Just Breathe Read online

  Now it’s hard to think about anything else, and the show is five days away. I have two pieces finished and a third one I can’t get right no matter how hard I try. It helped that he recognized what I was painting right away, but it also confused me. What if I couldn’t finish this one because it was too tied up with memories of David?

  Spotlighted artists must have three finished pieces in order to participate. It’s too late for Mr. Standish to ask another tenth grader to replace me. I’ve been working toward this for two months; backing out would be crazy. But crazier still is what I keep thinking the whole next day when I go into school early, work all through lunch and class time: I still can’t get this right.

  Finally, I break down and go to Mr. Standish. “I can’t do this. I’ve tried. You’ve seen how many hours I’ve been working on this. I don’t want to disappoint you, but I also don’t want to be part of the show with work that isn’t ready.”

  He pulls a chair close to his desk and suggests I sit down.

  I don’t want to sit. I don’t want to talk about this any more than I already have.

  He waits and points to the chair again. Apparently, I don’t have a choice.

  “Sometimes when I get in a tight spot like this—and trust me, Jamie, all artists go through this before most shows—taking a step back helps. Think about what you were trying to achieve with this painting and ask yourself, is there a different way you can do that.”

  It’s hard to talk about this.

  But I try anyway. I tell him in pieces: It was hard for me to do art after my father died, I say. And I made this crazy discovery, origami. It wasn’t art the way my father defined it (one of his first rules: art had to be original, not replicable). Still, it was soothing to me.

  He looks at me and nods as if this doesn’t sound so crazy to him. “‘Soothing’ is an interesting word. Why do you think it felt that way?”

  “Because—I don’t know.”

  He nods again but doesn’t say anything. It’s as if he already knows my answer, because I do, too. “Because you know when it’s finished. It’s supposed to look a certain way, and when it does, you’re through.”

  I laugh because it sounds silly. I like origami because it’s easier.

  “What if you tried to do something with that idea? Capture the beauty of what you discovered and loved about origami this year? Only not with a painting?”

  What are you talking about? I want to say.

  He stares at me like I’m missing something obvious. Finally he says it: “Three-dimensional art is allowed in this show. Why don’t you try something that stays true to your original inspiration?”

  What he’s saying is clear: Why don’t you make some origami?

  My heart is racing by the time I rush out of there. It’s hard to tell if it’s the idea, or the freedom from having to finish the other painting that has energized me. It doesn’t even matter. He’s right: it’s a great idea! I’ve seen photographs of beautiful origami art displayed in museums in Japan and around the world. I don’t have the skills to make a single piece my finished work, but I could arrange smaller pieces—in a scene maybe. I think about Ms. Yu, the art therapist in the hospital, setting up our houses on a small table and clapping her hands. We made a community! Right here!

  I wish I had a picture of that ragtag row of paper houses. Some had pink roofs or daisies drawn in instead of windows. A few were all black, but next to others, they didn’t look so bad. In fact, they made the others look brighter and stand out more. I wish I could go back to the hospital and find out if that woman had saved five months’ worth of origami houses made by teens who’d lost their place in the world. Creating little houses out of paper helped us find that again. Or it helped me, anyway.

  I can’t go back, though. There isn’t time, and it’s doubtful she’s saved anything.

  I run through other ideas. What if I made a mobile of birds—different kinds, flying in harmony? If I balanced it correctly, it would respond to the movement of viewers walking underneath so the birds would “fly” when people came near.

  The more I consider this idea, the more I like it.

  That night I IM David:

  ME: If I have a project that’s important and is due on Monday, could I ask for your help as a friend?

  DAVID: As opposed to what? As an enemy?

  I try to think of a funny retort and I can’t. Hopefully, he understands what I mean: I’m not trying to send mixed messages or date you after saying I couldn’t. I really need help, and you’re the only person who can do it.

  ME: I’ve been chosen as a finalist for an art show, but I need one more work to include. I’ve been trying to finish a painting for weeks, and I can’t get it to work, so I’ve changed my mind. I want to do a mobile of origami birds. But to get it to work, I need a lot of them. A whole flock. Hundreds. And I have to finish by Monday.

  DAVID: You want me to meet you somewhere and fold cranes with you?

  ME: Not just cranes. I need swans and gulls, too. Every flying bird we can think of.

  DAVID: Do you remember who you’re asking? Stubby-fingers Sheinman?

  ME: You’re good at origami.

  DAVID: You don’t need to lie. I’m not dying anymore.

  ME: Okay, you’re fine at origami. The important part is quantity, not quality. I want it to feel like a cloud of birds. I want them to hang perfectly still until someone walks underneath and the slightest movement—a breath even—will stir them. The person will look up and breathe more, and they’ll start to take flight. Hopefully the person won’t even realize they’re the ones doing it.

  DAVID: Kind of like you did for me?

  ME: What do you mean?

  DAVID: They’ll bring something back to life by just standing there, being themselves and looking.

  ME: That’s kind of stupid, David. I mean, I’m sorry—it’s sweet, but it’s also not what happened. New lungs brought you back to life. What I did got in the way of all that. Just saying.

