Doctors described it as a simple operation, but I was too young to know that open-heart surgery is never simple. Mama mentioned it in passing one day as we rode back from school. It was the beginning of December and the middle of my senior year, three months after my eighteenth birthday.

“Danny is having surgery at the end of the month,” she said.

“Oh, I forgot about that.”

Then, the red light turned green. I pressed the gas, and the conversation ended. It didn’t seem like much. For weeks, I’d known Danny, my godfather, had been diagnosed with heart failure, but was asymptomatic. He was sixty-eight, didn’t drink or smoke, and was otherwise healthy. The surgery would only improve his future quality-of-life. It never crossed my mind that anything could go wrong.  

My parents love stories. Their favorites were always of the bustling club scene in my hometown in Central Florida, twenty years ago. Every Friday and Saturday, the clubs were packed with sweaty, energetic crowds in perpetual motion. Lines wrapped around the block. Classic disco hits played, with snapping snares and funky bass licks booming over the speakers. If the atmosphere had gotten any more intense, people would’ve spilled out into the street. Yet, none of them knew that another show was still in store.

It began when Julia arrived. Her sparkling emerald gaze and flowing, radiant blonde hair immediately captured all the attention. With the grace of a flowing wave and the energy of crashing thunder, she took to the dance floor. As colorful light descended, she constantly shifted, her fingers outstretched, hips swaying, and eyes shut in concentration. Julia was the queen. Only one person could upstage her.

He would appear beside her like a meek prince. His golden curls bounced as he bobbed and weaved with the crowd. First, he looked like anyone else, but it took only seconds to see he was the true star. With wide cerulean eyes and a jolly grin, Danny began bouncing around wildly. He’d kick out his legs and wave his hands around, like someone who couldn’t hear the music at all. Yet, although he had little rhythm, and certainly wasn’t a dancer, Danny had ten times the enthusiasm. It was infectious, and a circle soon formed around the two. Julia took his hands, showing him where to put his feet and how to move to the songs. She had the technique, and Danny kept the frenetic, innocent energy that made them the center of any room.

They had been dating for six months. Mama introduced them at the hospital where they worked. Danny was already popular around there. He was the friendly face with a bubbly laugh, who liked to crack dad jokes and offered gum to each person he met. Recently, he moved from New York, and was almost fifteen years older than Julia, but the two hit it off. Around the same time, Mama met Papa, a Cuban immigrant beginning his career as a doctor. They were a similarly unlikely pair. Comparably to Danny and Julia, though, it worked, and they all went out on weekends together after their shifts.

Danny and Julia got married in 2003, the same as my parents. I was born the next year, and Mama and Papa invited them to my baptism, where they were made my godparents. Growing up, I regularly hung out with Danny and Julia. They were at parties, dinners, and vacations, and I spent countless summers at their house in the countryside. I’d be sitting by their pool, when Danny would step outside, dressed in his typical Bob Marley shirt and khakis, holding a motorcycle helmet.

“Want to ride on the four-wheeler?” he’d call out.

Around us were vast expanses of woods and meadows with tall grass that turned golden when the sun set. Scattered throughout were vibrant violets and pink hibiscuses that carried a sweet scent in the breeze. In the distance was a lake, shielded by the tall, thin trees that looked like fingers outstretched to heaven. Splashes of scarlet reflected off the waves, darkening as they reached the shore, a reminder of night’s impending arrival.

Air whooshed by my helmet, cool on my skin as Danny sat behind me, keeping my eight-year-old body steady. I pumped the engine as we raced by, his German Shepherd keeping pace with us. Julia stood near, holding her phone to snap a photo. I put my index and pinky finger up in a rock symbol. Not a thought crossed my head at the time, but it was a moment I’d remember for the rest of my life, even if not for what I expected.

Throughout my teenage years, Danny and Julia helped keep me together. While I dealt with unrequited love, dead friendships, and bad skin, they were always there. Danny had retired and was available to talk anytime. The only occasion he wasn’t was when he drove each morning to deliver coffee to Julia while she worked. It seemed like nothing would ever change. That was until the Christmas party.

It was a week before Danny’s operation. I had already forgotten about it until I overheard a conversation between my parents. I was sitting on my bed, listening through the wall between my room and the kitchen.

“Julia told me not to mention the surgery,” Mama said.

“Really?” Papa asked. “Danny is worrying about it?”

I was surprised. With modern medicine, surgery was simple. Why worry? Few suffered complications, and that was only if they were already sick, like if they had cancer or something. Of course, Danny would be concerned, but it was silly for my parents to be.

Later that night, the house was filled with family. There were Cubans shouting in Spanish across the dining room, and Southerners laughing along. Yet, away from all the action, on a vermilion couch by the front door, sat Danny and Julia. The bitter winds howled outside, contrasting with the Christmas tree’s warm glow that encapsulated them.

“How are you doing, man?” Danny asked quietly when he spotted me.

