Heartburn by Rachel Armistead
Ivan and Eleanor live next door. Our houses sit side by side on Monticello Avenue like a palindrome: house, grass, driveway, driveway, grass, house. They are retired and spend a lot of time in their yard. Eleanor kneels on a foam gardening pad and tends the roses that line their front walk. Ivan waters his lawn by hand in the evenings. Sometimes my mom goes out to chat and I watch him wave the sprayer back and forth in the waning light. Their lawn is much greener than ours. The only time our yard gets water is when we run through the sprinkler on really hot days. I often lay in their yard and watch the sky and listen to Eleanor weed her flower beds. For my fourth birthday, Ivan and Eleanor gave me a special invitation to have lunch at their house. I’ve had a proper bath and traded my usual swimsuit for a red and white dress my mother made for me. My hair is combed and braided, and I have shoes on for the first time in weeks: little white sandals that velcro at the ankles and over the toes.
Walking into Ivan and Eleanor’s house is like entering a cave. The dark, wood-panelled walls dampen the sun shining in the front window. The deep brown of the coffee and end tables turns the blue of the sofa from sky to dusty. There is an octagon-shaped lamp stand next to Ivan’s armchair. It has a cupboard with a brass handle full of toys and games I imagine are just for me. I open it up and grab the red plastic barrel and dump the bright blue monkeys onto the carpet. Ivan grunts as he bends to join me, giving me a kiss that smells of second-hand cologne. We take turns stringing monkeys together until Eleanor calls us for lunch. She helps me onto a chair and kisses the part between my two braided pigtails. My hair is pulled tight, and I can feel her lips touch my scalp. Ivan reaches over to help me ‘doctor up’ the steaming bowl of chilli in front of me. Would you like cheese on top? Yes, please. Would you like onions? I am not sure I like onions, but my mother said to be agreeable and remember my pleases and thank yous.
Onions? Yes. Please. Thank you. Ivan stirs my bowl and hands me my spoon with a smile. After a few bites it occurs to me that chilli is an absurd name for what we are eating. Is it spicy? Eleanor looks a little concerned. If spicy means that the heat stays in my mouth after I swallow, then yes, it’s spicy.
Have some milk. I do. Have some crackers. I do. It is the first time I have ever eaten Saltines. The dryness of the crispy white square pulls the heat from my tongue. I crush a few into my bowl. I quickly learn to balance the heat of the chilli with the coolness of the milk and crackers. I am the definition of agreeable. I smile a lot and laugh when they do and answer their questions politely. My mother will be proud. After lunch, the three of us play some more Barrel of Monkeys until it’s time for me to go home. I say thank you so much and give them hugs and kisses. Eleanor’s cheek is soft and dry and gently wrinkled, like an old dollar bill. Ivan’s is moist and rough and round as an apple. I squint as I walk across Ivan’s lush grass, resisting the urge to stop and take off my shoes. My skin is warm from the sun, my belly is warm from the chilli, and my heart is warm from being loved.
The scent of Eleanor’s roses fades as I cross over to my own driveway, and all at once I am dying. I am sure of it. My head and hands sweat. My stomach twists over on itself. I can feel flames creep up my torso and surround my heart. My chest is burning from the inside out. The sting of it comes up my throat and fills my mouth with acid. I cough, trying to loosen the clench at the back of my mouth, but it just makes my throat burn more. My heart feels like it is going to claw its way through my ribcage, and my stomach is threatening to follow. I look down, expecting to see my dress in flames, but I only see tears fall on the flowered cotton. I drop to the pavement, sobbing. My body has betrayed me and I am going to die, going to burn alive, right here on the driveway. I look up and say goodbye to the sun and the clouds and the blue, blue sky. Tears run across my temples into my ears and my heart sizzles like spit on a campfire. I am all alone. I am four years old and I am dying and I am all alone.
Then I am not alone. My mom is there. Ivan and Eleanor are there. Their brows are creased with worry and their cool hands are helping me into my house. I grab at my chest and tell them my insides are burning, that my throat feels coated in acid, but my words get tangled in my sobs. They talk over my head, but I don’t hear them, too scared that every moment is my last. They laugh softly. I am dying right in front of them, and they are laughing. I cry harder. Shh. Eleanor presses my head to her chest and rocks me back and forth. I hear clinking. My mom is stirring white powder into a glass of water. She gives the cloudy liquid to me and I drink it. It tastes like saltiness and bitterness and emptiness all at once. She kisses my forehead and says everything will be okay in a few minutes. Her lips feel like a branding iron and I don’t believe her. But then my stomach untwists itself. The clawing stops and my heart cools. The acid in my throat and the tears in my eyes retreat.
I think she’s going to make it. My mom laughs and picks me up and hugs me tight. My poor girl. Only four years old and already your first case of heartburn! Whatdy’a know?
I know how it feels to think I’ll never see the sun again. I know how it feels to think my body is my enemy. I know how it feels to be utterly alone. I know how it feels to be saved. But I don’t say any of this. I snuggle into my mom’s chest, happy to be safe and loved, and I tell her I don’t think I like chilli very much.
