Strokes

by Sean Orlosky

October 1988.

It’s a warm day outside today, which I appreciate. I have cold sweats from time to time, and the outdoors feel even cozier today than the indoors. I can settle back in a lawn chair, put my feet up, and take in the scene. The leaves have become their seasonal cornucopia of reds, yellows, and browns, and at twilight, they detach soundlessly from the trees, wafting down to the ground to rest. And be crushed. Well, nothing lasts forever.

I tug my scarf a little tighter around my neck. Once upon a time, I couldn’t stand scarves or turtlenecks – I felt like I was being suffocated. Then when I started to lose weight, Dr. Thatcher suggested I dress more warmly, because in addition to the weight loss I was developing a constant sore throat. Some kind of side effect – the throat muscles thinned out. Dr. Thatcher said he’d look into it, and in the meantime dress accordingly so that “your neck doesn’t get tired.” What’s going to happen? Is my head just going to capsize down on my neck one day?

I don’t want to think about that stuff right now. It’s a good day – I imagine myself back in the pool, getting ready for the summer season. Backstroke, breaststroke, butterfly … ah, hallowed smell of chlorine, take me away…

* * *

I stand in front of my bedroom mirror and take off my robe, slowly. It’s a sobering thought: this chalky, leathery epidermis stretched over my ribcage once looked like a swimmer’s body. The swimmer has obviously been away from the pool too long. The toned abs that I wanted so much and spent so many Saturdays at the Y trying to build up now hang down slackly in a limp layer of skin.

Well … a few months worth of Saturdays, once I get my strength back …

“Hey.” Mom.

“Hey.”

“Are you feeling all right?”

“Not too shabby.”

She comes in, waves her hand over my bare back without touching it, like a metal detector. “The one on your back is almost gone.”

“I think there’s a new one on my neck.” I point under my Adam’s apple. “Doesn’t that look a little dark to you?”

Intently. “Hmmm … yes. We better get that checked out at your next appointment.”

That’s what keeps me going. Having something to look forward to.

***

“Down in lane number three … and this young swimmer is kicking up a storm! … in top form this year – yes, now – is? Is – yes, yes!…hit the wall! Setting a new record for long-distance backstroke –”

I always wake up before the announcer says my name.

It would be nice to get a good night’s sleep again. I … oh, God, I have to go to the bathroom.
I try to sit up, and my legs get tangled up in the sheets. I grunt, pulling them out from under the covers, and one-two-three-heave! – thrust myself out of the bed.

I land on my hands and knees, loudly. God, I’m sweating …

I push myself up on my bare feet, and press my body to the wall for support. I inch to the door, try to open the rusty knob as quietly as possible. Screeech! Ugh.

The bathroom is two doors down … I twist my body around the door frame, still pressing against the wall. My sweaty face feels slick against it. I’m not going to make it …

I push down my pajama bottoms, the cloth slides down my legs. Oh, God … If Mom or Dad or Sarah come out of their bedrooms, there I’ll be, stark naked, sweating against the wall … I don’t care. I pull one foot out of the legs one at a time, and gasp with the effort that takes. I reach my arm out as far as I can – and push open the bathroom door.

WHAM. I tumble / fly / gallop / collapse into the dark bathroom. Get up, get up … open the lid – when did this thing get so heavy? … and … and … God, I’m shaking … God, this feels good …Oh … my ... God … this is …

“Who’s in there?”

Oh, God.

“It’s me, Dad.”

“What’s going on? Are you all right?” He sounds angry more than concerned.

“I am now.”

“What are your pajama bottoms doing out in the hall?”

Forget the disease. Take me now, please.

“Dad … would you just set them outside the door? Please?”

An explosion of water from my butt that echoes like Niagara Falls.

“They’re outside the door. You gonna be all right?”

I honestly could die right now … “Yes, I’m fine.”

Dad thumps back down the hallway and shuts their bedroom door.

God, there’s gotta be a week’s worth in that last dump … oh, oh … twenty seconds’ effort … twenty-one … twenty-two …

“…You just set a county record. Twenty-three seconds with the backstroke. How do you feel?”

