Broken Heart Syndrome

Broken Heart Syndrome



Someone once told me when you feel heartbroken it is because your heart is literally breaking. Trauma or distress causes the brain to send hormones to your heart, resulting in your heart tissue to tear and ultimately weaken.  It’s called broken heart syndrome. Despite the lack of originality in its title, it does provide me with a perfect explanation of why I feel as if my heart is going to burst right out of my chest and onto the pristine, marble tile of the Heathrow airport.  I’m heartbroken all right. Hell, I’m a goddamn pathetic mess, but at least I have a medical excuse.



“ Flight 270 is now boarding at Gate Seventeen. Please queue up and have your boarding passes ready.”



I know this is probably my prompt to pick up my belongings strewn in front of me and on the chair beside me, but I just can’t get myself to move. My friend Tracy leans down to pick up her obscenely expensive, highly unnecessary travel bag she bought in Paris and I remember how glad I am I did not let her talk me into to buying a matching one. At one point, before I came here, I would’ve let Tracy convince me into maxing out my credit card for a hideous designer bag like that one. Not because I liked it, of course, but because I thought owning expensive things really says something about the person you are. I’m not sure if I thought it said something positive about my character, but none the less it was something. Now all I think it says is that Tracy has really terrible taste. Regardless, six months ago all that material shit mattered to me.  Funny how six months in a different place with different people can make you a different person.



“ Hey, Ry  are you coming or are you staying behind so you can pretend to be a real Brit? I mean do what you want, dude but they’ll never buy it. Besides the American accent, your teeth are way too perfect for a Londoner,” Tracy says in her typical half-joking, half-serious manner.



“ Ha, ha aren’t you witty.”



“The wittiest of them all. Now, are you coming or what, Reilly? If we miss this flight I’ll kill you,” she says, her nostrils flaring slightly. I relish the fact that I can push Tray’s buttons so easily.



“I’m coming, I promise. I don’t see what the rush is. We have assigned seats. And besides, the line is still long.”



“ Ugh, fine,” she snorts, “Well, if you have a window seat I am so snagging it.”



“Deal,” I smile. I watch Tracy fumble with the oversized bag, her blonde, side-swept bangs falling out from beneath her obnoxious Burberry hat; yet another one of Tray’s ‘must-have’ purchases.



As I stand up to gather my belongings, I look out the giant glass window across from where I am.  I see about twenty people standing in line, waiting to board the plane, getting ready to take off into the indigenous London smog and land somewhere far away from here. Watching the people waiting there, bags in hand, I can’t help but wonder where everyone actually goes when they say they have to go.  I walk over toward the window and press my face to the glass, hoping to get a better look.  The first person I see is a man in dressed in a charcoal business suit. I can’t make out his expression exactly, but he appears to be middle aged. I imagine he’s going somewhere per request from his asshole boss at his six figure job that he absolutely despises.  Poor bastard.  In front of him is a young woman, probably in her twenties, wearing a long printed dress and a jean jacket.  Her outfit is out of character for typical a Londoner, so I assume she is visiting a friend or a lover, or maybe both and is flying home because she ran out of money.  In front of her is an elderly couple. The two aren’t speaking to each other, but their arms are intertwined.  The smudged glass inhibits me from getting a clear view, but it is obvious they are both smiling. I bet they met in London, at Oxford or something, and fell in love at first sight. Theyr’e probably taking a trip for their anniversary or perhaps an early Christmas present to one another.  Must be nice.



I really don’t know why I am staring at these strangers or more importantly why I am imagining their reasons for boarding that plane when I have my own plane to catch. But then again, I don’t know why I am leaving London in the first place. I mean I know all of the logical reasons why I should leave. The very obvious is the money. I am broke.  I am only moderately broke at the moment, but I am certain with the 1.25 London exchange rate I will be utterly broke if I stay here any longer.  I guess I could always get a job waiting tables, but I’ve learned Londoners don’t tip and the rare ones that do are lousy tippers. Anyways, although a noteworthy reason, my lack of funds doesn’t seem to be significant enough.  There are always my family and friends I’d be leaving behind if I stay here.  I’m certain they’d miss me. At least I think they’d miss me. My whole life is in Boston. It always has been.  But maybe that’s the problem.  I’ve grown up in Boston, went to college in Boston, for Christ’s sake I am even staying in Boston for med school.  Before London, more specifically before I met her in London, I always felt satisfied with my decision to stay in one place. Satisfied? Satisfying? What the hell does that even mean? My time here, my time with her, could never be justified with the word satisfying.  It was surreal.



