I guess there isn’t always traffic in Southern California, and I’m happy to discover this fact today. After being awake most of the night, I overslept, but I still arrive in time to pick up my race packet before the start. Mom always got hers the day before, but I couldn’t drive all the way here yesterday. So I rush to a portable table and get my race bib, the neon yellow T-shirt, and bag of advertisements with thirty minutes to spare.
Once I’ve organized myself at the car, I walk back to the start area. I’m not really sure what to do. Off to the side, some people lean and angle their bodies in different stretching positions. Others jog up and back along the race route. Yet there are also a ton of people drinking coffee and talking as if it’s a Sunday morning at Starbucks. What they have in common, though, is that they all have someone—a companion, a group, someone to be with. My isolation only increases my insecurity, so I sit on a curb and check my music and retie my shoes.
The sitting intensifies the heaviness of my eyelids and the vividness of last night’s news remnants still rustling in my brain. I jump to my feet and try to remember the different stretching drills from cross-country practice. I pull my leg back behind me and wonder if my mom ever felt this awkward before a race. We all went to the first few races, but once she began racing regularly, we stopped. It didn’t seem like such a big deal anymore. I wish I’d paid more attention to those race days. I wish...
I let go of my leg and jam my earbuds and some thumping music into my ears. I need to clear all these thoughts from my mind. None of that will help me make it through thirteen miles. I pace a bit and look at my watch again and again until I see people’s hands cover their hearts. I pause my music and listen to the national anthem. Race time has arrived.
Moments later, an airhorn signals the start. I’ve forgotten to turn on the GPS on my watch, though, so I have to fuss with it for the first bit of the race. It finally starts, and I settle into the flow. There’s such a clog of people for the first half mile or so as we wind our way through the beach boardwalk. I feel like I’m back in middle school PE running the obstacle course. I’m dodging people and weaving all around some who are already walking.
The clump of runners thins when we reach the road that parallels the ocean. One reason I chose this race was that it was flat with the entire course running along the shoreline. It’s a beautiful, sunny morning, and I’m feeling so good now that I snap a few photos of the ocean as I run so I can text Callie later. I giggle at the caption I’ll use: “Surf’s up, dude!”
At Mile 4, I check my pace, and I’m a full minute faster than I usually am. I haven’t even had to stop for water yet. Visions fill my head of me bounding across the finish line earlier than expected. I can’t wait to tell Coach how well I did. I’m literally cruising out here.
The tide begins to shift, though, at about Mile 5.5. A car in a nearby parking lot backfires, and my mind immediately unearths the bodies from last night. I contrast them with the healthy fresh-faced runners all around me. It’s the same sun shining down on us as it was shining down on that morning festival in Brussels. Why have we been spared? Who makes these decisions?
The heaviness seeps out of my head and travels down my body. The pinball pain shoots into my legs, and I feel the first signs of their weight. My body temperature is rising fast. One great thing about running by the beach is the beautiful scenery, but an equally awful thing is the fact that there is no shade from trees. The morning sun beats down on me, and my body is heating like a barbeque. I peek at my watch. I’m almost at the turnaround. There will be water there and a chance to walk. I’m slowing down, but I keep running.
I arrive just in time, according to the cries of my muscles and my enflamed cheeks. I don’t notice that the cup I’ve taken is Gatorade and not water until I pour it over my head. I quickly find a cup of water and dump that over me to wash off the lemon-lime Gatorade, and I grab another cup for actual drinking. They’re handing out energy gels, and even though I’ve never used them, I take one. I need all the help I can get to run another six and a half miles. The coffee flavor sounds good because I need like a gallon of coffee to have the energy to finish this race. I rip off the top and squeeze it into my mouth. It comes right back out as I spit it into my hand. This is not the time for coffee, especially a gooey toothpaste version of it. I flick it into the empty cup, but now I have a sticky hand. I wipe it on my shirt and use my cup of water to wash off the rest. I can’t go back for more water, so I start running, just as thirsty as I was when I got to this water station.