I’m out of breath.

****

The doctor’s office. I sit in the cushioned metal chair, tapping my feet on the linoleum. My eyes glaze over, staring at the pink wallpaper with teddy bears all over it. I think I may be the only patient over the age of four-and-a-half being treated in this room …

“Other than that, I think everything’s doing okay,” says Mom. She gives me a light pat on the back. That feels good.

“Did she miss anything, kiddo?” Dr. Thatcher asks.

“I … I’ve had a little trouble sleeping, but … other than that, I think I’m okay.”

“Most people do have trouble sleeping. Do you think we should up your meds?”

I consider more medicine for about two seconds. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Have you had any night sweats?”

“No.”

“Are you restless?”

“No.”

“Do you have trouble breathing in your sleep?”

“No.” This is getting monotonous.

“Have you had any irregular bowel movements?”

***

Mom shakes the pills into her hand. “Your dad said you said you were okay.”

I sullenly stare at her. “It wasn’t that big a deal.”

“When you are in that much pain going to the bathroom, it’s a very big deal,” Mom cuts in sternly. “Swallow.”

A long time ago I quit looking at the pills before I put them in my mouth. Now I just gulp and swallow. I squeeze those mothers down my throat, and down the water from the plastic Cinderella cup.

“Sarah’s going to be ticked off that you got her cup for me.”

“Well, that’s her problem,” Mom says with a smirk. “Seriously … please say something when you’re in pain or you feel bad. Do you want the day off tomorrow?”

Overprotective even by regular mom standards, Mom has home-schooled me since the diagnosis.

“No … Alexander’s only conquered a third of … Portugal or whatever. I can’t wait to find out how it ends.”

Mom rolls her eyes.

“Is there anything else you want?”

I think for a moment. “Code Blue.”

“What?”

“I made up my mind,” I say. “If I have to go back to the hospital and something happens, I want the Code Blue team to come in. I want to fight.”

I swear I can almost see my mother glow a little bit. “Okay. I’ll let Dad know, and Dr. Thatcher.”

“I want to swim again.”

Mom hesitates for a second, then she just nods. I’m glad she doesn’t say anything else.

***

Therapy today. More fun than a barrel of monkeys.

“How do you feel today?” asks Teresa.

“Tired,” I say, staring at the certificates on the wall. There can’t be that many psychiatric institutions in a single state, I think to myself.

“How do you feel emotionally?”

“I’m emotionally tired, too,” I mutter.

“Do you feel drained trying to get through one day to the next?”

I think for a second, and then say, “It’s not the days so much that bother me. It’s nights.”

“How so?”

“I lay awake and remember all the things I used to be able to do … I miss looking forward to winning medals, hearing people clap for me … Sometimes I wake up in the morning and think, ‘I’m still here … why?’ I mean, don’t get me wrong. I love my family, and I don’t want to … leave them, but … for me, I just … what is there that I can still do?”

Teresa smiles at me. “That’s the most open you’ve been in the last two times we’ve met.”

“Oh, God!” I clasp my jeans zipper. “Why didn’t you tell me I was open?”

Teresa smirks just like Mom. It’s kind of scary.

***

That night I dream that I’m five years old again. Diving off the pier up at Younger Lake. I’ve been diving since I was two. I thought that if I could zip through the brown, muddy water of the lake, the clear blue water in the Olympic pools would be a piece of cake. The rushing liquid plowing into and over my body felt better and better the faster I kicked, the harder I propelled myself. Breath came when I needed it. My arms stretched like canvas on an easel, my feet smashed into the water with fury, splashing anyone and anything that dared get in my way. I was unstoppable, I could go on forever … and my dream is suddenly interrupted by the memory of one day over a year ago …

“You have the HIV virus. Do you know what that means?”

“Not really, Dr. Thatcher …”

“During your blood transfusion in April …mixed up … we didn’t know … do you understand …all we can … do you have any questions?”

