terminal seven

doctors, lighthouses & christmas lights.

i.

he pulls his stethoscope away from your chest. stern eyes but his hands are soft and cakey with phlegmatic repetition; you imagine them tangled in your hair, you imagine them shovelling dirt into your lungs. you imagine them turning up empty, a hole in the ground. maybe he was a child once, scared of sounds, a coward playing cowboy in the dark. but he pulls the stethoscope away and your chest is cold where the metal was and when you breathe you breathe vacant.

ii.

you hear the unresolved beeping in the elevator down. a diabolical series of notches. write that down. the unresolved beeping lurches out of your chest. you pummel like a godsend to the ground. a beat. was it always this unhurried? maybe it’s what you looked for under your bed. maybe it’s the underwhelming trill of being alive.

iii.

the chemist closes at five. the chemist closes at six. the chemist died last week in the bedroom down the hall, one leg out the window, the other at the door. his life stunk of epilogue, hours spent selling standby vitality perched reverently by the door. it took a month just to get past them. another month to clear out the smell, another three for the ghost story to dissipate, a day to rent it out again. he was too old for ghost stories. he found that out in the bedroom down the hall.

iv.

your aunt’s old pacemaker is still in your drawer. the last time you saw her, your family laughed. you remember her waving, but her eyes betrayed her. you’ll see, they said. she went missing last christmas, in the city lights above town hall. all it is is unfinished business, you can hear her say sometimes (when you wake up, when you fight, when you breathe). you wash up. your aunt’s old shirt is still in your drawer.

v.

you’re scared that one day you’ll wake up and he won’t love you the way he does now. how can he, knowing this ugliness inside? and the boldest half of it is still to come. at dinner you push down a thought, but you know it even in your ignorance. the worst thing that ever happened to him is sitting right there at the dining table.

vi.

routine is an occupational hazard
you wake up and you choke back tears.

vii.

you stopped by the lighthouse once. the postmaster found your body there, forced it back into your hands. not yet. so instead you look for openings everywhere you go. false bottoms and wooden doors, slits in the rags you weave.

viii.

he pulls his stethoscope away from your chest — stern eyes, but his hands are soft with tepid affection. he stops a minute, and whispers your diagnosis. mangled disbelief. he says it again, clear, now, so you can’t be mistaken:

you’re perfectly fine. isn’t that splendid? there’s nothing wrong with you at all.

you’re discharged.