Eliana Megerman
Liminal
My left toe disappeared first. I thought perhaps my vision was just blurry, or that the morning sleep remained in my eyes. A ring of burgundy had formed under the empty wine bottles I'd left on the white countertop the night before, and a quick survey revealed dishes in the sink—again. All the self-help books recommend clean sinks, and also making your bed. The taut blanket leads to positive feelings about your life, and actually, for a few days I did feel better. I googled hospital corners and that motivated me for almost a week of mornings, but I could never keep it going. Other things always became a priority, like washing my hair or brushing my teeth.
When my boss offered the work-from-home option, I jumped. The daily commute was wearing me down. Merging onto the highway, the glare of sun in my eyes and the visor not quite blocking it, the honking, the gas tank constantly teasing towards empty. Plus, eventually I grew tired of podcasts, and working in pajamas sounded appealing. I did experience a mischievous joy the first time I attended a staff meeting dressed only from the waist up. How many others on the call were only in their underwear? Not those poor suckers actually in the office.
As I glanced down at my feet, reflecting on my need for a pedicure, I started wondering if there was a way to get to the salon without leaving my house. Of course I knew that I could paint my own nails, but now that I was working from home and most of my conversations were with myself, thoughts like that often popped in uninvited. Could I send only my legs to the salon while my upper half sat in on the staff meeting? A nice azure blue would look good. Or a lilac.
Suddenly, I saw it - or didn’t see it – out of the corner of my eye. My left pinky toe was missing. I tried to keep my face neutral on the screen as I stretched my legs long. But every angle held the same view; the toe had vanished. The cool hard tile beneath my feet felt the same, and I reassured myself that it was a trick of the light. In the meantime, the meeting dragged on and Phil presented my data as if it were his own. My boss congratulated him, and I curled my toes in frustration. Warding off a muscle cramp, I gripped the bottom of my chair and squeezed hard. When I relaxed my feet, I saw only seven toes. A panicked urgency tugged at my gut. By the time the meeting was over, I had to get outside. Desperately seeking confirmation, I dashed to my bedroom and slipped on a pair of straight fit black pants. As I slid my leg along the lining I waited, but no foot dropped out of the bottom. I buttoned them closed at the waist and plopped onto my unmade bed. Would my disappearing foot fit into my shoe? I pondered this dilemma until the light pouring through my bedroom window became a shadow.
When I swung my legs out of bed the next morning, they were both missing from the knees down. The secretary at my doctor’s office sounded exasperated, but she booked me a virtual appointment at two-fifteen. I shuddered at the word virtual. But the next in-person visit was three months out, and what would be left of me by then? When my doctor finally appeared on screen, an initial sense of hope surged through me. I swung my legs in front of the camera multiple times, but no matter how I tried to demonstrate it, she just couldn’t see their absence. Her brow furrowed. She asked if I’d been drinking again. If I’d been sleeping. She suggested going to the ER. I’d last been there four years ago with my mother. They brushed off her months of bloating as a consequence of her croissant-heavy diet. But the real cause, the tumor on her ovary, left her dead within five months. I didn’t want to go back there.
The next morning, as I pulled my socks over invisible feet, a toenail snagged on my left sock. A quick chirp from the smoke detector sounded, an assault on my nerves. Why did the battery have to run low at the worst times? I rummaged through some drawers, pushing aside worn-down pencils, buttons, paper clips, a hole punch, super glue, a bottle of whiteout, and a sparrow’s nest of cords – but couldn’t find a rectangular battery. If smoke detectors were so important, why couldn’t they run on regular AA batteries? The chirping became louder and more frequent. A Zoom meeting was scheduled to start in twenty minutes. It wouldn’t work to have that maddening sound in the background; my coworkers would think I was crazy. I climbed a step stool and removed the battery.
It continued to chirp, refusing to be ignored. I put a pillow on top of it and covered it in blankets, only to see empty space where my hands should have been.
By the time I got onto the Zoom, opening my computer and clicking and typing with hands unnoticeable to the human eye, I was six minutes late. Phil was showing off his work – my work.
I’d had enough. I unmuted my microphone, turned on my camera, and interrupted. “About that data,” I began, and Phil cut himself short.
“Did somebody say something?” my boss asked.
“I did,” I replied.
The shortest extra moment passed, a half-beat. “That’s weird,” he continued. “Phil, go on.”
Was my microphone working? I looked at the bottom of the screen. My microphone was on. I then looked up at my icon, into the mirror image my computer camera afforded me, and there was nothing there. Nothing at all.
Phil continued presenting m–.
Phil continued presenting his work.