(Dr. Thatcher is a man with priorities. He took ten minutes to explain the diagnosis to me before taking the next hour and a half to make sure my parents wouldn’t sue the hospital.)

“Can you get it out of me?”

“I don’t think so … nobody has ever been able to get it out, but …”

“Am I going to die?”

“No … we don’t see any reason why you would…”

“So I could go on forever with this?”

I wake up before Dr. Thatcher tells me that yes, I could go on forever with this. But all I remember when I’m awake is what he said afterward: that under no circumstances will I ever swim again.

***

“Jete, jete, jete!”

Sarah is busy choreographing her latest routine in the living room. Dad and I are focused on the TV, and Mom has just sat down in her chair.

Sarah’s leaping like gristle in a frying pan. No logic to the movement, but she pops and fizzles nonetheless.

“Very nice, honey,” Mom says. “Um, I think you’re in their way, sweetie … why don’t you take a break for a little bit.”

“Very nice, hon,” Dad says, not blinking from the tube.

“Swell,” I put in, gamely.

Sarah pouts, arns crossed. “That was only the first movement.”

Mom changes the subject. “The pizza should be ready to pick up in about ten minutes.”

“Okay,” Dad mutters.

“I think we lost him for the night,” I say. “You know what? I could really stand to get out of the house for a minute … let me run down and get it.”

Mom and Dad exchange glances. “I don’t think so …” Mom starts.

“Come on,” I say. “It’s a nice night out, and it’s only a block and a half.”

Mom looks at Dad. “It’s been a really good week this week. No dizzy spells or anything …”

I’m still in the room, Mom, but thank you.

Dad looks worried, and I take that as a profound compliment. He looks down at his shoes for a moment, and then he finally says, “Wear your heavy coat.”

***

It’s a cool night, and I have to admit, it is a little bit more exertion than I thought it would take to get down to the pizza parlor. But I only have to stop to catch my breath once, and I never start sweating outside, which is a miracle.

But I do start sweating as soon as I swing open the door to the pizza parlor and step inside. Jeez, when did they start keeping it this warm? It’s like a sauna. The red booths strike out at me in intense pinpricks of color. The Tiffany lamps hanging above them shake and blur … I see purple dots in front of my eyes. I can see, but I can’t … I blink twice, remember to breathe, and rejoin the world of the living.

“Pick-up?” The fellow behind the counter points to me.

“Yeah,” I say. I tell him the name.

“Not ready for another five minutes.”

“No problem,” I say.

Great, I think. Stuck in a pepperoni sauna for the next five minutes … this will do wonders for my immune system. Thatcher’s going to love this …

I suddenly realize that I need to sit down. The booth where people are waiting to be seated is all filled up. The only place to sit at is a Pacman table, near the bathroom. Better than nothing.

I sit down, stare numbly at the computer spaceships spraying bullets at each other. I fiddle with the joystick, which feels hard and knobby in my palm.

Beads of water are trickling down the back of my neck. Well, if I keel over on the Pacman table in the next five minutes, I might just make the 11:00 news.

From behind me, there is a sudden burst of noise. A big group of people have just walked in. I hear a lot of kids yelling and laughing. I wince; heat and noise are not my friends right now. I close my eyes, rub the coarse lids … Sweaty and sleepy all of a sudden…

When I open my eyes again, a little boy is seating himself across from me. He’s a scrawny kid, probably about eight or nine, with a thick crop of brown hair and blue eyes.

Time to mind your manners. “Hey,” I say, with a smile.

He looks surprised that I’ve spoken and offers a jaunty “Hi.” Doesn’t the kid know it’s not safe to talk to strangers?

“Are you with the big group that just came in?”

“Yeah,” he says.

“What is it? Somebody’s birthday?” I ask.

“No,” he says, with surprising cordiality. “They’re all from my church. We rented out the YMCA tonight. We’ve got it until 2:00 in the morning.”

“Oh, yeah?” I say.

“Uh-huh.”

Spaceships swimming in front of my face. “What do you think you’ll be doing at the Y?”

