Looking at Aquaman
Kim Foster
âAll aboard.â It takes all my effort just to get these two words out, yet Peyton giggles with pleasure. For the twenty-seventh time, I plop the train on its track and we watch as it clicks past the coal yard and chugs up the hill. My back aches from this hour spent on the drafty floor of what we, after twelve years, still jokingly call our starter home. My husbandâs TV is blaring Fox 5 Atlantaâs news so loudly it makes my chest tighten. What a relief it would be to simply walk away from din and discomfort.
But I donât. With effort, I refocus my attention onto Peytonâs delighted face, just as the little train crosses the bridge and whooshes merrily down the opposite slope. Again.
Something nobody warns you about, when you get very sick, is that you have to be polite. You have to be Emily f-ing Post every minute of the day, and for a couple of reasons: one, pretty soon youâre liable to be dependent on others so you might as well build up some Brownie points. And two, you hate to disappoint whoever is waiting for you to do something poignant they can mention in your eulogy.
Their eyes have a way of raking over you when they think youâre not paying attention. You can almost hear them rehearsing in their minds the anecdotes theyâre saving about youâlittle mental snapshots theyâll pull out later to smile about when theyâre feeling nostalgic, or to bawl over when they need a good cry.
FYI, youâre already half-dead to them, when they start that. Itâs not that theyâre in a hurry to see the last of you. But human nature canât help itself; they need to plan how to remember you when youâre gone.
So although I should not be entertaining a preschooler on the cold floor when my side is throbbing and my skin is stinging in the places where Iâve scratched it raw, I play anyway. I make sure to gaze into my little blond sonâs beautiful blue eyes and smile softly at him, so that my husband (glancing furtively from his reclining chair) can note it, and remember (I hope) to tell Peyton someday, Your mama loved you so much.
I do love my baby, more than anything. I just donât like to play trains, and it irks me that Iâm no longer allowed to admit it.
When youâre healthy, itâs acceptable to say, âMy God, this is boring the piss out of me.â That moment is just one of a billion moments lining up one after the other, all going as fast as that candy on the conveyor belt with Lucy and Ethel. Nobody worries much about how you react to any particular one. But once youâre sick, every moment is a potential eulogy moment, and youâre not supposed to bitch.
I glance sideways, resentfully, toward the screaming TV.
Mark clears his throat. âYâalright?â he asks, casually.
I start to answer, just as a small red object wedged between two sofa cushions catches my eye. Leaning over, I yank on what turns out to be the left foot of Wonder Woman. âHey, look who I found.â
Peyton regards her thoughtfully for a moment. âCan she be the dwiver?â he asks.
âI donât know if sheâll fit.â I frown, trying to pose the stiff-legged figure. Finally I give up and set her, in an admittedly precarious position, on top of the engine. âI think sheâll just have to ride up here.â
For a year after the first blood test came back funny, the doctor said I doubt itâs anything, Sharon. Then she said Fatty liver. My enzyme numbers kept rising, so she passed me to a colleague who entertained several ideas over the next six months. Hepatitis? Sclerosing cholangitis? When the gnawing of worry kept me awake at night, Iâd log onto the computer, trying to piece together the puzzle of my prickly skin and trembling hands. Stop imagining you have every symptom you read about, I scolded myself as I studied the various possibilities. Late on an autumn afternoon, my liver specialist looked me in the eye and said PBC. And those were letters to make my blood run cold, because my sleepless nights on the Internet had acquainted me with all the horrific ways the liver can fail.
Primary biliary cirrhosis. I recalled that it wasnât really cirrhosis, that it had more to do with bile ducts. That it struck women, mostly. And that there was no cure.
Sitting there in that leather chair, my vision seemed to have dwindled to pinprick size. The doctorâs earnest pink face wavered in front of mine, his mouth forming words like eventual transplant, but I couldnât absorb them. I could barely think how to put one foot in front of the other to walk out of his office.
Mark and I left the office and picked up Amanda from the âWelcome Sixth-Gradersâ dance at her new middle school. We took her to Hardeeâs for a bite before getting Peyton from the babysitter. Amanda was flushed and hyperactive, eyes darting around the restaurant and a quick, disconnected smile flickering across her face as she tried to focus on the menu.