I could tell something was off. Like those nights at the club, he was usually at the heart of the action. Now, however, it was the opposite. His eyes stared ahead, occasionally peering around the house. He held Julia’s hand gently, never letting go.

We discussed applying to college. As we spoke, Danny’s face grew brighter. He told me how excited he was for this new chapter of my life, and how he looked forward to seeing it unfold. As Danny continued, Julia slowly brought her phone close to show me a photo. It was of Danny and I on the four-wheeler. She said we needed to recreate it. I promised we would.

Standing so close to them and sensing how subdued Danny was, I looked at him and noticed the grays in his hair for the first time, and the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. Time suddenly seemed like a delicate thing that could wilt or break with just a little pressure.

There was one thing I heard during the party that stuck with me. It was when everyone was leaving, and someone remarked about Danny looking fifty.

“Maybe I do,” he replied, “but I feel eighty.”

He had never mentioned feeling old before. Perhaps it was because he thought I wasn’t listening, but, either way, it was unsettling. I wasn’t so comfortable anymore. I wanted to ask Danny what he meant, but he and Julia had already left. Still, I wonder what he would have said. Although, it doesn’t matter now.

The week after, Mama, Papa, and I visited Danny at the local medical center to see how his recovery progressed. We planned to meet Julia and have her take us to his room. However, we couldn’t find her. After twenty minutes of searching, we finally ran into her. Sweat covered her face, and she said she hadn’t slept at all. Danny’s blood pressure dropped overnight, and he lost circulation in his left hand.

“He’s doing better now that he’s on blood thinners,” she said, her voice trembling. “A doctor told me they almost amputated his hand. Could you imagine Danny without his hand?”

Was I dreaming? Nothing seemed real. The short conversation I had with Danny afterwards accentuated that feeling. He was dressed in a hospital gown, with a white cap on his head, and a heart-shaped pillow in his lap, with an anatomical heart in the center. Around it were signatures and encouraging messages.

He greeted me and said my name in a whimsical tone, as if he was surprised to see me. His face was the same, all wide and incredulous. An I.V. was hooked up to him, and there were other tubes that ran along the floor. Across his chest was a massive, stitched-up slash.

We didn’t speak for long. Julia whispered to us that Danny was out of his mind because of the painkillers. I was disappointed. I had been expecting a joyous conversation and mountains of relief. The surgery is over! Danny made it! Why did anyone have doubts? No, it wasn’t like that at all. There was still tension in the air, except it was now even worse, because no one knew why it remained. A dark abyss had opened below, and I wasn’t sure what was within, or how deep it went, just that it was there.

Even then, I passed it off as trivial. Negativity or fear wasn’t worth a thought, especially with loved ones. When I heard Danny had gone home soon after our visit, it seemed like it only proved my point. Why did I keep worrying?

A few days later, I found out why. I was listening to music and doing the dishes after school, when I looked up and saw Mama coming out of her room. She was on the phone, sobbing hysterically.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, bewildered.

“It’s Danny,” she said, choked up, “they don’t think he’s going to make it!”

Then, she turned around and returned to her bedroom. Her cries echoed throughout the house. I was numb. For a while, I just sat on my bed. When I heard the garage door rumble, I stepped out and ran into Papa.

“Did you hear?” he asked.

“Is he doing any better?”

“I don’t know.”

“What does that mean?”

Papa threw his hands up in the air, spinning around and looking at me in the eyes. “It means he’s dead!”

He slammed the bedroom door, and I went and laid back down again. Mama came, asking if I wanted to go with them to the hospital. We got in the car, and the drive was completely silent. It was dark, and we were nearly there, when Mama received another call. Instantly, she burst into tears.

“What happened?” Papa asked.

“He’s gone.”

Papa sighed heavily, gripping the steering wheel tighter. Mama’s tears kept flowing. I didn’t feel anything at all, outside or inside. I was inside an elevator, and the wire had snapped. I was free-falling towards the ground, waiting for the impact, not caring what happened to me.

The hospital was freezing. All down the coolly-lit hallway was the odor of disinfectants. From the white walls and ceiling to the gray linoleum floors, everything was lifeless. We were trapped in an endless maze, going from dead-ends to doors to elevators. Finally, we made it to the ICU. Doctors and nurses rushed by; their shoes squeaking. I got glimpses into the rooms on either side as we passed. Some patients were unconscious, a tube down their throats. Others were screaming in agony, only their pained shadows visible through the sheets covering the bed.

I didn’t intend to follow my parents inside the room, but I did. The first thing I saw was Danny, sitting up, his head back, eyes closed, and mouth open. His skin was a strange yellow tone, like an old sheet of paper. There was a bloody hole in his chest with broken stitches and bruises from the defibrillator. I had heard people describe the death as merely sleeping. That wasn’t the case with Danny. He looked like he had been dead for hours.