“Swimming, mostly,” the boy says. “I might play some ping-pong or something, but swimming, mostly.”

“Will you swim all the way until 2:00?”

“Yup.”

“You must like to swim.” I pat the back of my neck with my hand.

“I love it! And they’ve got the best pool in town! My dad said it’s an Olympic-sized pool, and that’s humongous.”

I hear the guy at the counter calling my name.

“Hey, I’ve gotta go, kiddo,” I say. I reach into my pocket for the twenty Mom and Dad have given me, and then I feel a few coins rub together at my fingertips. I pull them out (the kid must think I’m having a heart attack; I’m sweating so much).

In my hand are two quarters among the other coins. I fish them out and hand them to the boy. “Play a game on me.”

His eyes widen, and he takes the coins in his small hand. “Thank you,” he says.

I try to push myself back from the table but find I don’t have the strength. So I grunt, and swing my legs over the side of the chair, and lean forward to push myself up from the chair. I take a couple of halting steps away from the chair, then turn to the kid and say, “Enjoy yourself.”

He grins, pumping the coins happily into the slot. “I will.”

***

The way home is long, and it hurts to walk. My breath comes in short spurts, the sidewalk starts swimming in front of my eyes. I can feel my head sinking down to my chest, and a sharp stab of white (the pizza box) hits me in the eye. I bite my lip, the pain in my eye forcing me to hold on tighter to the pizza box with my hands.

There’s a gray blob less than a hundred steps from where I am. My house … come on, come on … I’ve gotta make it. Oh, God, I’m sick.

My head is spinning, I’m sinking … I’m on my knees, inching forward on the sidewalk. I can’t hear any footsteps around me. Nobody is around. Nobody sees me. I sink completely to the ground, my stomach melting over the pizza box.

I close my eyes. Even the blackness looks fuzzy to me. I’m overwhelmed with exhaustion. I can’t even hear my breathing any more. I’ve gotta make it.

Come on … just like summer season. One arm in front of the other …

I pull myself forward on my elbows, on my knees. Somehow, I manage to push the pizza box forward with the base of my palm. The gray blob is fuzzier, but bigger, swelling before me. I’m actually moving forward, I’m swimming on dry ground, on my knees and elbows…

My head isn’t even connected to my body anymore. It’s floating like a balloon above my body … I can’t hear anything now as I move forward. Silence. Silence.

And then: “... coming forward in the lineup, cutting through the water like a torpedo…”

People applauding. Cameras snapping. I’m going to make it.

“This kid has a great future, folks, that’s for…”

Halfway up my driveway.

“First place! What a finish! What an outstanding achievement for this young man…”

I force myself to push the pizza forward one last time, up the driveway. I crumple at the bottom of the driveway, vaguely aware of rolling onto my back. I’m done kicking now. All I have to do is float. I stretch out on the gravel, totally spent, and just float. I’ve done it. I’ve swum a great race, I know it, and this taste of heaven, on this October night in 1988, is nothing short of glorious.

The First Love Song

by Sean Orlosky

When Sergei’s grandmother took a turn for the worse, his grandfather turned to spending long hours in the parlor, staring at a yellowed photograph which stood upon the little table. The photograph was of a lady Sergei did not recognize: beautiful and slender with lustrous black hair, her eyes closed and her mouth open in a wide smile, she held her arms out to an audience before her. The old man would stroke the strands of his Gallic mustache, and remain, unmoving, content now to be the sole audience for the unknown lady.

Standing in the parlor entryway, Sergei quietly watched his grandfather melt away from the present, while the hushed voices of the other relatives blurred into a white noise behind him.

“She will not talk.”

“She will not eat.”

“Nothing is to be done.”

“It will be soon now.”

Sergei understood that the old lady in the room upstairs was dwindling away. Of course he begged to see his grandmother, and of course he was silenced in a flurry of negative answers that made no sense. So all he had was to watch his grandfather, and to pass the long afternoons as his grandfather did, as a silent, solitary statue.