âYou order for me, Mama,â she finally begged.
My hands felt numb around the edges but I shook them out as I asked for our usual selections. So I really have it, I kept thinking. I hadnât let myself dwell on negative possibilities as we waited for the latest test results, but now I felt oddly dirty and insulted, as though some filthy wild animal had made a nest in my house.
Mark moved down a few paces to wait for our order, but Amanda was so distracted I had to nudge her forward. âMustâve been some dance,â I said, looking at her. She was getting prettier lately, developing a figure. There were things about boys and sex that I had been planning to tell her in another year or two, but I realized with a chill that Iâd better not wait.
I watched a secretive little smile play around her lips.
âWhatâs got you in such a tailspin?â her father demanded, crossing his arms on his chest.
âNothing,â she said, her face going rabbity with fright. The eyes darted again, now seeking a change of subject. âHow was your⌠umm⌠doctor appointment?â
We gave her looks that indicated we werenât fooled by her sudden concern, but then our order was ready, so we ignored the question and busied ourselvesâI really have PBCâcollecting napkins and straws. Several minutes into the meal she thought to ask again what the doctor had said. Mark glanced up at me to see if I would explain, but when I didnât he said quietly, âShe just has a liver condition. Sheâll be okay.â
âHuh,â Amanda said, craning toward the counter where three teenaged boys were placing their orders.
Mark shoved a couple of fries in his mouth and met my eyes. Assuming a mock-threatening tone, he said, âBut if you do get any ideas to croak and leave me with these kids to raise, I swear to God.â
Amandaâs eyebrows arched. âHey, Mama, would I get any of your life insurance?â
âThis is nice,â I said. âYouâre spending my insurance money and your daddyâs scared he might get stuck with extra work.â
âDamn right.â Mark grinned. âWhen Peyton turns eighteen I guess you can go ahead and expire if you must, but not before.â
I made a face at him, then dropped my gaze to the food in front of me.
âHow much would I get?â Amanda wanted to know.
I swallowed. âI donât know,â I told her, âbut I bet not enough to hire a maid and a cook and a tutor and hairdresser and chauffeurâŚâ
âOh,â she said, her shoulders slumping in feigned disappointment. âDang.â
After a while Mark glanced at his watch and began to gather up his trash. âIf I drop yâall at home I could go ahead and get in a half-day at work,â he ventured. He usually works from 1 p.m. to 10 p.m., supervising a call center, though today he had taken off for my doctorâs appointment.
âNo sense using up a whole day,â he said. âI might need to miss work again later, if something else comes up.â
The numbness in my fingers crept into my palms. âThen pick up Peyton at the babysitterâs,â I said.
Mark rechecked his watch. âIf I do that I wonât make it on time.â
âFine,â I said, wrapping up my barely-touched sandwich. âIâll handle it.â
That night, when Mark and I climbed into our bed, Peyton was already asleep in the middle of it. We used to move him back to his own bed, but heâd wake up crying and it just wasnât worth the trouble. I pulled his warm weight on top of me for a few minutes and then shifted him over to my usual side of the bed so that I was now in the center.
âI wanted to be next to you for a change,â I said to Mark.
âOkay,â he agreed, reaching toward his nightstand for a tissue. He blew his nose loudly and began to talk with what seemed to be great enthusiasm about the football schedule for the weekend. Georgia, he said, was playing at one oâclock Saturday, the Falcons at four on Sunday. Anything we wanted to do would have to be planned around those times. I pressed my backside into his soft belly as he tossed the tissue in the general direction of the wastebasket.
âThe Falconsâll get their asses handed to âem if Vickâs still injured, but Iâm watching it anyway,â he was saying.
Throwing my leg backward across one of his, I pulled him in my direction as he enumerated the strengths and weaknesses of the Falcon offense. His head was propped on one of his hands and with the other hand he poked me once or twice as he warmed to his subject. I contributed an occasional noiseâhmm, or yeah, or uh-huh. His voice was so loud in my ear I was cringing.
