Fools Rush in(4)

After a minute or two of vague stretches, I walked down my long dirt driveway and onto the road. Since the Cape was pretty deserted in March, I was fairly sure I’d be safe from unwanted spectators. It was overcast and cool, a good day for running, I thought. Off I went. Trot, trot, trot. Not bad. Easy, in fact. Mercifully, no coordination was required. Trot, trot, trot. It was pretty cold, and my bare legs and arms stung in the damp, raw air. I passed my neighbor’s driveway and continued down the road, finding that I had to breathe through my mouth now. My stomach jiggled. I wondered how far I’d gone and glanced at my watch. Four minutes.

I tried to distract myself, get into the zone, by looking around at the pretty sights. Twisted locust branches clacked together in the salty breeze. I came up to the lighthouse, its bright red-and-white tower starkly beautiful against the gray sky. Ouch! A sharp pain lanced through my left side. Run through the pain, Millie, I coached myself. Pain is weakness leaving the body. My feet slapped the pavement. Nine minutes now. The cold air scraped my throat, and I was not encouraged to hear my lungs convulsively sucking air. Agonist breathing, we call it on the hospice ward. Had I run a mile yet? Was I doing something wrong? Was my oxygen saturation dangerously low?

I lurched to a stop, bending over and wheezing pitifully. Just taking a breather, I consoled myself as my heart thundered sickeningly in my head. After a couple of minutes, I regained my composure. Off I went again. Immediately, the wheezing was back. I tried to concentrate on breathing…how hard could it be? In, out, in, out, in, out, oh Jesus, I was hyperventilating! And now I could hear a car! I feigned athleticism and forced myself to lengthen my stride in case it was someone I knew. Smiling through the incredible pain, I waved, which caused my shoulder to spasm and cramp. The car passed. Crisis over.

No, not over. A hill loomed ahead. Keep the feet slapping, Millie. Don’t stop now. This hill didn’t look like a hill to the na**d eye; it was more of a grade, really, but as far as I was concerned it was Heartbreak Hill. I imagined myself in the Boston Marathon, that pinnacle of all athletic events, often imitated, never duplicated…and here comes Millie Barnes, that’s Dr. Millie Barnes, ladies and gentlemen, from beautiful Cape Cod—

Was I about to lose control of my bladder? And/or throw up? My watch said thirteen minutes. Clearly, it was broken. At the top of Heartbreak Hill, I turned around and started back. Ah, this was easier, except that I was hyperventilating again. Calm yourself! I commanded. The hill, so horrifically long on the way up, was far too short on the way down. My legs were as supple as oak beams, and my shins practically mewled in agony. The pain in my side had yet to go away, and my shoulder cramp had now spread to my neck, forcing me to tip my head at an awkward angle.

The lactic acid in my body was building up to toxic levels. I imagined them diagnosing me at the ER in Hyannis. “Christ, what happened to her?”

“She was running, Doctor.”

“How far?”

“Almost a mile, Doctor.”

Damn it! If I stopped now, I knew I would never again attempt this stunning torture. Think of Joe, I ordered my brain, think of being na**d with Joe and having a fabulous body. “Oh, Millie, you’re in such great shape,” Joe will sigh reverently as he gazes upon my…my…my neighbor’s mailbox! I was almost home! And yes, there it was, home sweet home, my own beloved washed-out driveway! I staggered into it and careened to a stop. Knees buckling, legs shaking uncontrollably, T-shirt soaked, throat dry and rasping, fighting off the dry heaves, I wobbled drunkenly into my house and collapsed into a kitchen chair.

Here she is, ladies and gentlemen! Dr. Millie Barnes, winner of the Boston Marathon! I looked at my watch again. Twenty-eight minutes, 1.7 miles. That was awesome! I had done it. My convulsive gasping took a while to stop, but after all, what a workout! After twenty minutes or so, I heaved myself out of the chair and downed a glass of water.

Then I made the large mistake of looking in the full-length mirror. My face was a shocking shade of red. Not pink, not flushed with the glow of a good workout, not even just red. A shocking shade of beet-red. The whole face, just one solid color. My eyes were puffy from sweat irritation, my lips chapped and flaky white, providing the only break from the Crayola crimson. My sweaty T-shirt clung to the doughy skin of my upper extremities and neck. My legs were red and wind-burned, better, I supposed, than the chalk that was my normal skin tone. Oh, well. I was a work in progress, after all.

I took a hot shower, forced out far too soon by the tiny water heater’s shortcomings. As I made myself a pot of greenish herbal tea, I decided to call my sister. After all, her marriage officially ended today, and I thought I should be, well, sisterly. Still…Trish scared me a little. I remembered her hissing fury when Gran’s will had been read. Trish had received several thousand dollars, a pittance compared to what this house was worth. That was the last time I’d seen her.

After a few minutes of sifting through papers on my desk, I found her number. The strange area code gave me a pang. She was pretty far from home, our Trish.

When I’d been in college, I’d called her fairly often for Danny updates, as I adored my nephew, but after he was six or seven, Trish would just put Danny himself on, knowing the true purpose of my call. Or I would talk to Sam, who would give me blow-by-blows of Danny’s Little League games, parent-teacher conferences, clarinet lessons, etc.

“Hello?” As always, she sounded impatient.