  DAVID: Oh, right. I forgot. It just FEELS like that.

  ME: Can you help me?

  DAVID: Of course. Sharon and I decided we shouldn’t be on any of the same committees, which means she’s on all of them and I’m on none, so I have a lot of extra time now.

  ME: Isn’t that a little unfair?

  DAVID: No one trusts me to get anything done. If I volunteer to do something, they secretly assign someone else to do it.

  ME: Are you sure you’re not being paranoid?

  DAVID: Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean everyone’s only been pretending to be your friend for a pretty long time. But never mind all that. I appreciate the genuine request for help. I’d be honored. Where should I meet you?

  I hesitate.

  ME: Do you mind coming to my apartment? I have all the stuff here.

  DAVID: Not at all. That makes sense. What’s your apartment number?

  Chapter Twenty

  DAVID

  THIS IS EERIE. I feel like I’ve been to this apartment complex before, but I know I haven’t.

  Maybe it’s because I could see it from my hospital window. But why do I know which door is hers before I even see the number? It feels like I have been here before.

  Jamie opens the door wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, holding an elaborate contraption of what looks like twisted metal wire hangers. “I keep screwing up the base. This is my third try. Hi, by the way. Come on in. Thanks for coming over.”

  She spins around and returns to the corner of the living room, where she has a pile of hangers and wire cutters and two other tangled versions of the base she’s holding.

  “It turns out there’s a lot more to a mobile than you’d think. It’s all about physics and balance, but some of it is counterintuitive. I put more weight on one side, and it goes up. I don’t understand why.”

  She’s completely focused on this problem. She’s not nervous like I am, standing here alone in her apartment. My palms are sweaty, and my heart is beating.
She’s just staring at her wire hangers and venting.

  “What do you want me to do?” I ask.

  She looks up, surprised, like she almost forgot why she asked me to come over. “Oh, right! Fold birds! I’ve got the box of paper over there. And a book with the different birds for you to make.”

  She waves her hand in the direction of the only table in the place—a small metal one in the kitchen, big enough for two people. I have to admit, I imagined this differently. I pictured Jamie and me sitting at a table, bumping knees and locking eyes as she zipped through three birds for every one that I finished. “Alone?” I say. “You trust me?”

  “Of course. Plus, I left the abalone folder out to help with your creases.”

  I sit down and flip through the book. “Should they all be flying birds? No penguins, I assume?”

  She’s so absorbed in her pile of hangers, she doesn’t even look up. “That’s right. Flying—with open wings, if it’s possible.”

  It’s hard not to look at her. She’s got her hair pulled into a ponytail, which I’ve never seen before—a curly bush in the back with escaped curls framing her face. I fold for a while, but I keep sneaking looks. Concentrating furiously, she hacks and twists and yanks at her wires. Every ten minutes, she holds it up to test the balance. From where I’m sitting, it looks good.

  Her focus makes me focus more. I’m not sure how long we’ve been working when the door opens and Jamie’s mom walks in. She’s obviously surprised to see me. “David? What are you doing here?”

  Jamie says, “You remember, Mom? I told you, David’s helping me on this project. He asked if he could help, and I said yes.”

  There’s a whole silent conversation between them that I can’t follow.

  I’m guessing her mom doesn’t like this idea for any number of reasons. I’m too old, maybe, or I’m too fragile. Or I strung Jamie along in some confusing way while I was in the hospital. Or else she just doesn’t like me.

  She narrows her eyes, like she’s trying to figure out if Jamie’s telling the truth.

  “I like Jamie’s art,” I say. “I want her to do well in this show. I really do. I just want to help, and she said she was a little behind on this last one.”

  She studies my face as I say this—really looks in my eyes—and it’s strange. I feel as if we’ve done this before. I have the same déjà vu feeling I had coming to this apartment. I try to convey the simple truth: I care about her. I’m not going to hurt her.

  It must work, at least to some extent, because after a moment, she says, “Well, okay then. Maybe I should order a pizza?”

  It’s a long afternoon, but I stay the whole time. I want to see if Jamie can get her idea to work. Constructing the metal skeleton is one challenge. Hanging all the birds is another. Some are too heavy and throw the whole thing off. It’s so tricky, we start to laugh. “Here, let me try. I’m in AP Physics, I should be able to figure this out.”

  Jamie hesitates. “What grade are you getting?”

  “Never mind that. I have great intuition about spatial placement and balancing.”

  I retie some birds and bend some wires. It turns out I don’t have great intuition. It flops to one side. Her mother holds her hands out. “David, you hold the thing while Jamie and I fold some more birds and tie them onto the other side until it balances.”

  It takes another hour, but eventually it works. We celebrate with iced tea. I’m the tallest one in the room, so I’ve preserved our triumph by stringing it up to the light fixture in the middle of the room. We sit down on the sofa, glasses in hand, and stare up at it.

  “What does it suggest to you?”

  “A lot of things. Birds mostly.” I smile at Jamie.

  She squints up at it. “Do you get a sense of freedom and possibility? That’s what I was going for.”