âJust tell me your opinion of Dunn,â he insisted. âYou think heâs a good player?â
My response was a sigh. Then âI guess,â I said shortly, throwing back the covers and climbing over Peyton.
He stared down at the spot Iâd just vacated and frowned a little. âThat sumbitch can runâŚâ The sentence trailed off. He rolled onto his back, eyes to the ceiling. âWhere are you going?â
I hefted Peyton back into his place between us. âIâm ready to go to sleep now.â
Silence swelled. I fiddled with items on my nightstand, giving him plenty of time. I heard his breathing change as though he planned to say something. When he didnât, I snapped off my bedside lamp. In the concealing darkness, my face crumpled at the realization that this man, my partner in lifeâundemonstrative though he wasâwould actually let this day end without offering me a single word of comfort.
âAll right, then,â he answered instead. âIâm tired as hell myself.â
I got under the covers. Back to back with Peyton, I willed myself to be still and not to shake the bed by crying.
âWell, I did it.â Markâs voice in the dark sounded grim and satisfied.
I knew he wanted me to say Did what? But my throat was crowded with tears.
âI got through the day without coming unglued on you,â he said. He flipped his pillow over and punched it into the shape he wanted. âGânight. Love you.â
There is nothing on earth better than Peyton. Amanda will get off the school bus in half an hour, but this time of day, after work, is when Peyton and I unwind. I lie across my bed while he sits on the floor watching cartoons that were on TV when I was a kid myselfâTom and Jerry, Superfriends. Clasped in his hand is a three-inch plastic action figure that once was Markâs; it is Aquaman, the handsome blond monarch of the seven seas. The whole Justice League is around here somewhereâBatman and Superman seem to live in the refrigerator; Wonder Woman sometimes peers up at me in Peytonâs bath. But though the paint is chipping away from his chiseled pecs and manly Cro-Magnon jaw line, itâs Aquaman who is the king of all the toysâPeytonâs absolute favorite.
The bedroom feels unusually warm and I hope Peyton might nap. My daily six-hour shifts of entering magazine orders into a computer have begun to tire me to a surprising degree.
Another interesting thing nobody warns you about when you get sick is that all of your responsibilities continue. Who knew? From watching tear-jerking movies I had the idea that being gravely ill would entitle me to lie abed and look frail and tragic until the end came. But it turns out that this is not the case. Bills still arrive with dispassionate regularity. I need my medical insurance so I need my job. Plus, with Mark working until 10 p.m., who else would take care of these kids from afternoon until bedtime? I may be unwell but Iâm still Mama.
Stripes of weak sunlight filter in through the blinds, and Peyton is watching TV so quietly; my eyelids grow heavy and I drift off for a few minutes.
Something plastic taps my forehead. âHello, Mama,â says a gravelly voice.
I open my eyes and smile. âHi, baby.â
âIâm not your baby,â the deep voice says. âIâm Aquaman.â
âMmm. Sorry.â I address the action figure who is in front of Peytonâs face, evidently doing the talking. âAquaman, climb up here with me and letâs take an aqua-nap.â
Peytonâs eyes narrow while Aquaman thinks about it. âOkay,â he agrees gruffly.
We wonât really sleep, I know, but even five minutes of cuddling with Peyton is better than any drug the doctors can give me. He is thirty-seven pounds of pure comfort, with his blond hair that smells like baby shampoo, his warm forehead, and his cheeks so smooth and rubbery. It goes without saying that a kid his age has a round tummy and chubby legs, but in three years Iâve never gotten over my amazement about his tiny, perfect hands that fit inside my palm; his expressive eyebrows; his sturdy, miniature ribcage. His little butt cheeks are cool and round as scoops of vanilla ice cream.
He climbs into the bed and molds his body to the curves of mine. Iâm thinking he wonât stay a minute, but he surprises me by resting long enough for me to almost fall asleep. Abruptly, though, he sits up and taps my head with his toy again.
âMama,â says the deep voice.