One evening upon entering the house Sergei heard a strange sound. Delicate flowing melodies and dreamlike words, abstract, like those in a fairy tale. A woman’s voice singing, soft and supple chords and notes. A music, coming from the parlor, that Sergei had never heard before.

Sergei looked into the parlor. His grandfather sat in his chair, with his eyes closed. Sergei looked beyond the table with the photograph and saw a record spinning upon the ancient Victrola. Here was the mysterious sound.

“Grandfather?”

The old man quaked with a start, blinking his eyes.

“What is that music?”

Sergei’s grandfather shook his head in irritation. “Let me alone.”

“But the music …”

“Are you so foolish?” the grandfather croaked. “Haven’t you ever heard a love song before?”

“No, Grandfather,” Sergei said quietly.

The old man looked away, setting his eyes upon the photograph again. He stroked his mustache, and his forehead sunk heavily in bittersweet fancy. “Once upon a time, they would tell you that your grandmother invented them.”

“Grandmother?”

Tears stung the old man’s eyes, and he snapped his head at Sergei. “Go away from me, boy! Do you not know your grandmother is suffering? She has to die in pain, because the doctors can do nothing for her now! All we can do is wait for it! Go, go! Leave me be!”

He said no more, for his sobs had overtaken him. Sergei numbly backed away and left his grandfather in the parlor, alone. In a few minutes the old man’s sobs had abated, and once again all Sergei could hear was the strange new music. He sat at the top of the staircase for the rest of the day, listening to the music coming from the parlor, and the songs that swelled in flight from the lady’s voice.

When Sergei finally came downstairs to look in on his grandfather before going to bed, he found the old man was sleeping in his chair. His hands were folded across his stomach, and he sighed contentedly in his sleep, as the lady on the Victrola continued to sing in a voice full of bliss. Sergei could not understand the words he heard or the strange feelings they communicated, but he saw what the music and the voice had done for his grandfather.

Sergei was not the only one to notice the old man’s degeneration. The relatives decided that a drive in the country would do the old man good. They left early the next Sunday afternoon for a scenic roundelay through Argenton-sur Creuse. Although the relatives had unanimously elected that Sergei was not to disturb the old woman in any way whatsoever, they did not feel comfortable leaving the dying woman alone upstairs, and so left Sergei at the house with strict instructions not to make a fuss and to be good until they had returned.

“May I please see Grandmother?” Sergei pleaded of his parents.

“You are not to bother her,” his father replied, stiffly. “Stay out of her room.”

“But…”

“Do as your father says,” his mother cut in. “Be a good child.”

As his two stooped aunts walked out the door, Sergei heard them muttering. “She hasn’t spoken or eaten in days.”

“She’s already lasted too long as it is.”

“That’s right. It will be soon now.”

When Sergei heard the car pull away, he walked slowly into the parlor. His parents had told him not to make any noise, but … perhaps the music would make him feel better, as it seemed to soothe his grandfather.

With limp sadness in his arm, Sergei turned the crank of the Victrola. The record began to spin upon the dusty pavilion. Instantly, the music filled the room; as light and airy as a white cloud enveloping him. Sergei began to breathe again, hearing the sweet lady’s voice speak words of comfort and devotion. His grandfather had played this song more often than any of the others. Sergei felt the music wash over him, letting the voice sweep away the fear of not knowing what it said.

Suddenly, Sergei cocked his head. There was another sound, joining in with the music. A quavering harmony that fit perfectly to the melody of the music sounded in Sergei’s ear. Ever so faint, like a small crystal bell being shaken far in the distance, but it was there. It seemed to come from outside the parlor, from somewhere in the heart of the house itself. Hypnotized by the foreign sound, Sergei listed from one foot to another, trying to distinguish where the sound was coming from. With the music still playing upon the Victrola, Sergei stepped beyond the parlor entry, and found that the sound was stronger. His head swung to the staircase…the sound was coming from upstairs.

