The Division Day

After his father's death, a man's panic isolates him from his family.

He paced the driveway, phone clutched in his hand. His chest tightened. His father had been home from the hospital for two days, resting. But for how long? Thoughts fragmented. Two hearts, the same condition. One faltering, the other uncertain.

The phone rang and rang. Pick up. Please. Pick up.

Finally, a voice answered. Thin and strained.

"Hello."

The rhythm in his chest felt unsettled. Was that a missed beat? Eyes closed, the words reached for his father—gentle, encircling.

"Hey Dad. How have you been feeling today?"

"Oh, I'm feeling better. A little better than yesterday."

The voice sounded so tired. Was he keeping something? Should he call the doctor? His heart fluttered—once, twice. Not now. Relax.

"Good. Good. You need to rest. I hear a cry. Is Jackie there too?"

Jackie was his niece. Why was she there? With an infant around, it was hard to rest.

"Your sister and mother went out. They should be back shortly."

What? Anger rose with a suddenness that alarmed him. How could she leave the baby with him after what he'd been through?

The words stumbled over each other trying to escape, only for him to swallow them.

Breathe. Exhale. Repeat.

"Dad, I wanted to call you today and let you know a few things."

"Okay." An uneasiness settled.

"You know, with all that has gone on, I wanted to get a chance to tell you…to tell you just how important—I mean just how much you…"

A short, mistimed laugh deflected the words. "I know, son. I know."

-----

*"The day which we fear as our last is but the birthday of eternity."* — Seneca

-----

The funeral was scheduled for Friday.

-----

The amber glow of the light cascaded across the bed as she was propped against the pillows, the book sat unevenly against the swell of her belly. Her voice was a delicate wisp, enveloping the tiny body within.

She could feel the distance in every measured breath. He was elsewhere though he lay a few feet away, his mind caught in a static loop as he replayed the last few days, she thought.

Her fingers drifted like a mist to his hand, seeking a place to land. The coolness of his unyielding skin; the warmth of hers. She squeezed. His hand remained still. Her fingers retreated in defeat.

She grabbed the book, feeling the weight and rigidity in her hands. She held it out in his direction, her words passing through her lips slow like honey, hoping they would find their way to him.

"Would you like to read to Jack?"

His gaze was locked on the opposite wall, fixed and distant. His left hand against his temple as if trying to suppress a headache while his lips, moving in a dry rhythmic tremor, mumbled numbers. She knew the routine now.

She reached for his hand again and shook it a little. "Honey?"

He turned to her. His eyes, at first vacant and void, showed life again as it raced back into the present. He smiled. The kind that knows the how but forgets the why.

"Yeah, what was that?"

"I asked if you wanted to read to Jack for a little."

"Oh. I was thinking of taking a hot bath. Yeah, a hot bath."

The mattress sunk with the movement of his body as he rolled to the other side and then up. He stood there for a moment, as if he had forgotten the reason that brought him to his feet.

Then with a stiffness, he shuffled to the bathroom, closing the door without so much as a glance. Click.

The echo of the door vibrated through the walls, finally reaching her as she closed her eyes to it. She placed the book on the nightstand, turned the light off, and rolled to her side.

"Goodnight Jack."

-----

Morning light bled through the trees, shimmering on dew along the quiet road. Heat pressed on the windows—summer in Carolina refusing to sleep. The hiss of tires on asphalt and the low, even hum of the engine gave her a brief escape into the quiet. She turned her head to see him with his head down, his finger flicking the screen that teetered in his hand like a playground seesaw.

His expression eased as he moved from one picture to another.

She turned her head back, her mind no longer busied by the drone of the road. That space was filled by him and his silence. Should she say something? Anything?

Her hands eased, clenched again, thumbs drumming a steady rhythm. Finally, her tongue pushed against her teeth, freeing the grip it had on her lips.

"Umm… so, are those pictures of your dad?"

The warmth in his reply caught her off guard. "Yeah… from the golfing trip we took last summer in Colorado Springs."

"Oh right. Where he made that hole in one."

"Yeah. He was so annoyed that I missed his reaction with my camera." A delicate laugh rippled across his face.

She swelled inside as the vibrations of his laugh reached and embraced her.

Today was better.

