My chest feels tight a lot.”

  “It sounds like you’re having panic attacks,” she tells me. She then looks down at her clipboard and says, “I can send a referral to a psychiatrist.”

  They always send referrals to psychiatrists. I never hear back.

  “In the meantime, have you considered taking a vitamin D supplement?”

  * * *

  “Are you able to pick these up on Wednesday?” the pharmacist asks me after I hand her my painkiller prescription.

  “Wednesday?” I repeat.

  “Yes.” She nods. “Would that work for you?”

  “That’s three days away,” I comment.

  She frowns. “No it isn’t. It’s tomorrow.”

  “O-oh,” I falter. “Right. Sorry, I’ve been sleeping a lot lately. It’s affected my perception of time.”

  She frowns at me again.

  I clench my toes in my shoes. I don’t know why I shared that.

  “I’ve been feeling sick,” I lie quickly. “I’m battling this nasty cold, and I’ve been sleeping too much—”

  I realize as I fabricate this lie that this woman is a health care professional, and therefore she might somehow be able to sense when people are faking illnesses.

  “I feel much better now, though,” I say to negate the lie.

  She replies, in a tone that exposes absolutely no sincerity, “I am so glad to hear that.”

  * * *

  “Hello?” I struggle to answer my cell phone.

  It is sunny out. My cell phone’s screen brightness is too dim to read the caller ID.

  “Are you ignoring me?” the caller confronts me.

  I recognize that the caller is Eleanor. She is the girl I’m seeing.

  Rather than answer no like I had planned, my tongue trips over itself and I produce no audible noise.

  “Hello? Are you there?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry,” I spit out.

  “Why didn’t you text me back? You know, I can see when you’ve read my texts. It’s not very nice to ignore me—”

  “I’m sorry,” I repeat. “Could we please talk about this later? I just got into a small car accident and—”

  “What? Are you okay?”

  “I don’t know,” I confess. “I’m trying to figure out the bus.”

  My car is being towed to my apartment.

  “Do you know how to get to my house from the gas station on Alma Street?” I squint up at the yellow bus stop sign above my head. “Do you think I take the ninety-four or the ninety-seven?”

  “You don’t know if you’re okay?”

  “Well, no, to be completely honest, I don’t. I’ve been feeling unusually tired lately. No matter how much I sleep, I still wake up feeling exhausted. I think that I might have some sort of imbalance—”

  “No,” Eleanor interrupts me. “I meant from the car accident.”

  “Oh. Yes, I’m fine. I’m more concerned about having a vitamin deficiency, honestly. I think I need more calcium or something. I feel really weak and foggy-headed. Do you drink much milk?”

  * * *

  A brittle, elderly man is offering me his seat on the bus.

  “I can’t accept it,” I tell him.

  “Sit, sit,” he insists.

  I shake my head. “No, thank you, that’s kind of you—but I’m fine.”

  “You’re injured,” he flags, nodding at my new cast. “Please, these seats are reserved for people like you. I insist that you sit.”

  I glance at the decal above the seat depicting a pregnant woman and an elderly man with a cane. I am neither; I am a twenty-seven-year-old woman who couldn’t possibly be pregnant. I would consider myself to be the lowest priority passenger on this vehicle. I have a minor injury on a component of my body that does not influence how difficult it is for me to ride a bus.

  Instead of explaining this, I reluctantly accept the seat. I tell the old man “Thank you” four times.

  “Thank you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Really, thank you.”

  “Thanks so much.”

  Whenever the driver brakes, the old man stumbles. I am nervous that he is going to fall completely. I imagine him losing his footing and propelling across the bus. I think about how old people have porous, fragile bones. I think about h
ow old people can die from falling. I start to picture myself attending this man’s funeral.

  I am wearing all black.

  I am telling his loved ones that he died because of me.

  “This is all my fault,” I explain.

  * * *

  I got off the bus two stops early so the old man would take his seat back. The bus doors opened in front of a coffee shop. Instead of walking directly home, I walked into the shop.

  After I ordered a large cup of milk, the coffee shop employee asked me to “please take a seat.” I thought that was a peculiar request, because I didn’t order a drink that takes time to assemble.

  Rather than question her, I just sat down.

  I spend a few moments wondering why she asked me to sit. I then begin wondering why it matters to me why she asked me to sit. Why do I need to know what her rationale is? Why can’t I just trust that the people around me have their own justification for their requests and their behavior? Why can’t I be like a dog and sit when I’m asked to, without wondering why?

  I glance at the small crowd of people surrounding me. Maybe we are like dogs. Everyone here is waiting for their drinks like trained animals. I look down at my hands, and then at the hands of the people around me. These are our paws. We are creatures.

  My leg is shaking restlessly.

  I open the news app on my phone to distract myself. I begin rolling my thumb over the stories.

  There was a school shooting last Wednesday.

  Multiple celebrities have been caught sexually assaulting other celebrities.

  The glaciers are thawing.

  Sea turtles are going extinct.

  I decide to veer off the popular news page. I click an article titled: WEIRD WAYS PEOPLE DIE.

  Lottie Michelle Belk, fifty-five, was fatally stabbed by a beach umbrella blown by a strong wind.

  Hildegard Whiting, seventy-seven, died of suffocation from carbon dioxide vapors produced by four dry ice coolers in a Dippin’ Dots delivery car.