I open my eyes and am looking at Aquaman. I smile automatically. âWhat.â
Then Peyton asks, in his own voice, âMama, do you feel bad?â
I stare past the little superhero to my son, then, purely amazed at his ability to infer that something is wrong. âWell,â I whisper, âjust a little bit bad.â
His brows knit. âYou feel sick?â
With one finger, I stroke his porcelain face from temple to chin. We have not told him much, but since heâs asking⌠âYeah, sweetheart. Iâm sick.â
Peyton hesitates, but Aquaman apparently senses an opportunity for a rescue and leaps into action, again about two inches from my nose. âIâll make you better,â he announces.
I should say that PBC is not a death sentence. Though the doctors tell me that mine is progressing faster than usual, they still offer me a great deal of hope. For example, I hope Iâll move up on the transplant list. I hope the little black beeper I was given will someday beep (which is the same as hoping for the death of some young, healthy person). I hope I survive the transplant surgery. I hope my body doesnât reject the liver. And I hope this goddamned itching doesnât cause me to lose my mind before any of those other things has time to kill me.
Weâre in the car, sitting in a line of traffic in front of Amandaâs school. She sighs deeply and looks out the car window, stamping her feet slightly. âMom. Stop scratching.â She manages to sound both pleading and hateful in one sentence.
I snatch my hand away from my neck and glance around at all the people who must have seen me clawing myself, unaware.
âIâm sorry,â I tell her. âI didnât even realize.â
She rolls her spiteful eyes. âYouâre always scratching. Like youâve got a fungus or something.â
After that I donât feel so sorry for her anymore. I give her one level glance as the traffic moves and we pull away from the school. âYou know that liver disease can cause itching.â
She snorts her disgust. âIâm bored of your stupid liver.â
From his car seat in the back, Peyton yells, âDonât you be mean at Mama!â
Amanda responds by punching the button on the car radio to find some angry-sounding rap. âWhatever,â she says, cranking the volume.
I wish I had a more dignified symptom for her to witness. If I could break my bones or throw up blood she might begin to realize what weâre dealing with, but unfortunately the only bones I want to break lately are hers.
Mark chides me about my impatience. âSheâs worried about you being sick, you know.â
Nice line, but I donât believe it. I think sheâs so self-absorbed that she barely notices my condition unless it embarrasses her. A more unselfish mother would take into account that Amandaâs only eleven and canât even grasp my illness and all it might mean, but I just want to shake her into teeth-rattling comprehension. I want her to stare at me with sad puppy eyes and then creep off to write in her diary how it breaks her heart to imagine that Mama wonât be there when she starts her period or gets her first kiss or goes to her prom.
Instead, when we get home sheâll slam the car door, pound up the stairs in her combat boots and scrawl Mama was scratching in front of everybody again. I hate her.
We cruise down the road that leads to our neighborhood, battered by the rapperâs shouted threats. In the rearview mirror I glance at poor Peyton, his face sweet while his little mind probably tries to make sense of the hostile words. This is nuts, I think. When I was a kid I liked that song âWildfire,â the one about a pony lost in a blizzard. I liked Joe Cocker croaking out âYou Are So Beautiful.â Linda Ronstadt crooning âBlue Bayou.â
Defiantly I change the station, collecting a withering stare. Still, I canât stop myself from asking, âWhatever happened to pretty songs that made you think about nice stuff?â
âWe donât like stuff thatâs pretty,â Amanda mocks, âlike this old crap you listen to.â
In spite of myself, I giggle. The song weâre listening to isnât more than five years oldâso recent to me and so long ago to her that it reminds me what a little girl she still is.
âMama,â Peyton says, âyou listen to old cwap.â
âThatâs not a nice word,â I tell him, but my mood has lifted so much that the tension in the car dissipates. I give Amanda a tolerant glance. âNot everything I like is cwap just because I like it, you know.â
âOh yes it is,â she says.
I chuckle at her again, accepting that sheâs merely acting her age. I couldnât stand my motherâs music either, when I was a kidâwell, except for one record. It was that tearjerker, âHoney.â One day when I was not at home, and she was there and all alone, the angels cameâŚ
I stop for the last red light before our street and gaze up at it uneasily, waiting. I hope the angels donât come for me when nobody is home. On the other hand, though, it might be preferable to the way I usually envision my last moments: on my way to load the washing machine, Iâll drop dead at the feet of my family. Amanda will say, âEeew, gross, Mom!â and Mark will sit there with his mouth hanging open, trying to figure out who he can get to finish the laundry.