*****

I remember the night I met her more vividly than any memory I have ever locked away for safe keeping.  The memory is so familiar, so fresh in my mind, I swear when I think of it I feel like I am there again. It was my third night in London and Tracy has begged me to go to some bar so she could meet up with some ‘handsome bloke’ she had met on the Tube earlier that morning.

“Tray, I have to be at my internship early in the morning. Unlike you, this trip is a working vacation for me. Can’t you tell the old chap’ you’ll meet him this weekend? “



She rolls her blue eyes at me. “First of all, you sound ridiculous when you talk like that. Secondly, all you do is work. You’re becoming a bore which means pretty soon I’m going to have to ditch you and find friends that are actually a bit more entertaining,” she smirks. “Besides, we won’t stay out late.”



“You say that every time. And ironically we stay out late every time.”



“ Rrrreillllyyyyy,” she pleads.  “Please, do me this favor? I’ll do anything. I’ll do your laundry. You know I hate doing laundry. Aw, Ry please. This guy is so cute AND he has an accent. How perfect is that?”



“Tray, we’re in England, they all have accents. But, since you’re groveling and willing to do my laundry, I’ll do it. We better be home by eleven.”



“Eleven-thirty?” she says, batting her mascara covered lashes, her bottom lip jutting out.



I give her my trademark  you’ve-got-to-be-fucking-kidding-me look.“Don’t push it.”



The bar is in Oxford Circus, a block or so from West Minster University. The first level is posh and pretentious looking, and the minute we walk in I feel completely out of place. Tracy blends in perfectly with her chic black on black ensemble and blonde hair pinned up in a sophisticated bun. I stick out like a sore thumb in my too big jeans, green T-shirt, and beat up Converse sneakers.

“I look like an idiot.” I complained.



“ No, no you look fine. Now let me see where…oh shit, there he is.”



We walk over and say our introductions. The guy’s definitely a looker. Unfortunately, watching paint dry would have been more exciting than this guy. And Tracy said I was boring?  After a few beers and an hour of the most monotonous third wheel encounter I have ever had, I decide to be brave and check out the lower level of the bar.  The air is thick with an unidentified film, and it smells like a mixture of stale cigarette smoke, sweat, and spilled beer. Maybe not the most aromatic of combinations, but it’s a hell of a lot better than the smell of European men that permeated the bar upstairs.  The ground is nothing but cold, hard cement, and a low, poorly constructed stage in the front of the dance floor. A bunch of drunken girls are performing an awesomely bad British karaoke rendition of Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.”  I scan the room, watching people dance to the music and down their beers.  I happen to notice the MC off to the side, clutching his microphone with one hand, a beer in the other, talking to someone. When he shifts his body, that’s when I see it. I see her.  Despite the haze, I could see quite clearly that she is perfect. Her dark brown hair falls effortlessly in perfect waves on her shoulders, spilling onto her orange T-Shirt.  The color of the cotton makes her tanned skin and bright smile stand out, even in the darkness. I don’t know if the MC is her boyfriend, but I study her body language intently, praying my several sociology courses will pay off. When the song is over, the MC jumps on stage. She steps back a few feet and leans up against the bar. Aside from her MC friend, she was alone. Christ I’m nervous. ‘It’s now or never Reilly.’ I guess being in a foreign place initiates courage, or at least helps you feign it more realistically. I walk toward where she was standing, casually propping myself up on a nearby bar stool. I notice a guy next to us being picked up by one of the bar’s bouncers. He’s blatantly inebriated and flailing around like a fish out of water, a stream of cusses coming from his drooling mouth.



“He’s had a few too many, don’t you think?”



I hear the question being asked, and I presume it’s addressed to me, but I don’t look up.  Instead, I divert my eyes to ground, fixating them on the cigarette butt.



“ I know it’s loud in here, but not that loud. Sooo, either you don’t speak English or your ignoring me.”



Dumbfounded, I look up, my face flushed.



“Well, which is it?”



“Neither.”



She put a hand on my shoulder, cocked her head back, and began to laugh.

“What’s so funny?”



“You’re American, that’s even worse,” she says, still laughing.



I put my hands on my hip and do my best impersonation of Tracy when she is insulted, "What exactly do you mean by that?"