-----

*Friday night*

The sharp, rhythmic pulse yanked her out of sleep and back into the hotel bed. Fire alarm. She panicked. Her hand darted along the sheets, fingers flailing. Nothing. Where was he? Her eyes fought the darkness of the room, finally adjusting to the artificial light that spilled through the curtains. There he was, sitting in the chair, still dressed, his tie loose.

The three-beat shriek continued as he sat there with a masked face, lifeless.

"Honey, we should get going," she said as she clumsily made her way to her feet, hurriedly putting on her robe.

"Yeah," he weakly replied, but made no movement.

She knelt in front of him, tenderly placing her fingers on his cheek. "Hey," she quietly said, looking right at him. "Let's go."

He exhaled, put on his shoes, and headed for the door.

The night heat wrapped around her as she stepped through the exit door. To her right, the hotel entrance was washed in flashing lights, their pulses illuminating the sidewalk and the suddenly crowded parking lot beyond.

She spotted his sister and her husband with the baby, along with friends huddled together, their conversations a steady buzz of white noise. Between their bodies, she saw him. He sat on the curb, head bent, his right hand over his chest.

She quickly went to his side, weaving between the bodies with a new urgency. Breathless, she asked, "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"No. My chest is really tight, and it feels like it will snap. It hurts."

"Okay. Okay. I'm going to call an ambulance." She reached into her pocket, but it was empty.

"Damn it."

She bolted up and told his sister, "Call an ambulance! He's having chest pains."

-----

"Room 321," she mumbled as the numbers increased with each door she passed. She slowed her pace, her hand brushing the wall, feeling the coolness. Passing door 319, she saw the doctor exiting his room and heading the other direction. "Doctor!" She winced at the sound of her own voice.

He turned around.

"I'm sorry. You just saw my husband," she said, gesturing toward the room. "I'm his wife. Is he okay?"

The doctor cleared his throat. "Of course. He's doing better. We ran a few tests, and they came back negative. We'd still like to monitor him, but based on the results and his symptoms, we believe he suffered a panic attack."

She closed her eyes, the tension in her face finally easing. Her lips quivered as she whispered, "Thank you," to the doctor.

She took a breath and pushed open the door to his room.

He was lying down, eyes to the ceiling with his jaw clenched.

"Hey."

He smiled, but the stiffness in his face made it look rehearsed.

She moved toward the bed and brushed his arm before settling into the chair.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

He hesitated, then finally said, "I'm feeling okay."

"I talked to the doctor. He said all the tests came back negative," she said, rubbing his arm.

He nodded, eyes focused on his hands as he twisted them together. "Yeah… that's good."

She reached over and placed her hand on his. His hands stilled under hers.

"Hey, you're going to be okay," she reassured.

"Yeah…it's just that…"

"It's what?" she asked. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"I don't want to die, but I'm… afraid to. I don't know. It's like I'm standing alone in the street, and a car is bearing down on me. And I just… I can't move. I just stand there. Frozen."

"But the doctor said your heart is fine," she said, her voice strained.

"Sometimes I just lay there. Feeling every heartbeat. My fingers on my pulse and I feel the rhythm. One beat after another, beating how it should, like life. Then two quick beats followed by a pause. A long pause. And it feels like a rush of wind hits my face and I can't breathe."

He stopped. He raced his fingers through his hair and exhaled.

"Then it beats normal again. And I just repeat this. Over and over. Same beats, same miss, same wind. It's all I think about."

Her brow furrowed, her eyes reached for him. "Maybe you should speak to someone."

He went silent. His hand moved to his temple, but stopped. He let out a frustrated sigh and placed it down.

"A doctor can help with these obsessive thoughts—"

He interrupted. "You aren't hearing me. I can't move away from this fear. It's consuming me. It's all I think about. What's the point anymore?"

"I'm here. We're here."

"Stop making it about you! I'm going through this!" He jerked his head toward the window and stared. No longer present.

Her eyes stayed on him. Unable to move. Frozen.

She rose. Slowly and headed out. She paused at the door, hand on the frame. She turned her head to him, his gaze still fixed out the window. Then she stepped into the hallway.

She leaned heavily against the wall, depending on its support. She wrapped her hands around her belly and whispered, "I'm fine. I'm fine. We're…"