  “Sure. Birds always seem free, don’t they?”

  I remember one day in the hospital when two pigeons landed on the ledge of my window. They sat there forever, cocking their heads at each other.

  Jamie does that now. “Do they?”

  I cock my head back at her. My chest hurts, sitting so close to her. Wanting to touch her. Wanting to say something and having to remind myself: You’re not what she needs right now. “I don’t know. Maybe not. Maybe birds would like to stop flying and put down roots somewhere and they can’t.”

  Jamie’s mom stands up. She says she can’t wait to see Jamie’s other pieces in the show. “Have you seen them, David? Do you already know what a wonderful painter Jamie is?”

  She’s heading to the bathroom, but on her way, she touches one of the paintings on the wall. I hadn’t noticed it before, but now I have the same déjà vu. I do know these paintings, but I don’t know how.

  When we’re alone, I ask Jamie why this all feels so familiar. “Being here in your apartment. Sitting on your sofa.”

  She gives me a funny look. “Maybe you were poor in a different life?”

  “I’m serious. Did you ever bring me here?”

  “Of course not. Though I’ll admit I thought about it. I used to have this stupid fantasy about watching movies with you here.”

  “We could still do that, couldn’t we?”

  “No.” She stands up so there’s no more temptation for our bodies to fall together, side by side on her sofa. “I think it’s better for me to say, ‘Thank you so much for your help, David, and it’s time for you to go home.’”

  “Okay.” I stand up so she knows I’m not going to push anything or make her uncomfortable. “Then I’ll be on my way.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot. Before you go—I have something for you.”

  She disappears and returns holding out a green plastic box that I recognize but forgot all about. I laugh. “My happiness quotes!”

  “When I left the hospital that first night you were in the ICU, I stopped by your room on the way out. I’m not sure why I took these. I was scared someone might throw them out. Or maybe I thought I might need them. I don’t know—but I definitely shouldn’t keep them anymore. They’re your project. I’m sorry I held on to them for so long.”

  I open the box and pull out the first card.

  “‘The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.’ Kahlil Gibran. Wow, did I really write quotations on all of these cards?” I flip through the box. There must be at least a hundred in here. I don’t remember writing that many, but they’re all in my handwriting. “It seems like kind of a strange thing to do.”

  “You were in a strange mood. Illness does that.”

  I pull out another. “‘Action may not always bring happiness, but there is no happiness without action.’ Disraeli. Who is Disraeli?”

  “You don’t have to read all of those right now. In fact, you probably shouldn’t. But you should definitely hold on to them. I read through a lot of them, and I might have changed my mind a little. It wasn’t such a bad project.”

  “Really?”

  “I still have a few issues with it. But it got me reading some new writers who I like.”

  Her mother comes back in the room. I’m dying to know which writers she liked, but I can’t ask her now. We’ve finished the project I came to help her with. I have to go now.

  JAMIE

  I wasn’t sure about returning David’s box to him. The whole time he was in the ICU and after his surgery, I kept it next to my bed, refusing to open it. Aphorisms won’t help me, I said to myself, every time I was tempted. When he got worse, my inner monologue grew crueler. You don’t deserve any comfort. Especially not from him.

  And then about a week following his transplant, after I’d seen a picture of him on Instagram, sitting up in bed, drinking a milkshake and smiling, I let myself open it. I reached in and pulled out a card from the middle of the bunch. It was a quote from the Archbishop Desmond Tutu: “Our greatest joy comes when we seek to do good for others. We are bound in a delicate network. We learn to be a human being from other human beings.”

 
I had to admit: I liked that one.

  It made me look up Tutu’s writing. Eventually I found where the quote came from: The Book of Joy: Finding Lasting Happiness in a Changing World. Even though I didn’t love the title, I checked it out of the library. It was based on a conversation between Desmond Tutu and the Dalai Lama, and a lot of it made sense to me.

  I go online and tell David about the book.

  ME: It got me reading about Buddhism, which is pretty interesting actually.

  DAVID: How so?

  ME: Well the first Noble Truth of Buddhism is that life is filled with suffering. They call it “Dukkha,” which is roughly translated to the stress and anxiety that arises from the attempt to control what fundamentally can’t be controlled. Frustration is the core of all our created suffering.

  DAVID: So what are you supposed to do about it?

  ME: You accept. Or you pretend to accept. I think pretending is a big part of Buddhism. You pretend to be super calm about whatever’s happening. You also can’t be too ambitious. Buddhism says that in order to be ambitious you have to define yourself as distinct and better than other people, and that erases the love and connection that you really need.

  DAVID: So I guess that means you enter an art show but you don’t try to win it.

  ME: Oh no, I want to win. I’m just saying the idea is interesting.

  I can’t bring myself to tell him what reading through his box really made me think about. Being happy takes work. For some people it takes a ton of work. If this isn’t how you’re genetically programmed, it takes therapy and medication and living with the side effects of medication and the stigma if anyone finds out you’re taking medication. I wish I could tell him: For some of us, it sometimes feels like it might be easier to just be sad.

  I also wish I could tell him: I don’t want to be. I’m trying.