Creative Non-Fiction: Choose Your Own Adventure by Jennifer Anne Gordon

By Jennifer Anne Gordon 

You have decided that the relationship is unhealthy, of course it is. You alternate between being the loyal lover and the mistress. So much of this, you blame on this time in your life, on college, on theatre, on your father dying, on boredom. You find yourself on a Monday morning. The play you were in had its final show last night. You visited your father in the hospital. His brother was there, and they had not spoken since your father was let go from his job several years before after too much time away being sick.

After your uncle leaves you, father asks you who did it, who called him.
If you take the blame; if you say it was you, and explain to him that you are afraid he will die without seeing him again turn to page 24.

If you blame your mother and say that she called him even though you asked her not to. Turn to page 28.

You remember last night’s memories of your father, you wonder if your skin tastes like the hospital, if your skin tastes like his multiple organ failure, you fall into bed with the person you should not be with. He doesn’t know your father, so your grief doesn’t exist in this room, in this bed.

Your phone rings, and it never rings, but his hands are large, and they are holding you close even though you feel far away from everything.
If you get out of bed and answer the phone right away turn to page 31
If you ignore it, just like you are ignoring everything else in your life, turn to page 47.

When the phone rings again a few minutes later, and then again shortly after that, you finally get out of bed. The phone is muffled but persistent, calling to you from the bottom of your purse in the next room.

If you run to the phone naked, scramble for it and answer with concern in your voice go to page 17.

If you get up and put your underwear and bra on, if you slowly slip a sweater on with shaking hands and a heart beating a wild drum in your chest. Turn to page 50.

If you are able to find your phone with ease turn to page 29

If you are shaking by the time you get to your bag and can hardly breathe that you need to take your inhaler, but then stupidly grab your cigarettes and head to your lovers back porch where you light one, feel it like knives in your chest and hold the phone and wait for it to ring again turn to page 44.

When you hear your mother’s breath, she doesn’t need to say anything for you to know. But she does say something, she says “he’s going.”

If you stub out your cigarette and head to the hospital immediately turn to page 51.

If you smoke your cigarette, your face stinging with tears and cold New Hampshire air while you muffle your scream sobs into your sleeve turn to page 53

“I have to go” you say, inside the kitchen. You realize your feet are red with white patches, you were outside in a sweater but no pants, no socks, no shoes. 

“You should quit smoking” your lover says to you.

If you agree to quit smoking turn to page 18

If you call him a fucking asshole and then go throw up in his bathroom turn to page 20.

When you are dressed, he drives you to the hospital, he tells you it won’t be as terrible as you are imagining it will be. He tells you about his grandfather dying, he tells you about his father dying, he talks the entire ride, across the city, running stop signs on the way to the Catholic Hospital.

If you care about what he is telling you turn to page 27.

If you stopped listening after he said it would not be as bad as you thought, and you know it will actually be much worse turn to page 8.

You don’t ask him to come into the hospital with you, you know you have to call the person you are for the moment spending your life with and there is already suspicion, already regret. 

When you get to your father’s room you see your mother. She is mumbling and telling you she was out buying him fresh pajamas for when he came home, as if she were living a different life than what was happening around you.

Your father’s eyes are closed, his feeding tube is gone. The bag holding his urine is only a quarter full. The liquid is dark brown. Your father is puffed up filled with water, drowning from the inside. Yesterday when you left, he was skin stretched over bone.

If your father opens his eyes and looks at you lovingly turn to page 4.

If your father signed a DNR after you left last night and had his feeding tube removed without discussing it with you or your mother turn to page 11.

“Did you say something to him last night, to make him do this?”

If you hate your mother in that moment turn to page 16.

If you hug her, and tell her that no, of course not turn to page 19.

Your partner walks into the hospital room, and you are confused because you didn’t call him, instead of saying hello he sees your confusion and just says “she couldn’t get ahold of you.” And you know what that means.

If you worry you still have kiss-stained lipstick smears on your face and you take out your make up and do a quick touch up turn to page 22.

If you apologize to everyone, and have the understanding that you are apologizing for everything turn to page 88.
 
If you feel the walls closing in, feel them pressing against your chest and you know you cannot handle it turn to page 1.

If you feel the walls closing in and you feel like you can handle it turn to page 1.

If you are sad because they came to your first-grade talent show and you chickened out. Turn to page 1.

If you blame them for not coming to your second-grade talent show, the one where you sang “Maybe” from Annie and got a standing ovation go to page 1.

If you feel like you can’t handle this. Turn to page 1.

If you feel like you can handle it turn to page 1.

If you feel like you can’t handle it. Turn to page1.

If you feel like…if you feel, if you…

Just turn to page 1.