Daddy will be gone for the next couple hours, that's what he said; still though, I am nervous. I don't think my Daddy would like this very much. I don't know if I like it very much, but it's for Maurice.
Maurice is inside her cage on my bedside table. Maurice is a golden hamster, or a Mesocricetus auratus to be precise, a native to the Syrian area. It took five Sundays at the local PetCo to find another Maurice, after the imposter Maurice passed away. Blond hair, pretty blue eyes: that's what was needed. Blue eyes were tough, because only very few golden hamsters have blue eyes, it's considered a genetic abnormality but that's also perfect—it was worth the wait. I wanted a Maurice accurate to real life.
I have a box of latex gloves on my desk, but they make my skin itch, so instead I put on the clear plastic ones, like the lunch-ladies at school use. I purchased both of the boxes last week at CVS: Daddy has a latex allergy, so I could have one too. The woman at the cash register asked if it was for science class; I said no, it's because I'm a surgeon. It's not smart to do an operation without gloves, because dead skin flakes can potentially fall onto the internal organs.
I open my bottom desk drawer, the top of it filled with books. Each drawer holds something different: the top drawer a stapler and pretty nails (the ones you make a house with; not the human ones), the second drawer biology textbooks, and the last drawer a five hundred milliliter bottle of Diprivan, four syringes (each of them unused), a Bard-Parker scalpel, and seven books on hamsters, good number, to prevent Daddy from discovering my materials.
I put the books under my desk. My desk is a soft pecan color, small scratches and scuff marks making it look old and mature. That's what all the adults say about me too: old and mature. Because I know a lot of things. But I didn't know about congenital heart disease, couldn't cure it, so I don't really know anything. The boys in my class call me retard, which might be right. The girls say it too, just quieter, I was in the bathroom, reading one of my seven hamster books in the stall, and I heard one of the girls say that Mayelle was a retard. That's my name, Mayelle. Daddy says I'm not retarded, I'm actually really smart and just am not like everyone else, but I think more people have called me retarded than smart. And patterns are nice, when things line up, so I'll be a retard. It makes more sense.
The top of the desk is covered by a large sheet of cardboard, with four black x's making a tall rectangle. Carefully, I bring out the Diprivan, followed by one of the syringes. I place the both of them on the bottom left corner of the cardboard, a safe distance away from the edge. I stare at the bottle of Diprivan, rereading the details listed. “1000 mg per 100 mL.” “For Intravenous Administration.” “Rx Only.” “Shake well before using.” I have read this fifteen times to date, and also recorded the list onto my iPhone notes, in case I need to access the information and the bottle is not readily available.
Last year I asked Daddy if I could come with him to the hospital where he worked, and he said no, but I started screaming and yelling because I needed the Diprivan but I couldn't tell him that, and he said “Shut the fuck up!” really loud,but then he got all soft and said sorry, so sorry, and took me to the hospital. I took the Diprivan from one of the medicine cabinets in his office, I knew which bottle it was because it said Diprivan in big blue letters. I liked that. There were only ten of them, so I was nervous that he might find out I stole one. I'm not a thief though, thieves are bad. I'm doing a good thing. He didn't find out though, he was too busy planning the funeral. He ordered lots of flowers. I liked the sunflowers the best.
After the injector and anesthetic, I bring out the Bard-Parker scalpel, being careful not to cut myself. The thin plastic on the gloves break easily. It goes next to the Diprivan, closer to the center of the cardboard.
I go over to Maurice, who squeals as I approach, pressing her chubby cheeks against the glass. It is a pattern. Every time I approach the cage it is either to hold and pet Maurice, trying to remember how Daddy did it, or give her food. Every other day I give her carrots. Carrots were the real Maurice's favorite food. The new Maurice likes them too.
I bring Maurice to the desk, holding her close to my chest and stroking her back. Her little black eyes are wet. That could mean her eyes are irritated, she has a cold or influenza, or even allergies. But that's just what the book says. I know Maurice. Wet eyes mean lots of emotions, mean love. That's what Dad says and Mom said anyways. When I place her down onto the cardboard, I draw a circle with my finger, indicating to her to roll over. It is the only trick I have managed to teach her in the two weeks I have had her. Two weeks are equivalent to seven years in human time. Or, to be more exact 12:55 a.m. on the fourteenth day is equivalent to seven years. I check my watch: 12:45. I am doing well on time.
Opening the lid to the Diprivan, I fill the syringe with 0.2 milliliters of the clear liquid. My left palm firmly presses down upon Maurice's body, thumb and forefinger holding her scruff. I place the needle upon a small bump on the neck, the gingival vein, and slowly inject the Diprivan solution into Maurice. She squeals, and I can feel her head straining against my fingers, wanting to toss to and fro. Even after the injection finishes, Maurice is still squirming, her eyes are even wetter, it doesn't feel like love. It takes five minutes for Diprivan to take effect. There is so much movement, lots of movement means fear. I'm doing this for you Maurice, don't you see? I couldn't save you when you first died, but now I'm here. First died. I can save you. I will prove it.
Maurice, the hamster Maurice, has fallen asleep.