At the seven-mile mark, my legs stop. I beg and plead but neither they nor I can imagine running six more miles. It’s a desert out here, and I can practically feel my flesh burning. I didn’t even think about wearing sunscreen or a hat. 7:00 sounds so early. How can it be this hot already? My short-sleeved shirt might as well be a fleece sweatshirt. I shove the sleeves up as far as they will go, but they keep slipping down off my shoulders. I really need some water. I coax my legs back into running, but I nearly trip on a crack in the road because my feet hardly move off the ground in this shuffle-jogging I’m doing. I alternate walking and shuffling, with the walking lasting a bit longer each time. Start again at the next light pole. But when I pass the light pole, my legs continue walking. They are done. The ache in my feet and the pain in my knees shout this at me loud and clear. I look at my watch. If I walk the five and a half miles back to the finish line, it doesn’t really count. I will not have run a half-marathon, and this will be a waste of time. But my legs don’t care, and the heat stroke and dehydration seal the deal. I’m walking.
I hang my head in defeat. A blast of cowbell comes from my left. I’ve been hearing it intermittently on the course. It’s an older man out here cheering everyone on. I remember following Mom on the course a couple of times, holding a sign to encourage her. Now I glance in the direction of the cowbell guy, hoping that maybe his cheers can encourage me to run. I see him and a few people near him holding signs for their family members. One sign makes me step aside to stop all together. I rub my eyes because I think the heat might be making me hallucinate. A sign reads, “Go Emma!” and right above it is Ryan’s beaming face.
I carefully cross through the runners to where he is. “Wha... what?” I have no energy for any more words.
“I came to cheer you on!” His bright blue eyes sparkle. He checks his watch. “You’re doing great. How’s it going?”
I bend over and shake my head for a moment then straighten. “I’m not sure I can run anymore.”
“Of course you can. You got this,” he encourages me and hands a bottle of water to me. “Here, hydrate. You’ll feel better.”
“Thank you,” I gasp and snatch it from his hand. I alternately drink and pour it over me.
“I’ve got more in the car. There’s another spectator point in a couple miles.” He points down the road.
I finish the water and hand him the bottle. I feel a little refreshed and like I might be able to run again. I take another peek at his sign, “Go Emma!” I can go. I can do this.
“C’mon, you can do this. You got it.” He gives me a squeeze on my shoulders.
I nod. “Yeah... okay... yeah.”
I say thanks and return to the stream of runners. I start with a slow jog, and my legs are moving. He’s right. I can do this. Go Emma. Some of the pain has dissipated, and I’ve shed a layer of discomfort. Refreshed from the water, I pick up my pace a little. I increase the volume of my music and let the rhythmic beat and the vision of Ryan’s poster carry me forward.
It’s still blazing hot and my body still aches, but I’m able to run most of the remaining miles thanks to the additional water from Ryan and his cheering. Mile 13 hits, and the finish line beckons. I’m going to make it. I’m going to finish my first half-marathon!
My elation grows when the race volunteer drapes the medal around my neck, and it doubles when I see Ryan waving along the side of the finishers’ lane. He hands me a bottle of water and follows me as I wander through and collect my post-race banana, muffin, and chocolate milk. When I’m through, he leads me to a shady spot on some grass near a tree. I can’t even sit down. I hand my stuff to Ryan and bend at the waist, pouring some of the water over my head.
“You did it!” Ryan exclaims.
“Yeah.” Even though the post-race adrenaline pulses through me, I can barely raise my hand for a high-five.
“Do you need to stretch out or something?” he asks.
I probably do, but I have no energy. And I’m starving. It’s about 9:30, and all I’ve eaten today is the donut I grabbed from the kitchen as I raced out of the house. “Probably, but...” I can’t even finish my thought. I drop to the ground and start shoving food into my mouth.
Ryan laughs. “Hungry?”