In the Palm of Her Hand
The mango was firm in her grip; it would not be ready by that evening. Nevertheless, she squeezed it again. Still no give. She thought of his heart—that of the young man, a kid really– which she’d held in her hand the night before. Except that his heart had been softer, more slippery, like the inner flesh of a ripe mango. Had it been wrong to hope? But he was so young, and no one regretted heroic measures for the young. Someone had felt a pulse in the few minutes before they’d scooped him up, lights blaring, sirens screaming. As they wheeled him in, his pale body limp on the stretcher, his youth dared them: You can do it. She swallowed hard. There was a mother out there, likely asleep in her bed, unaware that her son’s heart had bled dry. She grabbed a scalpel and cut through skin, yellow blobs of fat protruding through as she exposed his chest, slicing through membranes, slicing through muscle. Her scissors cracked against bone, retractors ratcheting open a space between his ribs. His lungs, pink and spongy, poured out; they were speckled with little black dots. But it wasn’t the cigarettes that killed him in the end, was it?
Tubes were everywhere, and as they transfused blood, it drained out even faster through the holes that had been shot through him, his body a grotesque colander.
“Come on,” she’d pleaded to his lifeless body as she squeezed his heart, like a rolled-up pancake in her fingers.
She sorted now through the pile of mangos and found another one. Her thumb left an indentation when she squeezed it. The inside was likely halfway to rotten. Another customer wheeled her cart around, reached in, and grabbed a mango. Didn’t even squeeze it for ripeness.
Eventually they’d had to stop. There were critical blood shortages. You couldn’t keep emptying bags if there was no return of life. She would try to forget the look of his mother’s face as she broke the news.
She squeezed one last mango. It had just the right give. She could slice it into her salad that evening.
Lending Library
A slick spot hid underneath the pile of maple leaves, and she nearly lost her footing as she scurried down the sidewalk. The trees were magnificent this time of year, with their oranges, reds, and yellows, and she’d always marveled at their beauty, even though the raking and bagging were endless. This year, she’d hired a company. Pulling her jacket tight as she righted herself, she hoped none of the neighbors had seen her stumble. Maybe she should have driven. She’d wanted to, but it was only a few blocks away, and it would have been ridiculous to arrive in her hybrid car. Her breath came out fast, like little wisps of smoke in the cool air. She shuddered as she thought about the irony. He’d never even been a smoker. Not one puff. Now, the sight of someone casually dragging on a cigarette could send her whirling. What right did they have to be so reckless?
Donating the book had seemed like a good idea, but the moment she’d placed it on the shelf, a pristine hardcover copy of “Shogun” amongst tattered paperback thrillers and beat up baby board books, she’d regretted it. Why hadn’t she taken it back right then and there? Instead she’d trudged home, her legs heavy, crunching the leaves on the walk.
“It’s part of the process, Mom. You have to start moving on.” Marlene was always so practical. And she was right. She’d even helped box up his things. The blue and green striped terry cloth robe that hung on the bathroom door, the one he’d wear on Sunday mornings working the crossword while his coffee got cold, his white cotton shirt poking through at the top. Sweaters, polos, rain jackets, khaki pants, joggers, button-downs and a handful of ties. It was only about three boxes. He’d given away much of his stuff after retiring.
“Someone else can use it now,” he’d laughed as he’d packed the boxes. Proud of himself for making it to that stage.
But now they filled the boxes with his things, and they did not laugh.
“No one ever died from a cough,” he’d told her as she nagged him to go to the doctor.
“But I might smother you in your sleep!” she’d teased back. The cough had been irritating. She had to admit it: that constant, raspy hacking had interfered with TV shows, movies, and sleeping. Finally, he’d relented. They’d sent him for an x-ray “out of an abundance of caution,” but as soon as he came out of the radiology suite she saw the look on his face. The tech had asked him to stay. His x-ray looked like it was filled with cotton balls where his lungs should have been.
Stubbornly, she’d purchased a hard-cover. The book was supposed to represent permanence. They would beat it. There were new treatments all the time. There was hope. Eventually, after a few months of the treatment coursing through his veins, he’d looked up at her, his bald head, gaunt eyes and ghastly thin body. He nudged the book towards her, but his arms could no longer lift it. They could have found an audio version, but she hadn’t even blinked. This was only a detour. She’d started reading it to him every day. Some days, she was unsure if he was listening. His eyes were often closed and it was hard to tell. They only made it to page 800, at the point that Alvito begins to get suspicious about the relationship between Blackthorne and Mariko.
The book had since remained on his nightstand until three days ago, when she carried it to the neighborhood lending library. She had been trying to complete the process, to try to feel lighter. Her steps were faster now as she approached the little free lending library, a pale blue house with a gabled roof, just a few feet away from the road. The book had to still be there. The lending library was a wonderful idea, but she rarely, if ever, saw people actually taking books from it. And Shogun was hardly a new release. She undid the latch and opened the door.
Eliana Megerman is an emergency medicine physician and writer. She leaves the knife fights and heart attacks behind to write novels and stories between shifts. She was born and raised in Kansas City, Missouri, and when she is not writing, enjoys spending time with her husband and children, one of whom has adopted her love of coffee.
