Cardiopulmonary Resuscitation
Once, when she was young, she died. She came back to life right afterwards, quick as a bird-call, quick as the flicker of a prayer-flag in the wind, quick as the elbow and ligature and joint of the ambulance paramedic’s arms could make her. His name was Greg. He was a thin man with sad and blood-lined eyes; two children; very strong arms.
Death left behind his fingerprints, of course; he so rarely washes his palms. She had two red marks the size of thumbs, one on each cheek, and she had one blue tooth, only to be seen when she really smiled. She didn’t much. She did at Greg’s birthday party, eight years after, when he handed her a slice of chocolate cake cut by a very sharp knife and asked her what it was like. He said he was scared. He said that the way his cells had started to self-destruct, the ends of telomeres to unwind never-ending as a fairy-tale, his bones to gnaw at themselves, it sent shivers up his spine and vomit up his throat and one last severance paycheck up from the hospital accountant, a white envelope which he’d put in his back pocket when he went casket-shopping with his wife, so that his hands were free to hold his wife’s. He thought that was important, he said. To hold his wife’s hands. He just wanted to know what it was like, he said. What was it like, he said.
She took a bite of cake and smiled, so big that Greg could see the blue tooth and the unswallowed chocolate. She was sixteen now and her body made shapes beneath her clothes, but her face looked big and pale and freckled, very young still, Greg thought, he’d thought a lot about that face, hanging over it like God over the moon, on his knees on that old day with his strong arms straight, hands clasped, ready to break that little girl’s ribs and senseless heart.
« What’s it like, » he said.
« It’s cold, » she said, with her tongue and her one blue tooth. « And you already know all the words. »
« Thank you. »
« This cake is very nice. Happy birthday. »
« It’s my last one. »
« Honey? » His wife came up. « Do you like the cake? » — « Yes. » He put down his plate to hold his wife’s hands. « Yes, » he said. — « Oh, good. » His wife smiled at him, her face tremulous and lined, and the freckles atop her cheeks looked like the dress rehearsals for tears. « Come over here, hon, » his wife said. « Just a minute. My aunt wants to talk to you. »
She waved at him, then, the girl. She set down the clear plastic fork and the last of the frosting, she pushed sweat-slick hair behind her ears. She would swallow the sweet and make do with air now, lungs and a curious heart. « Goodbye, Greg. We’ve both got to be going. »
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Mary McColley is a writer and poet originally from Maine. She has wandered and worked for a number of years in France, Thailand, and Palestine. Her pastimes include killing lobsters and selling street art.