Over the rest of the school week, the chest pains grow, sometimes so painful that they bring me to my knees until they pass. The first time it happens at school – on the way out of Social Studies – I kneel and tie my shoelace to cover what’s going on.
When I get the chance, I duck into the library to research what I’m feeling, but it’s the worst thing I could do. There’s way too much information. Angina – when the arteries that supply the heart grow thick – is possible. Or it could be congenital. I find out there are a lot of heart conditions.
I could see Dr Kuruvilla, although I don’t feel up to an early morning jaunt. So, I book in Saturday morning to see Dr Stathakis, our family doctor, because I’m sure something physical is going on.
Dr Stathakis has sharp features set in a constant state of disapproval. I tell him my chest has been tight lately and sometimes it makes it hard to breathe. He nods throughout and when I’m done, he takes my blood pressure, then has me sit on the cot at the back of his office and listens to my breathing the way Dr Kuruvilla did. He takes his stethoscope off and pulls a white plastic case out from under his cot about the size of a shoebox.
‘Take off your jacket and t-shirt,’ he says.
I do that as he unclasps the case and pulls the lid off. Inside is a monitor of some sort. There are electrodes connected to it with long, long wires. Dr Stathakis attaches the electrodes to my chest and runs the machine for a minute. It beeps steadily and shoots out a ticker of paper. Dr Stathakis yanks it out and studies it briefly.
‘All fine,’ he says. He scrunches up the page and tosses it in a bin under the cot, then pulls the electrodes from my chest. ‘So’s the breathing.’
He packs up the machine as I sit up and put my t-shirt and jacket back on.
‘Then what is it?’ I ask.
‘How’s school? You worried about that?’
‘Not really.’
Dr Stathakis sits back in his fancy leather chair; I sit in the simple chair opposite him. ‘Nothing’s physically wrong,’ he says. He taps his temple. ‘It’s all in here.’
I have the chance now to tell him everything about this but don’t have the courage. He’ll tell my parents. It’ll get out. I’ll look weak.
‘What should I do?’ I ask.
‘Take it easy,’ Dr Stathakis says.
‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it.’
As I leave the clinic, I try to absorb what he’s told me but nothing wants to sink in. It’s so easy for somebody to tell you that you have nothing to worry about. It’s something else when you don’t know why you’re worrying and you can’t convince yourself that you shouldn’t be.
Then I notice the most amazing thing: the tightness in my chest is gone. I take a deep breath and feel it flow deep, deep down. It can’t be that simple. It shouldn’t be that simple. But it is. Knowing this isn’t – or wasn’t – something physical has dissolved it. It’s a relief that I’m fine but a worry that this will come back in some other form.
I head home, each step quicker than the last, until I’m sprinting, the wind cutting through my hair. I get home, puffed, hardly able to catch my breath, and I worry that I won’t. This’ll be it. An asthma attack, although I don’t have asthma. I go inside, lie on bed until I catch my breath and tell myself I’m okay. This is all I need to keep doing: reminding myself.
Sunday’s my birthday. When I stumble out of bed, Mum – and then Dad – greets me with a kiss and a hug and each thrust money into my hand. Money’s their gift for everything. I’ve just finished breakfast when Steph calls from Los Angeles and after she’s done with Mum and Dad, she gets me on the phone to wish me a happy birthday.
‘Sixteen!’ she says. ‘These are your glory years! Live it up.’
Riley calls later, suggesting we go to Toppy’s after lunch for a celebration. I agree for the sake of agreeing but would rather crawl back into bed. Something is off. I’m unsure what but can’t shake the sensation.
Around 1.00, Ash comes and picks me up, but instead of heading for Toppy’s he drags me towards the school. I ask him where we’re going, but he plays coy, so I follow him down to the bridge, then onto the aqueduct. We walk along the edge until we get to where the aqueduct slides under the Main Street bridge. Riley is waiting with two bulky plastic bags, and a can of beer in hand. He grabs another two beers out of the plastic bag and throws one to each of us.
‘Happy birthday!’
Riley pulls something wrapped in blue tissue paper about the size of a book from the bag. He Frisbees it to me; I catch it one-handed against my chest, while holding the beer in the other.
‘There’s that, too,’ Riley says.
‘A gift? We never give gifts.’
‘Times change,’ Ash says.
‘You’re sixteen,’ Riley says.
I tear the wrapping open.
‘We didn’t know what to get you,’ Ash says.
‘Ash suggested this,’ Riley says. ‘Unless you like it, then I’ll take the credit.’
I think it’s going to be a book, which would be the easy thing to buy me. But it’s a leather-bound journal with this old, yellowed paper. In a separate plastic case, there’s also a fountain pen.
‘I thought it was a little bit gay,’ Riley says. ‘But Ash said you’d like it.’
‘It’s cool. Thanks.’
We sit there, huddled under the bridge like trolls out of a fairy tale. The wind snakes down the aqueduct, and every now and then we feel drops of wet, which might be rain or the wind spraying up water from the creek.
‘Mum’s not happy about the beer I’ve been grabbing,’ Riley says. ‘I got Ray to get these – twelve of them.’
‘You should’ve invited some girls,’ Ash says.
‘Surprisingly, this isn’t a hotspot for them. But I did bring this…’
Riley slips his hand in his jacket, then pulls out what I’m sure is a cigarette without a filter, the end twisted tight. But it’s not. It’s a joint. It takes me a second longer – and Ash’s excited reaction – to realise that.
‘Where’d you get that?’ Ash says.
‘Ray.’
Riley pops it in his mouth and lights it up. The smell of it is thick and rich and weird – a cross between tobacco and pine air freshener. Riley takes a deep drag, then lets out the smoke leisurely, savouring it.
‘Who’s next?’
Ash is – he splutters on his first drag but inhales deep and lovingly on his next. He holds the joint out to me, but I shake my head.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asks.
I light up a cigarette so my mouth will be occupied. ‘I’ll stick with the beer.’
‘I got it for your birthday,’ Riley says.
‘I appreciate it but…’
I have no idea what excuse to give him – that I don’t want to, that my parents will notice me stoned, or (and this rages in my head) I’ll have some adverse reaction to it. People can have paranoid meltdowns from something as simple as a joint and the way my head’s working, I’m sure that’s likely for me.
In understanding that, I also now know what’s been misplaced: this, whatever it is, is gone, but only as a retreat to work out how it’s going to come at me next. It’s fine for Dr Stathakis to tell me to take it easy, but I can’t.
I need to be on guard.
I stare at the water of the creek rushing by and wonder where it’ll carry me if I throw myself in.
Sitting there, under a bridge in the biting cold on my birthday while my two best friends get stoned, life’s never seemed emptier.