Vital Signs

Warning: This product contains nicotine. Nicotine is an addictive chemical.

The first thing I feel as the sunlight seeps through the blinds of our bedroom is the phone buzzing under my back. She slides it out from underneath me and, with her flawless, sleep-ridden coordination, she both silences the alarm and engulfs me in the gentle, warm embrace of her fingers.

Desperately, after the long hiatus of nighttime, she draws me to her lips. There’s something sweet about her kisses, like wintergreen chapstick and the sick residue of love she’s given away. Some mornings she dwells in the bed with me, easing her body awake as I rest on her chest between her slow, long smooches, as if she and I are the only things in existence. Not today, though. Three drags only before her feet meet the ground, and the work begins.

The phone and I get along well enough. We exchange pleasantries from the bathroom counter as the steam from her shower makes our screens foggy. Our job is never-ending and our days are long, but it is worthwhile and meaningful and good. We are her constant escape from the cruel world she seems to know too well.

“Morning, babe,” the man says groggily as he enters the room to empty his bladder. He plucks me from the counter, pinching me in his large, rough hands, and stares at me with disgust before bringing me to his mouth. It’s almost with endearment, the way he looks at me.

Almost.

His kisses aren’t sweet like the woman’s. He tastes like dark roast coffee and cigarettes, and his lips are coarse and scratchy from the hair he hasn’t shaved yet.

“Good morning,” she calls from the shower. Her voice is dry of the endearing tone she typically takes with him. “What time do we need to leave?”

He checks his phone. “Whenever you’re ready. I’m not in a hurry.”

“We should stop by your mom’s house on our way. Bring her a blanket, her toothbrush. Maybe some breakfast, even if she won’t eat it.”

The man winces before his reply. “She probably won’t.”

“We should bring something anyway.”

“Okay.”

The woman is quiet then as she turns the shower off, and the sound of her wringing out her hair echoes in the room.

“I’m hoping to stay there most of the day, just so you know,” he tells her.

She maintains her pause for a second, still hidden from his view behind the shower curtain. “That’s perfectly okay. I assumed that would be the case.”

“Okay. Thank you.” He smiles at her as she steps out in her towel. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she replies, standing on her bare toes to give him a kiss on the cheek and his hand a squeeze before he slips out of the bathroom.

I try not to scoff. It’s disgusting, frankly, how much they seem to care for each other.

But then again, there she goes, reaching for me the moment he shuts the door behind him. She’s radiating with the scent of her vanilla bodywash.

A dream, that’s what she is, yearning for me like suckling on something maternal. She seems to think that the cherry smoke I give her will soothe her better than the air her body was built to receive, and I agree.

“How are you feeling?” she asks him once she’s dressed and made up, her hair twisted into some careful updo, with none of her usual playful pieces falling around her ears. Some might say it ages her, but I think she looks splendid. Mature.

She’s set me on the coffee table, and I watch the man lace up his dress shoes as she walks into the kitchen, undoubtedly for some mango juice.

“I mean,” he starts. “As well as I could, I guess.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry you have to deal with this, honey.”

“I’m sorry you have to deal with this, too. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. No one is going to be offended if you sit this out.”

I grow warm for a moment, imagining spending the day with her, lounging around this house. But she comes back into my view, sitting down beside him and taking his hand. “I cannot imagine where else I could possibly be.”

I sit in the woman’s crisscrossed legs on the drive. Even the phone doesn’t make it out of her leather purse, and I’m grateful for our alone time. I even pretend not to be bothered by the man’s accidental grazes against my side from his hand resting on her thigh.

We don’t talk much, she and I. We don’t have to. I know her as well as she knows breathing, having never known a life besides the honor of residing in her hand, in her pocket, in her purse hanging against her body. She doesn’t need to understand me outside of the way I feel about her.

The car stops. I can hear the man start to open his door, but she stops him. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Thank you.”

I’m in a place I’ve never seen. Must be his mother’s house. I don’t like her much; I’m always to be hidden away in her presence, but she does not seem to be here now. The woman makes quick work of being inside, opening drawers and cabinets, gathering supplies like she’s packing for a trip.

There’s more silence once we return to the car. A long drive. When we’ve finally stopped again, she lifts me with a quivering hand for a final meeting before nestling me beside the phone. The man does not seem to notice her fear. She’s coated in the appearance of sureness.

It’s a hot day. I grow briefly concerned that we may be at the beach, which is probably my least favorite place. The beach means the woman’s lips will taste like poisonous liquor and sunscreen, that her kisses will feel like a nasty habit rather than a homebound comfort. And as much as I savor the feeling of her well-manicured pinky as she tends to me, I do not much enjoy having sand in my nose.

But the air turns cold after a few steps, and I can tell even from the inside that the lighting has gone cool, bright, and stale.

“We’re here to see Jonah Bennett,” the man says softly. I’ve never heard him quite like this. Usually he’s loud, booming even, his voice projecting with a confidence and joy the woman seems to like about him.

“And he is your…?” an unfamiliar person replies.

He goes even quieter. “My father.”

“I see.” Something is shuffled toward them. “I’ll just need you to sign in here.”

