Page 24 of Love at a Funeral and Other Awkward Conversations

When she leaves, Tina and Patrick go to work, sticking pads and wires to my chest, and swiftly strap me to a small machine that measures the electrical activity of the heart. It only takes a few minutes.

“See,” Tina says, probably sensing my panic. “Painless.”

I force a smile at her as she helps me to sit up and move off the table to a treadmill in the corner.

“We’re going to have you run on the treadmill to observe how your heart does when it’s forced to work hard,” Patrick explains.

“Torture,” I deadpan.

“Oh no, we wouldn’t,” he says seriously as he readies the machine and types on a laptop. “It’s against our oath.”

Tina laughs indulgently at him while throwing me a look as she stands next to me. She presses some buttons on the treadmill. First, it’s a leisurely walk.

“We’ll gradually speed up. You tell us when you’re going as fast as you can,” Patrick directs, scratching at his red hair.

Tina presses an arrow to increase the speed a bit.

“You’re so young to be taking these tests,” Patrick says after a few seconds, and I think, you’re too young to be giving these tests. “What brings you in for them?”

Tina pushes the arrow again, and my arms automatically start swinging at my sides as I force my legs to move faster. “My brother died of a heart attack last month.”

“Oh.” Patrick practically chokes on that syllable as I choke on my breath, and Tina speeds up the treadmill once again. “I’m so sorry,” he says.

“It’s okay,” I pant. “It’s becoming harder.”

“Can you go thirty more seconds?” he asks.

I don’t answer, concentrating on keeping my pace without falling off. I haven’t moved this fast in a long time since my favorite form of exercise is finger yoga while I shop online. I gulp down a big breath, wondering what my heart’s doing at this exact second. Probably wheezing and coughing.

“Good. Very good,” Patrick says, and Tina slows the treadmill down to a stop so I can step off, waving the hospital gown around my body to cool off. She pats my back and tells me to lie back on the exam table. “Patrick and I are done. I’m going to send in the ultrasound tech, and she’ll finish up the last test. You’re doing great.”

A short Black woman with a Caribbean accent and braids introduces herself as Sherry and turns off the lights, getting right down to business in taking internal pictures of my heart. She doesn’t speak as she moves the wand thingy around my breastbone. It’s awkward when she pushes it under and over my naked breasts, searching for different parts of my heart on her gray screen. I want to make a joke, something about being a cheap date, but Sherry looks too professional to even crack a smirk. Instead, I focus on the circular pattern of the wallpaper next to me. Sherry finishes after about fifteen minutes and turns the lights back on, instructing me to dress.

I do as I’m told after she leaves, and when Dr. Parikh finally returns, she’s smiling. “All your tests look great, nothing abnormal.”

“I’m fine?”

She nods.

“Completely fine?”

“With a genetic defect, we can never be sure who will inherit it, but you show no signs of heart disease whatsoever. I’m happy to answer any questions you have. Take a business card from the desk on the way out, but I do have to get to another appointment.” She shakes my hand, patting it gently. “There is no reason you shouldn’t live a long and happy life.”

And as soon as she leaves the room, my smile drops.

Raymond’s heart attack was a total fluke. The guy who worked out all the time and drank a protein shake every morning died. Ramen in a cup is one of my main food groups, but I’m still here.

Survivor’s guilt is a whole other kind of suffering.

I’m not sure how to process it. Surprise, surprise.

Sitting in my car for a while, I stare at the text thread I have going with Vince. He’s been checking in on me for the last two weeks. Usually it goes something like:

Vince: How’s it going?

Me: Fine.

Vince: Need anything?

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