Julia was in the corner. As soon as she saw us, she called out to Mama, and they both began wailing, almost shrieking. Papa came over and they both hugged Julia. There wasn’t any space for me, and I didn’t know what to do. I just stood by the door with my hands on my head, looking on in shock.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen!” Julia cried. “This wasn’t supposed to happen!”

Even Papa was crying. I’d never seen that before. Strangely, I worried I wasn’t showing enough emotion. When I looked down, though, I was shaking. What the hell was happening to me? I couldn’t move. It was like an earthquake all around me, but my feet were frozen.

I don’t remember leaving, just ending up in the hallway beside my parents, watching the medical staff wheel out Julia in a wheelchair. Her hair was a mess, her eyes large and red, her face contorted in terror. They took her down to a dark room at the end of the hall, laid her down on a small cushion bed, and covered the entrance with a sheet. Mama and Papa went in first. I stared at the floor while I waited, wondering what to do or say. My mind was totally blank.

Eventually, it was my turn, and I stepped inside. I knelt and leaned into Julia’s embrace and grabbed her tight. She was trembling just like me.

“He really loved you, you know,” she whispered.

“I know,” I answered softly.

No one said a word to me on the way back home. Mama and Papa just spoke between themselves.

“He never made it to seventy,” Mama said.

The whole time, I gazed out the window. I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t anything.

It was like I was made out of stone. Then, we made it home.

I went upstairs and shut the door. Once I sat down on the bed, I grabbed a pillow to lay my head on. That was when something changed, and the spell over me broke. I plunged down face-first and screamed and cried. With my eyes shut, I could feel the hot, wet fabric, and see Danny’s face the night of the Christmas party, when he turned to say goodbye. I realized then that he and I would never get to recreate that photo on the four-wheeler. I’d never again hear his creative quips and contagious laugh, or experience the warmth of him walking in the room. There was a piece of me that went with him, that I could never get back. I’d simply have to learn to live without it.

Time passed slowly after that. Spring began, and I went back to school. I studied, got good grades, signed up for the school dance show, started dating a girl, and went to prom. Soon, it was May. Danny’s death and that night at the hospital felt like a lifetime ago. Every time I opened my phone, though, I’d see a post from Julia about him. I’d like them, but I still didn’t have the courage to ask her how she was doing. I didn’t know why, but I couldn’t. I had so much guilt about that.

 I also didn’t discuss anything related to Danny with my parents or friends. It became my silent burden to walk around and suffer with throughout the day. That was especially true on the day my class went to Grad Bash. A couple hours before we went, I attended a memorial for Danny at the hospital where he worked. There hadn’t been a funeral for him, so this was the first time I directly confronted his passing. Even though it was so recent, I had pushed the memory away to make the pain more distant. I didn’t realize I would hurt even more later. 

The memorial was in a crowded auditorium, with a stage scattered with various of Danny’s memorabilia. One was his Bob Marley shirt, with the words “One Love” in a green, yellow, and red striped heart. Behind it, on a massive projector screen, played a slideshow of various photos of Danny. They showed him dancing at the club, walking his dogs, and with handfuls of coffee. A pastor stepped up to deliver the eulogy.

“Danny was a compassionate and highly respected respiratory therapist who was dedicated to his work for more than twenty years. During his career, he saved many lives, taught many students and staff, and his legacy will live on through them.

“Danny married Julia, the love of his life, and together, they shared love for morning coffee, time at the beach, and cherished every precious moment they had together. Danny took great pride in caring for their home and property, delivering Julia’s coffee anytime she needed it and sharing time with his German Shepherd, Bear. He loved making memories with his boys and grandchildren. There was never a day when he didn't have a smile on his face that warmed our hearts along with a thumbs up.”

After he finished, Julia went to the mic and delivered a small speech. She had to stop in the middle several times to catch her breath and stop herself from breaking down. Watching her up there, speaking of her and Danny’s time together, and the impact he had on everyone around him, I could sense myself growing more upset. I thought it was ironic, looking at all the things he left behind. Danny was someone who was so loved and brought so much peace and bliss, but his passing had caused such pain. It just didn’t feel right to see such a vibrant person suddenly not be around anymore. What was the point of a meaningful life just for it to be torn away so brutally, and without reason? Why, if not only as a punishment for those remaining? Or is it that living is only a small sliver of the human experience, and death is either a gateway or the end of the line? I thought about it, and realized that if the answer was the former, then life is tragically too short.

There were a million questions on my mind, and no answers. The memorial ended, and I rushed back with Mama to campus. We made it just in time for me to hop on the bus with my classmates. Suddenly, I was surrounded by gleeful faces and laughter. Nobody knew where I had just been, nor did they care. They were all preparing for a night of fun. Sitting there, taking it all in like a soldier shell-shocked from grief, I realized I’d never arrive at any concrete conclusion about what I had been through in the past months. I could only smile, pretend I was fine, and be content with knowing nothing at all.