Itâs gotten harder and harder to do what I have to do. Mark and I work opposing shifts in order to save money on daycareâPeyton only needs two hours at the sitterâs with our current arrangement. But between getting up early for my own job and then staying up late to see Mark when he gets home, Iâve subsisted on very little rest for the past three years. In the last few months, Mark has often come home to find me asleep on the sofa.
Tonight, Iâm waiting for him at the kitchen table. He sets his briefcase on the table and whips out some items for my perusal: a brochure about a convention center heâll soon visit, some Falcons stats he printed off the Internet.
âListenâŚ,â I begin.
âHang on a second,â he says, and strides into the bedroom, stripping off clothing as he does so. I hear him chanting, under his breath, â⌠hot like wasabi when I bust rhymes⌠youâll think youâre looking at Aquaman.â
I trace the flowered pattern of the place mat in front of me and then glance around the dimly lit kitchen for what I know must have triggered that song in his mindâwhat triggers it in both our minds daily. There he is, of course. Little plastic Aquaman lying on the counter.
My husband returns in his T-shirt and pajama pants. âIâm starved. Whatâs to eat around here?â he says, and starts lifting the lids of the pots on the stove.
âMark?â
He turns, maybe just now registering the way Iâve been waiting for him at the table. âWhat?â he asks, with a fear in his eyes, but one that I believe has nothing to do with my health. Markâs dread is for things that canât be put offâa water heater thatâs broken or a car that needs a new transmission.
I look into his face.
âWhat?â he demands.
I donât know how to put it most gently. âI lost my job,â I finally say.
For a second he doesnât seem to comprehend. Then he explodes. âThat bitch fired you?â
âNot exactly,â I say. âKatherine justâshe canât much help it. I fall asleep at my desk. I canât do what theyâre paying me for.â
âSharon!â he cries, with a face that looks like the world has ended. He jerks out the chair across from me and sits down in it, shaking his head.
âShe said sheâll give me a chance to see if the doctorâll put me on total disability before she writes up anything.â
âYeah? And what if he wonât? Then what?â
I stare into his dilated pupils and try to remember that Iâm looking at a scared, 34 year-old man who does not earn enough money to support us all. If I work, we manage well. If I die, theyâll all be provided for. But if Iâm persistently alive and yet not able to generate any income, weâre staring down the barrel of disaster.
âHeâll probably be ready to declare me disabled and my benefitsâll kick in,â I say gently. By then Mark looks ready to cry, so I strive to keep my face calm and my manner reassuring. âIf not, Katherine said sheâll try to let me go in such a way that I can draw unemployment.â
âThis house,â he says, looking around miserably. âTwo cars to pay for. And utility bills and doctor bills and food!â He turns his suffering eyes in my direction. âThereâs no way in hell I can do it all!â
I hadnât thought it possible anymore, but I well up with outrage at his inability to see the larger point. Despising him at this moment, I sit back in my chair.
âWell,â I say coldly, âmaybe I could get a job waitressing on the weekends.â
âOh, real good idea,â he says, getting up from the table. âYou canât sit at a desk and tap on a computer but you figure you can waitress.â He goes over to the stove and starts loading a plate with pork chops, rice and gravy. Staring down at the food, he shakes his head. âWeâre gonna have to come up with something, though. Thereâs only so much I can do.â
Iâve figured out some things that I had always wanted to know. I used to wonder how it must feel to be elderly and to know that you couldnât live much longer. Why, I wondered, didnât old people ever seem worried about this?
Younger people surrendering to death baffled me even more. Didnât these people have anything worth sticking around for? The stupid obituaries are always saying She loved life. Mark and I used to search for those ubiquitous words over coffee and the Sunday paper and then laugh when we found them. What a lame sentiment, we scorned. Who the hell doesnât love life?
