Status: FYI: two chapters posted March 20; COMPLETED

Do Not Resuscitate

Chapter 17

“What?”

Nothing. Nothing, Dad. Please just ignore it. Please forget I said anything.

“Danny, what did you…?”

And he lets the sentence die away, unasked, unanswered, to take a deep breath. It catches in his chest. I can feel the weird shake and hear the gasping break. I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say it. Don’t be upset. Pretend you didn’t hear. Play clueless. Until this over. Until I’m dead. Until you’ve had time to realize I did the right thing. You can do that, can’t you?

His arms tighten around me, and his face presses against the top of my head. I’m enveloped by obnoxious muscles, crushed against him, surrounded by Dad.

“It’s okay,” he mumbles, “It’s okay.”

Let me go. Get out of my room. I’ll hug a pillow. They talk less.

If he can read my mind, he chooses not to. He holds tight, like he’s holding onto, what, hope, my sanity? As if holding on tight enough is going to make it all go away. I’m getting tears and mucus and nastiness on your shirt, Dad. I hope it’s worth it.

“Breathe, Danny.”

I am breathing.

And coughing and hiccupping and sobbing and being a complete mess. But I’m breathing, and that’s the problem.

I don’t want to breathe anymore. I don’t want to wake up anymore. I don’t want to be alive anymore. I want to sleep. Forever and ever and ever in my supped up heated coffin that he better get me.

“Shh. Daddy’s here. It’s going to be okay.”

No, it’s not.

Dad’s rocking again, a slow back and forth sway, holding me even though I’m ruining his shirt. He rubs my back. Under my sobs, muffled in my hair, there’s humming. Some familiar children’s tune I can’t place in Dad’s scratchy hum. It’s…

It’s nice.

He’s big and safe and warm and comfortable. The sobs are dropping to occasional jagged breaths and hiccups. Everything feels heavy and lax. Dad doesn’t stop. He rubs my back and rocks me and hums. Keeping my eyes open is becoming awfully difficult. They sting. They’re dry.

I need sleep.

No. No sleep. Stay alert. Dad’s planning. He always is, but now—now that I’ve said the worst words possible—he has the upper hand in a situation he doesn’t understand. He’s never going to leave me alone. Well, bring on the suicide watch, the massive interrogation… the doctor’s visit, the yelling… the blame game… the trip to the looney bin… feeding tube…

Where am I?

Why is the sun so damn bright?

It’s streaking through the windows, bright-ass rays of obnoxiousness jackhammering at my skull and slipping past my swollen eyelids to sting my eyes. Goddamn, it hurts.

When did I fall asleep?

I don’t remember, but there’s sand in my throat and grossness clogging my nose and swollen mess around my eyes and soreness in my bones and sharp pain in my stitches. I cried myself to sleep. Wow, I’m pathetic.

I need water. Like, desperately need water.

And there’s nothing on my side table. Nothing at all. No water, no anorexic friendly breakfast foods, no calorie-filled liquids to sneak nutrients into me because he thinks I can be tricked, nothing. Dad’s slacking.

Wait.

Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit. Last night. He was here. He was in my room. He brought up dinner and I cried on his shirt and he held me and I told him I wanted to die and he was repeating the same crap over and over and… I fell asleep. On him.

Where is he?

Not here. Not now. What game is he playing? He decides he can switch up the script without telling me. He leaves me upstairs and starves me out. Think again, Dad, I’m not falling for it. I won’t eat.

But I’d sell my soul for a glass water.

He can’t do this. Whatever this is. He can’t—

It’s seven thirty in the morning.

Fancy that. He’s sleeping. In bed. With Val, most likely. Brooklyn, too, if she felt like scurrying into their bedroom for reasons. He left. He left me here. He didn’t feel like keeping vigilant watch at my bedside to make sure I didn’t snap and break my neck by jumping out the window—which is tempting, honestly. He read my mind, started playing the Clueless Father card, turned a blind eye. He’s going to let me do what I want.

Fine.

I’m getting some water, rooting around for a pain pill—Dad has them somewhere, the magic meds the doctor prescribed—and coming back upstairs to sleep until I can’t sleep anymore.

Holy, ow, Jesus, moving is painful. I should stay in bed. I should cuddle up in my nest and try to sleep. Except I’m dying from thirst, and those pain meds are sounding great right now.

I can do this. Slowly. One foot in front of the other. Ignore the pain. Okay, no, that’s not working. Embrace the pain. Don’t pass out. Off the bed, out of my room, through the hall.

The house is so still. Even the air feels heavier, stranger, unsettling. Clocks tick lightly. The house creaks. One of the dogs makes a sleepy whining noise. A normal morning in the Sanders house. The way their world would work if I wasn’t here, if they didn’t have to take me to school or bring me to the doctor or make me food I won’t eat. Normal. Everything’s back to normal.

I have to stop at the bottom of the stairs to rest against the banister. I’m out of breath. I’m wobblier than Jell-O. I’m… in a lot of pain. I don’t know if I can do this. No, I can. Do it for the water.

What was that?

The clanging bang of a pot or pan. From the kitchen. The house is quiet again, the sound lost in the silence, but I heard it. Someone’s up. Someone’s in the kitchen. At seven thirty in the morning.

What do I do?

I need water. I don’t want to go in there. I need water. I don’t know who’s in there. I need water. I’ll hobble back upstairs and hide. I need water. I can drink out of the bathroom faucet. Except that makes me sick, and I need water. Now.

Water. I choose water.