“Oh my God, yes,” I say, covering my mouth with my hand as I speak. He watches me, and I don’t even care that a bit of banana smears on my face or that muffin crumbs tumble and stick to my sweat-drenched shirt. God, I must smell, too. But I can’t even care about that either. I open the chocolate milk and start guzzling.
“So... how was it?” he asks when I’m finished eating. He reads my face and adds, “I mean, what did you think of your first half-marathon?”
I swallow the last bit of muffin and rattle off the list of lessons I angrily penned in my mind throughout the race. “I learned that even if it’s 60 degrees at the start, you should dress for 90 degrees. I learned that I need to carry water with me instead of only relying on the water stations. Oh, and drink water even if you feel invincible and think you don’t need it. I learned that I need to wear a hat and that energy gels are disgusting. And I learned that loud music is a runner’s best friend.”
Ryan lets out a deep guttural laugh. “Damn.”
“Yeah, well I had thirteen painful miles to reflect.” I finish off the chocolate milk.
“Point one.”
“Yes.” I laugh. “Thirteen point one. Let’s not forget the point one.”
I drink more of the water and stare out at the ocean. We talk for a little bit, but I feel myself getting stiff. I stand, with some assistance from Ryan, and we walk—I hobble—back to my car. On the way, I say, “You know, I also learned that having someone cheering for you makes all the difference.”
“You’re welcome.” He shines a heart-stopping smile at me. “Any time.”
I heat up again and my gaze shifts down. I notice a smudge of coffee energy gel on my shirt and wonder how gross I truly look. My hand instinctively reaches up to my hair, and I cringe. But in the next step, the heavy finisher’s medal bangs against my chest, and nothing but pure joy fills me.
I can barely walk the day after the race. It eventually passes; however, the glory of my finish remains. I blab to Mari about the race until I can tell from her reaction that she feels like she ran it with me. I can’t help it, though. I stare at my medal multiple times a day, and Coach is even impressed with me when I tell him about finishing. It wasn’t a really fast time, but he said for a first-time racer, especially at that distance, I did a great job.
The pressure eases a little with one of the four races completed, so now I can focus more on my college applications. I’ve worked on the Ohio State application like an author drafting a novel. I’ve analyzed every word in my essay and reviewed my answers at least ten times. I made Grandma review it to see if I made any errors, and I even made an appointment with my counselor at lunch today to review it.
“Sorry I’m late today,” I say to Mari when I make it to our lunch spot after the meeting.
She’s just about finished with her lunch. “No biggie. I was just watching Jenny Miller attempt more flirting with Josh Sanders.”
“And how’s she doing today?” I joke and remove my lunch from my backpack. We’ve been watching her try to make a move on him for the past week.
“A little better. I think the casual touch of his shoulder combined with her low-cut top is working.” Mari crunches a carrot.
I unwrap my sandwich and focus on Jenny. Sure enough, her shirt is really giving Josh a lot to look at.
“So what’d the counselor say? Is your application good?” Mari asks.
“She says it looks fine, and it’s ready to submit.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah. I think she wanted to talk more about the other applications—the ones I haven’t done yet.” I bite my lip. “But I told her I had to go.”
“You should’ve stayed.”
“I didn’t want to—”
“Leave me all alone?” Mari finishes.
I shrug.
“I’m a big girl, you know.” She crunches a final carrot. “And besides, you’re lucky that I’m hanging out with you. I had big plans with the library this year.”
I laugh. “Oh yeah?”
“That’s right. I had planned on spending some quality time this year with Hester Prynne and Miss Havisham, as well as reminisce about the good ole days with Harry Potter and Corduroy.”
“I guess I am very lucky, especially if I’m up against Corduroy.”
She nods at me in mock seriousness. “He’s tough competition with the heart-wrenching missing button and all.”
We both giggle, and the bell rings. I shove my half-eaten sandwich in my lunch bag, and we pack our stuff.
As I walk to class, I realize I am lucky. Mari is the perfect friend for me here.