Too late, I realize sarcasm may be exclusively American and my joke is lost in translation, but to my great relief, she laughs again. To my even greater relief, she opens her mouth wide to reveal a perfectly straight set of white teeth.  I send up a quick prayer to whoever it was that placed this girl in this cramped, smelly hole. This is definitely the highlight of my entire night. Possibly of my entire life.



"Luckily for you, I've been to America," she shouts over the music, "Most of your people made a good impression."



I roll my eyes. "Oh they're not my people. I mean, I was born there, but nobody's really all that proud to be an American. Despite the corny song."



She gives me a quizzical look and I shake my head. "Never mind."



I stick out my hand. "I'm Reilly."



"Lucy Caldwell," she takes my hand in hers, "Pleased to meet you.  First time in London?”



“Is it that obvious?”



“ Dreadfully,” she says smiling, “Hey, how about we finish these beers and I’ll give you my guided tour of London. If you’re lucky, I won’t even charge.”



I can feel my chest palpitating and I wonder if she can see it pounding through my T-Shirt. There must not be enough blood pumping to my heart because I feel terribly woozy.



“Well if it’s free, how can I refuse?”  I say, swigging the last of my piss warm beer.  “I’ll let Tracy know I’m leaving.”



“Tracy?” She shifts her body to one side, and lowers her head slightly. “Is that your girlfriend, or somethin’?”

I may be delusional, but I swear I hear the slightest bit of disappointment in her voice.



“Tracy?” I snort, “She’s my best friend.” I look down at my sneakers, and then back up at her.  “ I...I don’t have a…I mean..I’m not with anyone.”  Smooth. Real smooth.



She twirls a strand of hair around tightly around her chipped red fingertip, a quirk I later learn is a nervous habit.  Her mouth widens into a smile, revealing her slightly asymmetrical dimples.



“ Well then,” she says, theatrically slamming her beer bottle on the bar top. “Let’s go.”



Placing my bottle down next to hers, I let her lead me through the dizzying crowd and to their staircase leading to the upstairs bar. Before following her up the stairs, I take a minute to concentrate on my rapidly pulsating chest.  I’m not sure what’s happening because I’ve never had this feeling before. Perhaps it’s an early sign of cardiomyopathy or some other threatening cardiovascular disease. All I know is my heart will never be the same again.



“ This is the final boarding call for flight 270 at gate seventeen to Boston Logan Airport. This flight will be departing at half past.”



I shake my head. Back to reality.  It’s time to board the plane and all I have to look forward to is a complimentary bag of cheap stale peanuts. I said I had to go. I have to go, I have to go, but where the hell am I going? Home? I’m not sure what that means anymore. When the plane lands ‘home’ will be nothing but faceless people and crowded trains and feigned satisfaction masked beneath years of genuine disappointment. There will be no one waiting for me to get home with a cup of tea and plate of stale cucumber sandwiches. There will be no afternoon walks in Regent’s Park, no late nights in Camden Town. There will be no first kiss in Covent Garden, no love making in a leaky flat in High Gate.  No arguments about how to read a map, or what to eat for dinner. I know there will be no conversations on the roof top watching dusk turn into dawn. There will be no imperfect imperfections. No chain cigarette smoking, or constantly chipped nail polish, or burnt grilled cheese. More importantly, there will be no sincere promises, no constant devotion, no love so surreal and absurd and beautiful that it can’t be explained in words.  No her. And I guess no me either. But, I have to go.



I pick up my bags, hand my ticket to the attendant. I can feel the ache set in my chest. I’m used to it now. Broken Heart Syndrome. I wonder if you can die from it. I bet it’s entirely possible. With pain like this, I wouldn’t be surprised.  I walk toward the plane and I picture someone watching me as I board. I imagine they see me, a pathetic sight I’m sure,  and wonder where it is I am going that’s so much more important, when it’s written all over my face that I don’t want to go. I wonder too. It’s too late to turn back now, because I am already on the plane and ready to take my seat next to a sleeping Tracy. I feel the same heavy hollowing in my chest as I’ve felt for the last three days, but I think this time, I cannot breathe. I contemplate tapping Tray, but it’s not worth it now. I lay my head back on the seat and close my eyes.  The plane vibrates from beneath me as we prepare for departure. My heart, weak inside my chest, struggles with each beat. I look past Tracy and out the window. Goodbye, London. I have to go.