Careful, inaudible steps through the front hallway, around the corner, into the dining room. I’m an emaciated spy, searching for hidden traps, eyes darting around, stealthy, creeping through the dining room the long way around the large table in the center, ready to diffuse a bomb.

“C’mon, Matt.”

I stop in my tracks, freeze against the wall just outside of the kitchen entrance, out of sight.

Uncle Brian?

Did anyone tell him it is far too early to be hanging out in Dad’s kitchen? The sun is barely awake, Uncle Brian, go back home. Get Aunt Michelle pregnant so you can have something to keep you busy.

“You’re not helping.”

Dad. Of course. My life has to be the ultimate suck fest.

Uncle Brian sighs, a longsuffering sigh, and patiently says, “Do you really think this is going to do anything?”

“I don’t know what else to try.”

“She’s sixteen.”

Please be talking about another sixteen year old. A distant niece. A fan. An illegitimate daughter with a severe drug addiction, death wish, and extensive criminal record, whose mother just died and now she has to come live with Dad, too, but she doesn’t want to because she hates him, but he’ll win her over by being famous and divorcing the evil stepmother version of Val.

I shouldn’t be allowed on the internet.

“And?”

“Supervise her while she makes her own food and—”

Clanging of a pot or pan hitting the stove, much harder than necessary, cutting Uncle Brian’s genius suggestion short. “She won’t do that,” Dad says. His voice is strained, and it cracks. “She won’t eat a damn thing.”

“Matt—”

“She said she wants to die.”

That. Asshole.

Who does he think he is? Talking about me behind my back. Telling Uncle Brian things he has no right knowing. Gossiping. Spreading bullshit. Using me as their early morning entertainment. Keep your goddamn mouth shut, Dad.

“What?”

There’s a pause, accentuated by a muffled hit of hands against jean-clad thighs. Did he throw his arms wide, give Uncle Brian the “I give up on my daughter” gesture Mom likes to do? I bet he did.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Dad says.

He takes a deep, loud breath. One of the island chairs scratches against the hardwood floor, and there’s a loud thump, Dad getting settled for a long chat fest. Great.

I can’t go in there.

I won’t be able to get water. After I said I could have water. But I have to have it. I have to get water. I can’t just not drink a bottle after I decided to drink a bottle. That’s not how this works. I need… I said I could… I don’t…

I can’t breathe.

“Nothing’s working, Brian. I looked at websites, I’ve read rules in books, I asked the doctor. I’ve done what they’ve told me to. I’m doing everything I can. It’s not working.”

“It’s only been a few days.”

“I don’t care how long it’s been. She needs to eat.”

I can’t breathe.

“She will eat,” Uncle Brian says.

“But that’s the thing. She won’t eat, and I can’t make her eat.” Dad gives a humorless chuckle. “I even tried waiting her out. I told her I wouldn’t leave until she ate. Do you know what that did? It caused her to have a meltdown.”

I can’t breathe.

“Did you do something wrong with the food? Cut it up for her? Make the wrong thing? Let the colored vegetables touch? Give her larger serving sizes than she can handle?”

“I don’t know. She won’t talk. She won’t tell me what she wants. All she said is—” Dad stops, heaves a shaky breath, and…

Is he crying?

No. No, don’t cry. I’m sorry. Please, stop crying. That’s not how this is supposed to go. Stop crying.

It’s all I can hear, his choked crying. It rings in my ears, loud, sharp. And I’m down on the floor, huddled in a ball, hands over my ears, rocking. I can’t breathe. Something squeezes my lungs in a vice grip. I’m going to blow chunks. I need out. I need out. I need out.

“Danny.”

Dad.

“Danny. It’s okay.”

His arm is around me, and an ice cold water bottle is pressed to my face. The chill pierces through the panic. I don’t know how or why. It’s a distraction, a sensation that’s easy to focus on, a shocking jolt into reality, I don’t know, but it works. Gradually. Better than nothing.

“Here.” The bottle is taken away, snapped open, and held under my nose. “Drink some water.”

Yes.

I snatch the bottle from him. It’s heavy, I can barely hold it, but that doesn’t matter. I chug it. Droplets streak down my face, get on my sweater, make a mess. I look crazy again. I don’t care. I don’t stop. I can’t stop. Until the bottle is empty and making crinkling noises in my hands.

God, that felt good.

I gulp down a breath and swipe at my mouth and chin and neck with my sleeve. Remove the ocean of water I got on myself the way Brooklyn does when she tries to drink from the “big girl” cups. And surreptitiously check for tear tracks.

None. I didn’t cry. I managed to hold it the fuck together that much for once. Impressive. I deserve a sticker.

“Better?”

Yes, Dad, I’m—

His eyes are red.

A bloodshot kind of red that’s not from crying.

I mean, he’s clearly been crying, too. His eyelids are slightly swollen and red around the edges. Pink dusts his nose and cheeks. Wetness still clings to his eyelashes. Besides, I heard him crying. About me. But the color in his eyes?

The redness of exhaustion, of staying up all night, of getting out of bed before the sun wakes up, of functioning even though he wants to collapse because he has no choice.

Is… is that my fault?

Am I the reason he has no choice?

Because he’s busy researching ways to get me to eat? Because he’s constantly checking up on me? Because he’s spending hours making me food and throwing the food away and cleaning dishes I haven’t eaten off of? Because he maybe stayed up with me all night to watch me after my breakdown? Because he’s wasting time and energy on me?

Stop, Dad. Play with Brooklyn. She needs your attention. Take Val out and treat her like a queen. She needs your attention. Drink beer with your friends. They need your attention. Stop taking it away from them to use on me.

I don’t deserve it.