All my positive vibes dissipate when I arrive home after school. There’s another shouting match happening inside, with Grandma alone at the kitchen table. It must have been bridge day again because the cards and perspiring iced teas are out on the table. I only see Rose and another blond bridge friend this time. They are inches from Susan’s face.
“What’s going on?” I shout into the chaos, dropping my stuff right inside the door.
“Oh good, you’re here,” the blond friend says, turning toward me. “When we arrived for bridge this afternoon, your grandmother was having one of her spells. And this one,” she angrily points to Susan, “put her hands on Connie.”
“What?” I glare at Susan.
She throws up her hands. “Oh please. That’s a gross exaggeration. I was just trying to get her out of the chair.”
“Yes, by yanking at her,” Rose chimes in.
Susan turns to me. “Look, I was supposed to leave at three today. There should have been another nurse here at two for the transition, but she hasn’t arrived yet. I was just trying to get your grandmother to take her pills. She’s been refusing lately, and it’s something that has to get done.”
Grandma’s friend mutters, “Leaving early again...”
Cartoon steam shoots out of Susan’s head. “I’m very sorry that my sister’s illness is an inconvenience to you.”
“I feel for you and your sister, I really do, but our priority is Connie. And she’s not getting the care she needs.”
“Or that she’s paying for,” Rose adds. “She’s supposed to have a regular nurse.”
“Well, then you should request a change,” Susan says matter-of-factly.
Rose and the blond lady turn to me. “Your grandmother—”
They’re interrupted by a knock at the door followed by the entrance of the young Asian nurse who had been here before. Susan launches at her like a tiger and begins mauling her with reproaches and accusations. The young nurse immediately snarls out a defense, and their arguing draws in Grandma’s friends. About this time, another bridge lady emerges from the hallway waving a paper and claiming she’s found the in-home care contract in Grandma’s bedroom. This takes the anger to a new level as they all claw at the paper like crows fighting over a dropped French fry.
They’ve forgotten about me, so I walk over to Grandma. I sit next to her as she stares at the ruckus but looks somewhere far beyond it. The shouting continues and my mind flashes back to Mom and the hospital.
When they rushed her out of the ER, she went immediately into surgery. Afterward, as she was recovering in the ICU, the nurses let me spend the nights in her room. The doctors always showed me cheery faces and spoke optimistic words, but more than once I saw them shaking their heads with more serious faces at my aunt and uncle outside the room.
I woke up one morning in Mom’s ICU room—the third or fourth day, I’m not sure because all the days blurred together—to the shouts and screams of the blue and green-clothed bodies darting in and out of the room and back and forth from one side of her bed to the other, all while beeping machines screeched in urgency. My mind screamed—What’s happening? What’s wrong with my mom?—but my paralyzed voice remained silent. In the chaos, a nurse finally spotted me and led me out of the room. I saw her mouth moving, but I couldn’t hear her voice. My ears were filled with the dire cry of the machines hooked to Mom.
My mom went into cardiac arrest that morning. We held out hope for two weeks, but we knew it was the end because her eyes never registered anything other than an empty faraway look. She’d gone somewhere that morning and was never coming back. Her body had experienced too much trauma. Still, I never left her side. I held her hand every moment of every day; even when I rested my head on her bed for brief moments of sleep, I never let go. Uncle Jim told me I should go home and get some proper sleep. He said she probably didn’t even know I was there. But that didn’t matter to me. I told him, if it were me, I’d want someone to sit with me and hold my hand at the end. I’d want someone to be there with me, so I wasn’t alone. Even if I didn’t know it.
“Emma? Emma, what do you think?” Rose’s voice brings me back to the present.
“You’re going to let a teenager make this decision?” Susan snaps.
This sets off more shouts that ricochet off the walls. I gently hold Grandma’s hand between mine.
“I’m here, Grandma,” I say to her, and she looks over at me, eyes still somewhere far away. “I’m here.”