The knob to his grandmother’s bedroom was mercifully quiet as Sergei entered. The old woman lay in bed, with her eyes closed. Her aged face did not seem to have changed at all to Sergei since the last time he had seen her. Her strong cheekbones were still taut, her chin curiously noble and dainty, and her forehead was smooth. Her mouth was open in song, and the lyrics of the song seemed to pour from her mouth with a will of their own, independent of the vehicle producing them. Sergei watched spellbound as his grandmother sang in what appeared to be a dreamless sleep. But the old woman was not sleeping, for as the refrain sounded, her eyes fluttered open, and in an ancient voice, she said, “My child…”

Sergei was startled, but he did not back away. His grandmother’s gnarled hands tucked under her chin, taking him into her confidence. Sergei slowly walked toward the old woman, and he knelt beside her bed, resting in his own chin on the downy quilt.

“What do they say about me?” she asked, in a hollow tone

Sergei replied solemnly. “They say you are dying, Grandmother.”

The old woman closed her eyes for a moment, then drifted toward the music. She had caught something that Sergei could not understand.

“I remember the day I first sang that song…but that recording is the better performance.”

“Grandmother!” cried Sergei. “That is you singing?”

“To be certain,” replied the old woman. “But that first performance is the one I remember most. I was standing up to sing before the soldiers, and there was a thunderous sound. We almost got hit. They told me so later. I stood up to sing, and something very odd happened. I looked into the faces of the men in the audience. The young ones … their cheeks became pale and sallow, and dark circles appeared on their faces. At the same time, the older ones … they sat up straighter and taller, and the wrinkles melted from their faces, they became strong. Standing at the edge of death, the young became old, and the old became young.”

Sergei closed his small hand over his grandmother’s. Her young voice continued to sing, as fresh and gay as the boy could ever remember hearing it. It did make him feel better to listen to it.

The old woman sighed, and again, Sergei did not understand. He released his grandmother’s hand, afraid he may be hurting her. But she smiled, and nodded that it was all right. Taking hold of her hand once more, Sergei forced the question:

“Grandmother, are you afraid to die?”

The old woman blinked curiously, then her composure melted into a serene countenance. “I have no fear of death, child. For death will make me young again.”

Sergei looked confused. The old woman smiled.

“I will not try to explain it to you, child, because it is not something for you to worry about. Already children are too old before their time…I want you to be a child while you are still a child.”

“I wish I was older sometimes,” Sergei said. “Then people would not treat me like a child.”

“That is true,” sighed the old woman regretfully. “Every age has its burden to bear.” Then she smiled again. “You will not be so young forever. Soon they will treat you as a man, and the day, for better or worse, is not nearly so far off as you may think, mon ami.”

Sergei smiled. It had been so long since he had heard his grandmother call him by his pet name. He rubbed her hands, and the old lady breathed contentedly.

“Do you know what the words of this song mean?”

“No, Grandmother,” Sergei answered shyly.

“It says, ‘I see the world through rose-colored glasses, because I have been loved.’ The soldier who drove me out to the barracks to sing that afternoon was your grandfather. I was a young girl then, but I had seen much and done much in a short time. I had traveled the world, singing for urchins and peasants, for dukes and princes. I had watched the sun rise in Venice, scaled the Alps of Switzerland, danced in the palaces of Russia. But on the day I met your grandfather, I knew for the first time what it was to live. And that day, I knew for the first time what it truly meant not only to sing a love song, but to hear one, with my whole heart. To love, and be loved, child, is to live in beauty. When you have seen the world through rose-colored glasses as I have, when you have heard your first love song, you will not be afraid of death, either.”

The song was drawing to a close. Sergei laid his head on the pillow beside his grandmother.

“I will miss you, Grandmother.”

The old woman sighed again.

“Look after your grandfather, won’t you?”

“Yes, Grandmother.”

“And when the time comes, you will sing your first love song, too, my child.”

The old woman breathed softly, drifting away to sleep with the last strains of the music; Sergei held his grandmother gently in his tiny arms as his her voice floated away, and the love song, settling, breathed its refrain into his memory.