In order to expose the belly, the paws of the hamster have to be nailed to the cardboard, clean through the middle so as not to rip them off. Last time, with the fake Maurice, I used nails that were too large for her petite hands, and her top right paw was ripped right off. She woke up, I didn't inject enough Diprivan I assume, and began to squeal, so very loud. I was so angry, I just wanted to scream at the fake Maurice, I mean, I was helping her. So, I grabbed her head and shook it. Her neck broke, I didn't mean to break it, but I broke it. I sat and screamed for a week after that. I killed Maurice. A small black coffin was carved out of wood, it took me two weeks. No name was written on it though, as I realized that it was not Maurice. Maurice is going to be reborn, not die again. So she was not Maurice.
I know more this time. I bring out four small pink nails from my top drawer and stab through the four paws of Maurice onto the black x's. Red blood oozes onto her soft pink pads. No squealing. I stare at the belly now. It bulges out, hamsters' being very round creatures. The fur is whiter than her back, more tinges of blonde. I check my watch. 12:52. Perfect.
I slide open my closet, and bring out a small wooden box; I move quickly, only have three minutes. Placing the box down next to Maurice, I begin.
I take Brand-Parker scalpel into my hand and place it onto the top of Maurice's body. I slide the knife down, all the way through to the tail. It surprises me how easily the skin falls apart. It felt so sturdy when I held her. What if I mess up? Too late now.
The skin flaps fall apart to reveal a gray and pulsating sack, the inner skin. I bring my scalpel around one inch down from the top of the sack to one inch above the bottom of the sack, keeping it intact.
I hear footsteps down below. Daddy's home early.
Quickly, find the heart. It's nestled at the top like a baby bird, just as the textbook said, veins and capillaries not yet visible to me running throughout the rest of the organs and the inner skin.
I open the wooden box.
Inside are my tools: an MP3 player with one song on it, a miniature bicycle tire with a valve, and a fabric replica of a hamster heart, with small holes for each of the different veins and capillaries and a large one in the center which does not coordinate with hamster biology. It is not perfect, as it was originally created for the fake Maurice, but it should be approximately correct. I grab Maurice's heart with my left hand and cut the veins and capillaries with the scalpel in my right, gotta get to the heart.
Footsteps are coming up the stairs. Wish my door had a lock.
I remove the heart, throwing it on the far edge of the cardboard and begin trying to connect the various veins and capillaries to my fabric heart. It's too slippery though, they won't enter the holes, can barely even grab them, they're so small and tiny. I measured it. The textbook told me the diameter was .005 centimeters, about the size of the tip of a pencil. So, I made each hole with a pencil, looking at the hamster heart I found on the internet and printed out. It's not working though. Why, why, why!?
A knock from the outside. “Honey, are you in there?”
I want to respond, but I need to finish or else Maurice will die. I hook up the miniature bicycle tire valve to the large hole in the middle of the fabric heart, I don't have time for the veins or capillaries, and I reach for my sewing kit. Wait, where is it? I left it on my dresser. I sprint to the dresser and grab the sewing kit, throwing myself back to the desk, feel my ribs bend against the wood.
“Hey honey, I'm coming in okay?”
“Don't!”, I manage to scream, desperately threading the thread through the needle, the hole's too small, hands are shaking so much!
In and out, in and out, it's wrong but there's no time! The inside layer of skin tighter than it was before, even with the small hole in the middle for the miniature bicycle tire tube. Too tight, no space for the lungs or stomach to expand.
“Is something wrong?” Daddy's voice sounds urgent.
The outside skin is too thick, just jab at the skin with as hard as I can, blood sprays up onto my wrists, what did I do wrong?
“I'm coming in”.
The suturing is complete, all except for the center, where the small tube comes out of.
The door handle turns.
I press play on the MP3 player and the Bee Gees' “Staying Alive” comes on. One-hundred-four beats per minute. Our health teacher said that was how fast you should press down when doing Cardiopulmonary Resuscitation. I press down on the miniature bicycle tire pump to the beat, inflating the small fabric heart so it could distribute blood, just like a normal heart. It will work. It has to work.
Large hand grabs me by the wrist and throws my entire body backwards, my head smacking against my bed posts. He's yelling, but I can't hear what, everything seems to be swirling, my vision is black. I can't see, but I know there's a small hamster head looking at me, staring at me with those wet black eyes, Maurice filled with love. I blink, the swirling starting to slow down, and I see Maurice just lying there on the table, dead.
Still screaming and yelling, Daddy thinks its my fault Maurice the hamster died.
“You killed her!” I yell at Daddy.
I point my finger at him, at the murderer, “You killed Maurice!”
Daddy froze, his mouth was open but nothing came out. His face wasn't angry or sad or anything else, it was that face. When Maurice - the first, real Maurice - was being put into the ground and he just stood and stared at her, I saw that face. And when mom disappeared, and she called us to say she wasn't coming back, he made that face. Adults aren't supposed to make that kind of face. Adults know what is right, and what to do, and not be like me, so small and tiny.
“I didn't mean it Daddy, I didn't!”
