Read My Heart and Other Black Holes Online
Authors: Jasmine Warga
My Heart and Other Black Holes (26 page)
After I say all that, I feel drained, deflated. I know most people use “deflated” in a negative way, but today, I feel deflated in a positive way. Like I’ve kept all these secrets inside of me for so long, and now, I’ve let them all go. I feel lighter. I feel free. I told Roman I loved him; I put that positive charge out into the universe. And now I’m just waiting to see if it sparks—if it puts us in motion.
Roman makes a sputtering noise like he’s about to say something, but then his eyes close and his breathing steadies. He’s fallen asleep. I sit there for a while, my left hand still holding his right. I feel creepy watching him sleep, but I can’t help it. I’m scared that if I take my eyes away from him, he’s going to disappear.
His chest rises and lowers. He looks so frail, but he’s
still alive. And that’s what counts. As I stare at him, I find myself wishing that I could see through his skin, see inside him. See if there’s only emptiness, darkness, or if there’s more.
0 days left
T
oday’s the day: the anniversary of Madison’s death. I almost didn’t work up the courage to come to the hospital, but I knew that if I didn’t come, I’d never forgive myself.
For the first time in three years, I’m wearing something other than a gray striped shirt and jeans. I borrowed a simple black dress from Georgia and washed my hair and pulled it back into a French braid. It’s not like I think Roman cares at this point what I look like, but I care. And I’m trying to show that to him.
The silver flats I also borrowed from Georgia make a pitter-patter sound on the tiles as I walk down the hallway.
Once I reach Roman’s room, I peek inside and see his parents gathered at the foot of his bed.
“Oh, Aysel,” his mom says. She gives me a cheery smile. I’m starting to believe that Roman’s mom’s warmth isn’t a facade like he says; she really has that much love inside of her.
Mr. Franklin has his arm wrapped around her, and when he sees me, he draws Mrs. Franklin closer to him.
“Come in,” he says. His voice is less effusive than his wife’s, but it’s not cold either.
Roman looks at me. He doesn’t say anything. Maybe it’s my imagination, but I swear that his eyes light up a little. The skin around them is still bruised, but it’s less startling than it was on Friday.
“I’m hungry, are you?” Roman’s mom says to his dad. His dad looks confused for a second, but then he gets the clue.
“Oh yeah,” he says. “Starving.”
Mrs. Franklin turns to me. “Hon, do you mind watching Roman for a few minutes while we go get a bite to eat?”
“No problem.” I smile at her to let her know I appreciate her kindness. To thank her for letting me still see Roman, for putting me on the approved visitors list and treating me like family.
Mrs. Franklin kisses Roman’s forehead, and once both of his parents are gone, I take a seat in the chair next to his bed.
“I should be at her grave,” Roman finally says. His voice
is still strained, but it’s stronger than Friday. “Today, of all days, I should be there.”
“She doesn’t need you to be at her grave to know that you care.”
He squints at me. “You really believe that?”
I nod. “I do, Roman. She might not physically be here, but she’s still here. And she wants to see you happy. I know she does.”
He’s silent for a few moments. The sheets are pulled up to his chin and he’s completely motionless. We stare at each other quietly until he asks, “When I get out of here, will you go with me?”
“To her grave?”
His lips twitch and I interpret it as a yes.
“I’ll go anywhere with you.” My face burns. I’m not used to saying things like that, but when I see him slowly smile, all my embarrassment goes away. “Look at me, still being cheesy as hell.”
He lets out a low, gravelly laugh.
“And speaking of that,” I say, and reach into my bag. I pull out the book I bought about North Carolina’s beaches. I place it on his food tray so he can see it. “I thought maybe when you get better, we can go here.”
He stares at the book and his eyes brighten. They turn from the muddy green to a dark gold.
“To the ocean,” I add.
He doesn’t say anything. He grabs the book off the tray and thumbs through it. I can tell he’s trying to act disinterested, but on certain pages he spends a bit longer staring at the glossy photos.
Finally he asks, “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you keep trying when you know how messed up I am?”
