Heart Less
by Jessie Atkin
The chairs are all spaced five feet apart to give the illusion of privacy. There’s no reason to speak, offer a name, or date of birth. All that is required is a retina scan and a thumb print and a, “please have a seat in the waiting room,” message flashes across the screen along with a registration number.
In this part of the hospital there are no windows. The walls are painted white, the chairs are gray, and the floor is scuffed beige tile. That’s what happens in a building of this size, some departments are just located too far from any exterior walls to offer an escape. The light, wordless, nondescript music hangs in the air, the volume is set just right so that if you’re not thinking about it, it’s hard to tell if the music is there.
Sola tries very hard not to hear it. Instead, she listens to the light toe tapping of her neighbor, the rustle of another patient’s nylon coat, the soft wheeze of the office door as it slides open and shut. She hears the buzz of the ventilation, the hum of the retinal scanner, and the rhythm of her own breathing. She’s not sure if she can call it a rhythm, because she is very focused on keeping her breathing composed, it certainly isn’t balanced naturally, not right now. But it helps, she thinks, to have something to fixate on. She listens for these completely ordinary and unextraordinary things. Because if she strains to hear the music, if she focuses on the fact that it’s there, she will remember that someone made it, and someone somewhere else approved of it, and then someone paid for it. This nondescript mood music is worth more than she is and she’s not sure how much longer she can stand knowing this.
A nurse appears from nowhere or, perhaps, it only looks like nowhere because her white scrubs so perfectly match the white walls, and she could simply be a floating head holding a floating clipboard in a pair of floating hands. “128,” she calls.
A man a dozen years older than Sola, probably with two kids on their way to considering college, pushes himself out of his gray chair using both arms. He drags himself across the waiting room and nods at the nurse before they disappear together.
The music feels louder now, with less people to soak it in, dampen the sound with their coats, and their weight, their bodies, and their presence.
Sola resists the urge to smash her hands over her ears, stamp her feet against the tile, and yell for someone, anyone, to, “Turn it off! Turn it off!”
It shouldn’t bother her. It’s not very loud after all. It shouldn’t bother her because she likes music. Because once, a long time ago and only yesterday, she played the piano and wanted nothing more than to write music. She should be able to sit and appreciate the work of others. She should at the very least be able to sit and pick apart the work of others, comment on it in a meaningful way. But that’s not how Sola has been feeling. Sola has instead been fighting anxiety and anger, the very real desire to hurt herself whenever she come across music, the success of others.
That is, of course, why she is here, at the hospital. She needs to take care of herself and her family. To do that she needs the anger and the outbursts and the deep depression to stop. She needs to be able to stand the music. She needs to be able to hear it without hearing it. She needs help. She is here to get it.
Sola is number 129. The next nurse who appears, her floating head above her white scrubs, calls 129.
Sola rises to her feet, not looking at any of the other patients seated around her. She does not meet the nurse’s eyes. Instead, she watches the nurse’s shoes, listens as they squeak against the tile. She hears the whisper from the fabric of her pants where they brush against each other at the knees. There is a creak as they approach a new set of doors that slide apart to admit them. When they slide shut again the sound changes.
There is no buzz of ventilation, or hum of a retinal scanner. Their footsteps don’t ring in this corridor, the slap of their strides is flat and airless. But beyond this Sola can make out beeping. Regular noises of controlled and deliberate decisions being made beyond more closed doors. There is no music, light or otherwise.
A door on the left glides open silently. The nurse motions Sola inside. There is nowhere to sit except on the flat chrome examination table. The nurse smiles as Sola sits, her feet no longer able to reach the floor. Her back pockets make a crinkling sound as she inches backward across the table, trying to get comfortable, as much as that is a possibility. One of her hands drifts out to trace the edge of a gray paper gown on the left end of the table.
The nurse is looking at the clipboard in her hand, swiping through what, Sola can only imagine, are copies of the endless number of forms she was asked to fill in long before ever being scheduled for her appointment.
“Do you have any remaining questions about the procedure?” the nurse asks, looking up.
Sola shakes her head. She can’t imagine many patients reach this point with questions. The program’s qualification steps include in person counseling sessions, along with the required reading, and virtual information sessions. If you are going to have questions you likely never make it to this part of the hospital.
“Then I would just like to thank you for your participation and, once again, remind you, that all forthcoming payments will be directly deposited into your registered account. Please get undressed and pull on the provided gown. When you are ready lay flat on the table. The process will begin shortly.”
The door glides open and closed once again. Sola is alone. There is only the table, and the door, and the gown. Sola can hear every crinkle, every fold, every thud as she slips off her shoes and pushes her pant legs down to her ankles. There is nothing to put her clothes upon so all she can do is fold her shirt and stack her belongings in the corner with a soft thump. She hears the flutter of her slightly dry heals against the tile as she walks back to the table and sits down. The gown crinkles beneath her as if it is made from the ancient pages of a book rather than anything that is supposed to come into contact with the body.
As she lays back the table doesn’t move. It doesn’t creak. This should inspire confidence. It’s sturdy. It’s well made. So, the only thing that creaks is her. The gown crumples beneath her shoulder blades, she feels the pull as she straightens her knees, and there’s a sound in the tendons of her neck that Sola can’t quite name. And then there is the sound of her heartbeat in her ears. Staring up at the ceiling she feels relieved. Because after this she won’t have to worry. After this she won’t have to work.
The muscle of the heart, cardiac muscle, is found nowhere else in the body. It works without any rest for a person’s entire life. It’s electrochemical signals travel at an incredible speed and have incredible strength and endurance. And, despite the retinal scanner and thumb print reader, and the existence of the hospital itself, no one has yet been able to completely replicate cardiac muscle. No one has been able to combine its strength, resilience, and signaling ability, though all those things are very helpful both inside and outside of the body.
And outside the room fills with the sweet smell of something like a leaking ink cartridge and then the white walls go black.
As Sola wakes up she remembers not dreaming. She didn’t dream about her breakfast, or flying, or going to school naked. She didn’t dream about the fact she will now be able to care for her elderly parents without working eight-hour shifts. She didn’t dream about being able to afford a weekend at the beach. She didn’t dream about grocery shopping without coupons. She didn’t dream about all the green energy her heart will now produce outside rather than inside her body. She didn’t dream anything.
And in the first moment of wakefulness, she doesn’t hear anything either. She is about to start breathing again. She is about to begin her new and affordable life. But it begins in silence. Whatever it is that has taken over for the muscle she has donated is silent within her. It is keeping her alive, yes, but it is clear, despite that, despite everything, that something is missing.
BIO: Jessie Atkin writes fiction, essays, and plays. Her work has appeared in The Rumpus, HerStry, The Writing Disorder, Space and Time Magazine, and elsewhere. Her full-length play, "Generation Pan," was published by Pioneer Drama. She can be found online at jessieatkin.com