But I think I get it now. Though this may seem a strange comparison, I think itâs like when Mark and I used to want to have sex. We might wake up on a Saturday morning with a gleam in our eyes, but there would be Peyton in our bed. Tonight, weâd promise each other, and go through the day making veiled references. Afternoon would give way to night and still we would give each other the eye. Weâd hear Amandaâs TV finally go off. Go to sleep, weâd mutter under our breath to Peyton.
When he would, at long last, succumbâon the sofa or on the floorârelief would wash over us. Weâd carry him to his room, and then for a few delicious minutes weâd be free of the yoke of parenthood, so weâd maybe have a snack and a little conversation before getting into bed. When weâd finally lie down, the uncrowded bed would feel so good to our tired bodies that all interest in sex would drain away. Hating to admit it, weâd lie there until somebody got up the nerve.
âYou still want to?â that one would ask.
And the other one, secretly glad, would say, âI did, but screw it, now. Iâm too tired.â
So itâs now my theory that old people and sick people get exhausted in just that way. Did I want to see Amanda poised and grown up in her wedding gown? Did I want to hold hands on the beach with Mark again? Did I want to walk Peyton into his classroom on his first day of school? Well I did, but screw it, now. Iâm just too tired. And the callous selfishness of that tiredness is good, because without it, it would hurt too much to know I wonât be doing any of those things.
Iâm in bed. I have all day every day with Peyton now, and in the face of that, Iâve almost forgotten the way our after-work hour used to be a sweet reunion. Heâs still a joyâhe always wasâbut my days blur into moments of panic when I know Iâve fallen asleep and left him unattended; moments of guilt when I canât remember whether I fed him. There are ugly scenes every afternoon when I have to battle Amanda to make her do the things I canât, and tears of self-condemnation when I know that I failed in raising her to care about others.
Peyton cares. If hunger drives him to rummage through the pantry and find a box of crackers, he brings them to my bed and shares them with me. If I throw up, he pats my back, and if I shiver he pulls the covers up to my chin. He stays in bed with me for hours every day, playing with his action figures.
Mark had an opportunity to start working first shift and I made him take it so that in the future heâll be home nights with the kids. So heâs at work; Amandaâs at school until four. And I am in pain. I am worn down. I would be crying except that it would scare Peyton. The black beeper that the transplant people gave me lies on my nightstand, still as death. Beep, goddamn you, I beg it silently, but it never has.
I brush my hand across Peytonâs platinum hair, loving him, as the lines from that corny old song flit through my mind. One day when I was not at home, and she was there and all alone, the angels came. But I am not alone, angels, or Grim Reaper, or whoever the hell is out there waiting for me. And I am not going anywhere right now and leaving this baby by himself with a corpse, so back the fuck off until his daddy gets home.
That damned sappy âHoney.â Who would believe that after all the things Iâve experienced in life, what sticks in my mind right now is a song I probably learned when I was five. But itâs a compliment to the songwriter, I guessâsurely nobody will ever be on their probable deathbed thinking hot like wasabi when I bust rhymes⌠youâll think youâre looking at Aquaman. Nobody except me, of course, and thatâs only because I am, once again, looking at Aquaman, who hovers two inches from my face.
âMama,â he thunders.
I force the corners of my mouth to turn up. âWhat.â
âWeâre gonna fly to the Hall of Justice!â
âGood deal,â I say, closing my eyes.
This sounds like an excellent plan to me. I dream of myself on a crisp, white-sheeted gurney in a small room somewhere in the Hall of Justice, with Batman and Superman conferring nearby. The two of them dispatch the Flash to crisscross the globe in search of a donor liver, while out in the main room Robin and the Green Lantern monitor my vital signs on that big screen of theirs. Ordinary men would get bored before long and have to switch over and watch a giant-screen ballgame, so Iâm relieved to be in the hands of Superheroes.
I stretch in the starched sheets and exhale deeply, smiling. Handsome Aquaman lifts Peyton onto my gurney and Peyton snuggles in beside me, beaming with pride that his friends seem to have this little situation of mine well under control.
Wonder Woman, I notice, doesnât seem to be around. Briefly I consider her absence, but soon excuse it without taking offense. Her colleagues, after all, are busy with me. I presume sheâs out saving the rest of the world by herself.