I shrug. I stand up and walk over to the side table where his mom has placed all of his Jules Verne novels and his sketch pad. I grab the sketch pad and then sit back down in the chair. I flip the pages.
“Why?” he repeats.
I stare down at the charcoal drawings and then glance up, forcing myself to look him in the eye. “Because loving you saved me. It’s made me see myself differently, see the world differently. I owe you everything for that.”
Before he can respond, there’s a knock on the door.
“Hello?” a professional-sounding voice says.
The door opens and a woman stands at the front of the room. She’s not wearing a lab coat or scrubs but instead is dressed in black pants and a white button-up. “You must be Aysel,” she says, and then turns to Roman. “Hello, Roman. How are you feeling today?”
Roman just stares at her.
She reaches out and touches my elbow lightly. “Do you
mind waiting for us in the hall?”
I shake my head and walk out of the room, quietly closing the door behind me. I pace the hall as I try to imagine the conversation that’s happening in the room. I picture Roman’s stony, silent face and that woman doing her best to pull answers out of him.
I’m about to walk the length of the hallway for the twenty-third time when the door opens and the woman walks out. She brushes a stray piece of her dark hair away from her forehead. “I’m Dr. Stead.” She holds out her hand.
I shake it weakly. “Aysel, but you already know that. You’re working with Roman?”
She nods. “Yes, that’s right.”
Good
, I think, but don’t say anything. “I hope you’re able to, you know, get through to him.”
She doesn’t smile but somehow manages to look friendly. I wonder if that’s a skill they teach you in medical school. “I’ll do the best I can. You know, I’m pretty good at what I do.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small business card. She hands it to me.
The paper is soft, and I run my fingers over the embossed text.
“If you ever want to talk, or need anything, you can reach me at that number,” she adds. She looks at me, her light eyes soft and kind. I wonder if she knows about Crestville Pointe, about our pact. If Roman said something to her.
“Thanks,” I say weakly, and turn the card over. She walks away and the click of her heels echoes in the hall.
When I walk back into Roman’s hospital room, he gives me a cold look.
“What?”
“You aren’t seriously going to tell me I should talk to that lady, are you?”
I clutch the card in my hand. “Did you tell her about us?”
“What about us?”
“You know. . . .”
He props himself up so his back can rest against the hospital bed’s metal headboard. It looks like it’s a struggle, but he makes it. “No. I haven’t said a damn thing to her. And I’m not planning on it.”
I sit back down in the chair by the bed. “Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing.”
He sighs and I swear I can hear the muscles in his throat ache. I imagine what the inside of his body must look like—all poisoned and bruised. I try to push that thought from my mind.
“I’m not sure I even know you anymore,” he says.
I bite down on my lower lip. “That’s not fair. I mean, you don’t have to talk to her. But at least talk to me?”
He doesn’t say anything. I stand up and walk back over to the bookshelf. This time I grab
Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea
.
I sit back down and open the book. The silken pages are easy to flip. I start reading aloud to him. At first, my voice is a bit shaky, but I soon find a rhythm. Every once in a while, I glance over at him and see him looking back at me, his face relaxed like he’s listening to the story.
He lets me finish the second chapter and then stops me. “Aysel?”
“Yeah?”
He scoots to move his body closer to the edge of the bed. His movements are slow and labored. “Come here.” He reaches toward me, cupping my face in his hands. I lean in and our mouths meet. His lips are chapped and swollen, but the kiss is soft and light and perfect.
“I’ll talk to you,” he whispers. “I promise.”
As I look into his golden-green eyes, I don’t know if I completely believe him. I know he’s still broken, impossibly sad, but as he holds my hand, I feel the potential of happiness in his pulse.
“And you know what you said before about me making you see yourself differently?” he asks, his face still inches from mine.
“Yeah.”
“Well, that’s why I drew you the way I did. To try and show you the person I see when I look at you, not the person you seemed to think you were.”