He didn't hear me though. Just stands and stares at me. His eyes are wet and I know, he told me that it means love, but love is supposed to feel good and this just hurts. He looks down at the floor and turns around, opens the door and goes down the stairs. It's so loud, the steps, they sound like Daddy during the funeral, just saying I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
I'm so angry at Daddy, and so sad at Daddy, adults aren't supposed to do this. I wanna run and shake him and hug him, but when I look down, I can't see my human hands, just Maurice's blood on the plastic gloves. That's why he left, because he has all that love for Maurice, and I don't have love, my eyes aren't wet, were never wet. I can't love her, but what can I do, daddy is so small and I'm so small too.
It worked. She woke up didn't she? I didn't see it with my own eyes, but I knew it, that she woke up and looked at me with wet eyes. And, if it worked on the hamster Maurice, it can work on the real Maurice right? That's what I did this for. I can fix all of this. All of the bad stuff, Mommy, Maurice, Daddy won't have to cry.
I get up , grab the bicycle pump but it's still attached so I have to unscrew, unscrew, then I grab the scalpel. I take them and my MP3 player and run out of my room, down the stairs, and out of the house. It's still dark, the sun will rise in a couple hours. The cemetery is only a couple of miles away. I begin to run, my naked feet slamming against the pavement. My heart feels like its about to burst, my lungs filled with fire, but I must run, so Daddy won't cry, so Maurice can come back.
I'm running on grass now, beginning of the cemetery, my feet are trailing blood, the pavement is too hard, but so close, must keep on moving. Maurice's buried at B43, just a right turn in three intersections, then a left. Right under the big tree.
The gravestone is made of granite. I can't read the headstone, it's too dark out, and the moon beams aren't bright enough. I know it though. I wrote it down in my notebook, on my desk, on my arm, on my phone, and everything else, because I might forget about it because I can't love, and people always say they remember the people they love. “Maurice Harper, daughter of Jane and Martin Harper, younger sister of Mayelle Harper, 2002-2009.” We were watching TV; She died of a heart attack. She was so loud, I felt so angry; An unexpected heart condition based upon a genetic abnormality. Mom told me to look after her, but I was just so tired and so I ran away, to the playground just a block away; Congenital heart disease. I never showed her my wet eyes. Even when she was dead in the coffin and I looked down on her, nothing came out. Daddy said I do love, just differently, but how could I? I didn't have wet eyes, I didn't listen to Mom, I didn't know what Congenital Heart Disease was. I can make it right though. It'll all be okay. I place the scalpel and bicycle pump and the MP3 player to the side and dig with my hands, still covered in the gloves. I try to dig my fingers in, but the dirt's stuck, it won't move. I grind and grind with my fingers, but the dirt's so tough, and my fingers are so tired, but I have to, I gotta.
I've got a small hole now, but my gloves are tearing apart, only blood connecting the plastic to my skin.
Should've just jumped in when they were burying her, I could have it wouldn't have even hurt, and told them not to bury her, because I'm gonna save her, but I can just dig, even if its for a whole year I'll just dig and then I'll reach her and tell her I love her, even if I can't. And then she'd smile and love me a lot, so much I wouldn't need to love.
After I open the lid, I can replace Maurice's bad heart with my good heart. It's a bit small, I think, but if I just keep on pumping she can live. I'll pump and pump and pump, and she'll be so happy Maurice, and I'll tell her I love her every day, every second.
“Mayelle!” I turn around and Daddy is running towards me, I turn back and continue digging, it's what's important.
“Mayelle,” The voice is soft, and I look up to Daddy standing a bit above me, his eyes dry but red and puffy, “your feet.”
I ignore him and continue digging, but I feel his hand on my shoulder so I scream and it's gone but I keep on screaming in case it comes back.
I don't feel it, he's sitting on the ground now, hands in his lap, must dig, have to.
“Mayelle, Maurice isn't coming back.” His voice is so soft I almost can't hear him. Wish I couldn't hear him. He's wrong, totally wrong, just doesn't get it. I try and force my fingers in the ground, get a bigger chunk, but the ground is too hard, tear and scrape my useless, useless hands, but suddenly Daddy's arms are around me.
Daddy is too strong, I can't get out, but I try, and I scream so loud my throat hurts. I can feel my head getting wet, Daddy's eyes are pressed into my hair. It's warm.
“Mayelle,” he whispers, “I'm so, so sorry.” The sorry's sound different, I can feel the sorrys, they bounce inside me. But, I don't deserve the sorrys, I don't deserve anything.
“I can't, I can't,” I say, something hard forming in my throat, “Mom, Maurice, it's all because, I'm sorry Daddy, I can't-”
Daddy leans back, and we both fall onto the grass.
“I love you,” he says. His eyes are wet again, but it makes me feel different, I don't feel so sad this time. It was like when I would wake up and Maurice would run up and grab my leg and ask me to play, or when Mom asked me how my day at school went. Their eyes weren't wet then either.
“I love you too,” I say, and my eyes aren't wet but I don't think I'm wrong.
And we lie there together, the three of us.