Eva's Dance

“Play it again, Sam.”

           “Okay, Eva,” I said as I pressed my long, thin fingers down on the keys once more. I closed my eyes; I knew the song by heart and didn’t need the sheet music any more, even though it still sat on the music stand before me, the edges frayed and the ink faded from years of use. I knew that behind me, Eva would be swaying to the music, eventually twirling and dancing around the room as the music swelled to a crescendo and then quieted, still and peaceful, like our lives.

           Or the way we wished our lives could be.

I can’t remember the days before my twin sister and I fell ill; perhaps we had always been sick in some way or another. All I remember is our lives after: constant hospital visits and doctor’s appointments, endless tests and medicines and experimental treatments. Countless doctors stood before my parents in waiting rooms as the two of them clung to each other and prayed for good news, longed for a diagnosis, a treatment, a cure, some hope. Well, they got the diagnosis at least: familial pulmonary fibrosis, a disease that caused us to have too much connective tissue built up on our lungs. They suspected a genetic link. Eva and I were four. Our prognosis wasn’t good. The rest of our lives, however shortened the disease had made them, would be filled with medical problems and the subsequent treatments necessary to keep us alive. We would always have difficulties with our lungs and possibly other complications, and since the medicine to counteract the scarring on our lungs suppressed our immune systems, we would have to be extra careful.

           Eva and I had always been close. We were twins, after all. But after our diagnosis, we became inseparable. We were  homeschooled together since kindergarten. We had a few friends from preschool, but whenever we tried to hang out with them, they wanted to run around and play outside. That wasn’t an option for us, so we became each other’s best friend, rarely apart for a minute. Even in the hospital during our many medical treatments, we shared a room. The nurses and doctors always joked that it was like treating one patient with two bodies, since we had the same symptoms and complaints. Today, Eva and I are fifteen.

           “Eva, stop it! You’ll overexert yourself!” My mom’s voice interrupted my thoughts. I stopped playing and turned around on the padded piano bench. Eva and Mom sat on the couch. Eva was wheezing, and Mom had a worried look on her face as she grabbed Eva’s inhaler. “You know you’re not supposed to exercise like that, honey!”

           “But, Mom, I was only dancing!”

           “I know you enjoy it, dear, but your health comes first. It’s not good for your lungs. You’ve got to be able to breathe deeply, so your body gets plenty of oxygen. You know this! I’m sorry you can’t go to dance classes or do a lot of the things the other kids do, but it’s for the best! That’s why we bought the piano, so you and Samantha could have something nice and relaxing to do and stay safe indoors.”

           Indoors. Where Eva and I had spent the majority of each day since our diagnosis. Any venture outside had to be planned in advance, with extra antihistamines taken to prevent any flare-up from the allergens that seemed to attack us the moment we set foot out our front door. Even when we drove to the hospital, we never once spent a moment outside: from the car in the garage attached to our house to the parking deck attached to the hospital and back. Never a breath of air that wasn’t constantly filtered. We were two sisters destined to spend our lives looking out of windows, never participating in any of the activities we so longed to do.

That is, until the day we got the piano. I still remember it clearly. Eva and I were six. We were playing with our dolls when we heard the crunch of gravel on the driveway. We ran to the window and saw a big white delivery truck parked in our front yard. We rushed downstairs, ignoring Mum’s calls not to run and raced to the door just as Daddy opened it to greet the delivery man, who held a clipboard and a pen out for my dad to sign. I caught a hint of a breeze on my face as I quickly leaned outside. Before Daddy nudged me back in, I saw three other men unloading the piano from the back of the truck. They wheeled it up the brick walkway and somehow got it through the front door and into the living room, where it sits today.

From the very beginning, I was enchanted.  The moment they placed the bench before the piano, I was glued to the seat, tracing my fingers lovingly over the smooth ivory keys. Eva, however, showed little interest in playing the piano for herself. All she ever wanted to do was dance to the music.  

           Mom and Dad didn’t like it when she danced. We were supposed to rest most of the time and not elevate our heart rates too much, because then our bodies would demand more oxygen than our lungs could give. I was okay with resting all the time. I even adjusted to rarely ever going outdoors. As long as I had the piano, I was okay. Playing the music made me happy. When I sat before the piano, I was alive. I just knew that when my disease took control and my body stopped being able to fight, I would be one of those angels in heaven making music for all of eternity. Eva, however, wasn’t made to be still. Dance was her catharsis, and since she was my best friend and twin sister, I played the songs for her. It was our little secret.