My eyes blink like a bright camera flash just went
off—everything is white and gauzy—and I feel more exposed than I have ever been in my entire life. I know he sees me, every tiny and hidden crevice, but it doesn’t scare me. My heart flutters as I realize I’m enjoying the light. I’m done with the shadows.
He watches me, his eyes traveling all over my face. “I guess I want to see the world differently—” He stops and his expression turns sad again. The room is so silent that I can hear the ceiling light buzzing.
“But it still kind of sucks, you know?” he finally adds.
“Yeah, I know.” My whole body aches for him and I wish there was something I could do, but I know the only thing there is to do is stay.
“Should I keep reading? This world”—I pick up the book—“doesn’t seem to suck so much.”
“You say that now, but wait for it.”
I look down at the page, an illustrated sea monster staring back at me, and then gaze at Roman. “I’ll wait for it, if you’ll wait for it.”
He takes my hand and squeezes it. “I’ll wait for it.”
I started to write this book in January 2013 after the death of one of my closest friends. I found myself in a very dark place, and working on this project was, in part, my way of grappling with those emotions. To me,
My Heart and Other Black Holes
has always been a story about the people who understand you, all of you, even the scariest and weirdest parts of you. It is about those people who come into your life when you least expect it, in the strangest of ways, and change everything—it is about the importance of letting those people in, of opening up to them. It is about the people in your life who help you to see yourself differently and the true power of human connection.
Although this story ends on a hopeful note, the road to recovery is long and ongoing. In many cases, the battle
with depression is a lifelong one. To those of you who may be dealing with emotions similar to Aysel and Roman’s, I want you to know no matter how lost you feel, you are never alone. If you are having suicidal thoughts, you should treat it as a medical emergency. Please, please reach out and talk to someone. The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is always open, and as scary as it can be to talk about what is going on in your mind, I hope you will find the strength to do so. The most powerful thing we have is our voice. I have listed some resources at the end of this book.
To those of you who feel you may have a friend who is struggling with depression, please reach out to them. I know it may seem uncomfortable, but talking about these things is what will help us begin to erase the stigma associated with depression and suicidal thoughts. The best thing you can do for your friend is to talk with them or an authority figure. By encouraging them to speak, you may help steer them toward the path of recovery.
Finally, I hope this story has reminded you of the people in your life who matter. Hold them dear, be kind to them, and remember life is fragile. I wish you all a very kinetic and beautiful life.
LIFELINES
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-TALK (8255)
Kristin Brooks Hope Center Hopeline: 1-800-422-HOPE (4673)
Kristin Brooks Hope Center Teen Peer Counseling Hotline: 1-877-968-8454
WEBSITES/COMMUNITIES
To Write Love on Her Arms (TWLOHA): www.twloha.com
IMAlive: www.IMALIVE.org
7 Cups of Tea: www.7cupsoftea.com
Crisis Chat: www.crisischat.org
Youth Suicide Prevention Program: www.yspp.org
National Alliance on Mental Illness: www.NAMI.org
The American Academy of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry: www.AACAP.org
The American Academy for Suicide Prevention: www.AFSP.org
Endless thanks to Brenda Bowen, my incredible agent, who changed the course of my life when she agreed to take on this manuscript and has gone on to make all of my wildest dreams come true. I am forever grateful for your guidance, savvy, enthusiasm, and belief in my work. I will never be done thanking you. Also many thanks to the entire team at Greenburger Associates, especially Stefanie Diaz and Wendi Gu.
Deepest gratitude to my lovely editor, Alessandra Balzer, who somehow manages to deliver the sharpest, most brilliant suggestions in the kindest, most inspiring way. It is a dream to work with you. Huge thanks to everyone else at Balzer + Bray and HarperCollins—I am so lucky to have you all in my corner.
I have been fortunate in my life to have many wonderful teachers. In particular, I would like to thank Chris Lynch and Pat Lowery Collins for their generous mentorship during my thesis semester. I would also like to thank my eleventh-grade English teacher, Connie Smith, who encouraged me to pursue my dream of becoming an author. On a similar note, thank you to all my former students: I am grateful that I had the opportunity to know each one of you.