The woman moves forward. “I’ve got it,” she whispers to him.

Then we’re on our way again, slower this time. She walks with a rhythmic pace, her feet making a perfect tapping sound against the tile floor with each step as she leads the man forward.

“Oh, thank goodness you both are here,” comes another voice. The man’s mother. I swing within the purse as the woman is pulled into a lineup of hugs, all from familiar individuals.

“What can I do?” she says.

What she should do is turn around and walk back out the door. I know enough now to tell that this is no place for her goodness.

She does not hear my warning.

“Nothing, right now. We’re still waiting on the doctor to, you know,” the mother takes a breath. “We still haven’t seen him.”

“You’ve been here all night, and you still haven’t seen him?” The man exclaims.

“No. They’re still trying to get him into…” Her voice cracks before trailing off.

“He’s not in stable condition yet,” someone else finishes. His sister. Her sound is tainted with frustration and rage.

There’s a beat before the woman says, “We brought you some of your things. There are snacks in the bag if you’re hungry.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be here with you, Mama,” the man says.

“That’s alright. I appreciate that you’re rested.”

“Andrea,” comes an inquiry from the sister. “Will you come to the bathroom with me?”

We’re on the move, quickly this time, and jagged as they maneuver through the halls. A door closes and locks. “Do you have your vape?” The sister asks like she’s begging.

“Yeah, of course.” With the word, the purse is unbuttoned, and the light floods my view.

I like the sister’s kisses. She loves on me like the woman does, like she needs it, with lips of peach lip gloss and a rugged sort of attitude.

They sit on the floor, shoulders touching like children, and start passing me between them as if I’m the bond they share. Something about it feels like they’re taking communion, and I trust in that moment that I truly am something holy to them.

“I just can’t believe it,” the sister says. “Overdose? What the hell do they mean, ‘overdose’? We didn’t even know he was on fucking drugs.”

They intertwine their fingers as the woman asks, “Did they say what it was?”

“Some opioid, they think. They don’t seem to actually have a clue. Something about a respiratory depression.” Her statement is followed by another kiss for me.

“I’m so sorry, Kate.”

“I just don’t get it. I don’t understand how he could be the perfect ‘father of the year,’ drinking at Uncle Ryan’s house on a normal fucking Saturday night, and now…” A sob escapes her, and I slip from her grasp to the ground.

The woman picks me up, tucking me between her belly and her legs as she wraps her arms around the sister.

“They don’t know if he’s gonna wake up. They don’t know how long he went without oxygen in his brain.”

They don’t say anything more. They just hold each other, and in their closeness I’m cradled between the warmth of their bodies.

I can hear a woman speaking from the purse as they return to the rest of the family. “We’re monitoring his response to Narcan. I wish I had better news for you, or any news at all, frankly, but all I can say for sure is that we’re going to keep watching for signs of permanent damage and waiting for toxicology to get back to us.”

“Thank you,” the man says.

Her purse arrives on the floor as she sits amongst them. A chorus of sniffles rings through the room as tears start to fall.

“Thank you for being here, Andrea.”

“Of course. I wish I could do more.” The words are muffled as she speaks, as if her face is pressed into a shoulder or covered by some hair.

It’s a long time before anyone talks. A long time. Even the phone and I do not speak now, not even to find ourselves in daydreams about our woman. There seems to be nothing to say. All we have is our patience, waiting for her to need us again.

“I’m going to step out for some air, if that’s okay,” she says at last. An hour has gone by, maybe two.

“Of course,” the man replies. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“That’s alright,” she whispers. “You should stay here.”

Her walk towards the door is more like a sprint now. She excuses herself several times, us bouncing against her body as she twists around whatever obstacles stand in her way.

The heat of the day feels like relief. Her bottom meets the curb and I’m torn out of the leather, her mouth finally meeting me. I can feel the salty drops from her eyes when they spill against my side, my back, as she holds me against her cheek. The paint on her face stains my face, but I don’t care.

She keeps kissing me, long and hard, but she doesn’t stop crying. She coughs as she gasps in for air, the oxygen catching a mixture of snot and smoke in the back of her throat. I wait for my love to replace whatever is causing her unrest, but minutes pass, and she is not consoled. Between sobs, she glances at the phone, as if she’s tracking every minute she spends in our arms rather than with the horrors inside. Each drag starts to grow shorter, more frantic. I’m buzzing with the fear in her fingertips.

Eventually, she returns me to my hiding spot. There’s a crumpled-up napkin in here that she removes, and I watch her from the open top of her purse as she uses the phone as a mirror to dab her face, repositioning what’s left of her makeup. I expect her to move the second that everything is neatly packed away, back towards the door, but she doesn’t. For the first time that day, she can’t seem to move a muscle.

“Andrea,” a voice calls from the doorway. The man. Of all the urges I’ve had to curse him, this is the strongest.

“I’m coming!” She calls out, lifting us up with a deep breath before jogging back to him. “Sorry, honey. I just needed a minute.”

“That’s okay,” he tells her. Before they walk back inside, he stops her. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you.”

She doesn’t reply, but I can almost see her smile at him.

I want to tell her that we’ll get past it all, her and I.

The cold air finds me again.