           “Are you okay now, Eva?” I asked as I walked over to the couch after Mom had left. I sat next to her and gently massaged her back. The dose of corticosteroids had stopped the wheezing, but I knew Mom’s scolding wouldn’t work. She’d want to dance again tomorrow, and the next  day, and the day after that, no matter the consequences.

           “Yeah, I’m fine,” she responded. “I think I’m just going to rest for a while.”

           “What, no more dancing today? Mom’s gone. You know I won’t tell,” I teased.

           “No. No more dancing today!” she snapped. “I could’ve stopped breathing! Sometimes I think you forget how much danger we’re in!” She stormed out of the room and stomped up to our bedroom. I sighed and went back to the piano, blinking back tears.

           “Eva! Samantha! Dinnertime!”  

           “Coming, Mom!” I shouted from the living room. Gathering up the sheet music, I put it in a neat stack, folded the top of the piano down, and turned off the lamp. I met Eva, Mom, and Dad in the kitchen. Eva returned my smile with one of her own. I knew things were right between us.

           After  we finished dinner, cleared the table, and loaded the dishwasher, Eva tugged my sleeve to get my attention. “Yes?” I turned to her.

           “Can we talk?”

           “Sure.”

           Upstairs, we lied side by side on my bed. Eva hugged a stuffed animal to her chest and began. “Sorry for snapping at you earlier. I’m just so scared sometimes. I know we don’t talk about it much so I don’t know about you, but I’m getting worse. Sam, I’ll probably need to use an oxygen tank soon. I won’t be able to dance forever, so I have to while I can. Do you understand that? I have to, but it’s so scary to think that someday soon I won’t be able to.”

           “I understand,” I lied. How could I really? I would always be able to play piano for as long as I could sit on a bench. Oxygen tank or no oxygen tank, my passion would always be accessible. But it wasn’t so for Eva.

           After a moment of silence, I said, “You know, you’ll be dancing in heaven.”

           “I guess so.” She smiled. “Thanks, Sam. You’re the best.” She rolled over on her side and was soon asleep. I moved to her bed and, after an hour or so of tossing and turning, fell asleep as well.

           “Sam, SAM!”

           My eyes flew open. I sat up in bed and saw Eva on the floor, gasping for air. “Sam, get Mom, I can hardly breathe!” I sat down beside her, noticing how her face was getting paler and her eyes more panicked by the second.

           “Mom, something’s wrong with Eva!” I yelled.

           Mom and Dad rushed into the room. “Call 911!” Mom cried as she tossed the cell phone at Dad and grabbed Eva’s inhaler. “Breathe, Eva, just breathe,” she begged. “The medicine’s not working!”

           “The paramedics are on their way right now!” Dad leaned down next to us on the floor.

           The next few minutes were a blur. Eva’s face was turning blue, and she was losing consciousness. Dad went downstairs to let the medics in; they rushed past him and were immediately by her side. They had an oxygen mask on her face and loaded her on a stretcher.

           “No, Eva, NO!” I screamed and rushed to her side. “Eva, no, don’t die, Eva, please, PLEASE!” Dad pulled me back and held my arms behind me when I tried to fight him off. I sobbed into his arms as I watched them take my twin away and cried even harder when I heard the sirens fade away as the ambulance raced down the street.

           After that, there was only numbness. Numbness as Dad carried me to the car and we drove to the hospital. Numbness as we tensely waited in the lobby. Numbness when the doctors told us they were sorry, they had done everything they could, but her weak lungs had been unable to supply enough oxygen to her heart, causing cardiac failure. Numbness during the following days, and numbness now, as we sat in our pastors’ office and planned her funeral.

           “Sam? Sam, honey, did you hear me?”

           I looked up at the pastor. “What?” I responded, not even trying to hide the “just-leave-me-alone” tone of my voice.

           “I was asking if you wanted to play a song or two for the funeral, since Eva enjoyed your music so much.”           

           I couldn’t speak, couldn’t cry. I only nodded.

           Later that day, I sat down at the piano bench. I didn’t lift the cover. I didn’t turn on the lamp. I simply stared at the sheet music in front of me and remembered the last time Eva and I were in this room together. The last time forever.

           And so that’s why, two days later, when the pastor called me up on stage--“And now, a special song from Eva’s sister, Samantha”--I sat down and played the final song that Eva had danced to, because I knew in heaven, she heard me. I knew she was smiling. I knew she was dancing.