The television on the wall is tuned to a game show with the sound off. There are two chairs for visitors between the bed and the large window. The vertical window blinds are pushed to one side, sunlight illuminating the checkered blue and green floor tiles.
Strands of plastic tubing run from machines to his arm and his chest, pumping liquid into him, removing toxins, an intricate network devised to keep a body alive. He breathes on his own, his chest rising and falling, keeping rhythm with a silent song that only he can hear. There are cuffs attached to his calves, applying pressure to his legs for circulation, preventing clots that can form from immobilization.
“His name is Oliver,” a woman voice says behind me, and I turn to face her. She’s wearing a lanyard around her neck, a laminated card suspended from it with the word VOLUNTEER printed in large blue block letters.
“Hi, I’m Jordan,” she says. She shakes my hand and seems pleased to meet me. She’s in her early twenties, maybe a college student. She has a small metal cart on wheels with her—two shelves of board games, crossword puzzle books, playing cards, a small portable CD player and stack of CDs.
“Hi. My name’s Dorothy,” I say.
“Oliver loves being read to,” Jordan says, searching her cart for something. “Ah, here it is. I marked the page where we left off last week.” She hands me a book, a paperback copy of Charlotte’s Web. The cover is weathered, a million tiny creases in the soft spine.
“Does he have family?” I ask. “I mean does he get many visitors?”
“Oh, his family isn’t from around here. They live somewhere in New England. Massachusetts, I think? His mother used to be here round the clock. She practically lived in that chair for the first month,” Jordan says, motioning to the recliner in the corner, a wide chair made of mauve vinyl with wooden armrests. “The plan is to transfer him up to Mass General as soon as they can. They have an intensive neuro rehab center there that might be able to treat him, once the brain swelling goes down. The doctors say he’s still just too fragile for transport right now.”
Jordan looks at Oliver with pitiful eyes, the way you might look at a dead baby bunny on the side of the road. She exhales lightly, but loud enough to convey her sadness. “So the family is back up north now, and they said they will travel down when they can. They just left last weekend, I think. Really nice people. I don’t judge them for needing a break, you know. It’s super hard on families. I’m sure you understand.”
I shake my head in acknowledgment. “I can’t even imagine.”
“I know,” Jordan says. She lowers her voice to a whisper. “Oliver has a really sad story too, but most patients do, as I’m sure you know if you’ve been around the block, so to speak.”
“I know what you mean. So many sad stories,” I agree. “But I didn’t know that we could volunteer with patients in comas. I mean, I guess I thought someone like him would be in intensive care or something.”
Jordan looks behind her as if to see if anyone is within earshot. “Oh, he’s not actually in a coma,” she says. “The doctors call it unresponsive wakefulness syndrome. He was attacked on the beach—some kind of blunt force trauma. It was a whole big deal. I saw it on the news, but I don’t remember all the details.”
Jordan looks out the large window, appears temporarily lost in thought for a moment before turning her attention back to me. “Well, Dorothy, have a great day!” she says to me, and I nod and smile in return.
Jordan pushes her little cart out of the room and down the sterile hallway, the slight squeak of the wheels echoing, bouncing off the hard walls, the sound getting smaller and smaller as she gets farther away.
I put Charlotte’s Web under my arm and slide my phone from my pocket. I type unresponsive wakefulness syndrome into the search bar. The results appear on the screen, small blue words glowing on an ultra white background. I turn the brightness down, scrolling through scholarly articles and academic journal abstracts until I find something in The Washington Post, the story of a young American woman who was studying abroad and returned to the United States in a state of unresponsive wakefulness. In the article, a doctor explains the condition and speculates on the young woman’s future.
Unresponsive Wakefulness Syndrome is a result of a traumatic brain injury that causes the brain to halt the ability to create thoughts and experience sensation. Patients in this state are awake but show no signs of awareness. They may be able to open their eyes, display basic reflexes to actions, and wake up or fall asleep at various intervals.
Oliver inhales and exhales evenly, the air escaping from his lungs with a faint hiss each time. His breaths are metered, as if he is measuring the right amount of air in every one, his body creating portions so that he gets just the right amount of oxygen. We learned in biology that breathing is an involuntary function. You don’t have to think about it. Somehow your body just knows what to do to keep you alive.
Patients may be able to swallow, grunt, or smile without external stimulus, but their communication and cognitive mechanism is very limited and they are unable to obey verbal commands. While each case varies depending on the origin and extent of the brain injury, most patients with UWS do not appear to understand language.
Oliver’s eyelids begin to flutter, but his eyes remain closed. I place one hand on his forehead. His skin still feels so alive, so warm to the touch. I trace the arch of his eyebrow with my fingernail, delicately at first, and then pressing harder. The pain doesn’t register. He doesn’t move, doesn’t make a sound, no expression on his face, no acknowledgment of sensation, as if all of his nerve endings are locked in deep sleep.
Recovering from Unresponsive Wakefulness Syndrome is not uncommon, especially in younger patients. Each case is unique depending on the nature of the injury to the brain, but there are many cases of patients regaining full consciousness after months, or even years, with proper neurological treatment.
On the TV screen, a game show contestant spins a wheel, and the colorful spaces blur and blend as the contestant claps silently. The host smiles, his makeup creasing at the corners of his mouth. I put my phone away. I find the dog-eared corner, open the book, and read aloud.
On the page, dawn breaks at Zuckerman’s farm. Lurvy brings Wilbur his breakfast, a pail of pig slop to fatten him up. But there’s something different about the spiderweb this morning, and when Lurvy sees it, he drops his bucket, and rubs his eyes. Two words are woven into the sticky fibers of the web—Charlotte’s first message, still wet with dew, still glistening in the early morning light. Charlotte hopes these two words will put a plan in motion to save Wilbur’s life.
At the end of the scene, I mark my place, fold the yellowed page, and close the book. I place it to rest on the bedside table, another story for another day.
Oliver opens his eyes and appears to be looking toward the ceiling, as if he can see his own reflection in one of the silver balloons suspended above. I turn the volume up on the television, making the game show noises louder, the buzzers and the audience cheering. A contestant wins a pair of watches, a trip to Aruba, a stainless steel refrigerator. I wave one hand in front of Oliver’s eyes, but my movement doesn’t register.
I wish I could say I felt a trip wire activated, a tether snapped inside me, but there is no breakdown, or breakthrough, nothing that propels me over the edge. At least not that I’ll remember. What I’ll remember is the way my hands looked. How I clutched the pillow, my knuckles stretched, fingers splayed against the bleached white pillowcase. What I’ll remember is how I pushed down so lightly at first and then harder and harder until I didn’t have to push anymore. What I’ll remember is the taste of his skin as I leaned over and kissed his ear.
A warm sensation washes over me, the exhilaration of crossing the finish line, that threshold you’ve held in your imagination mile after mile, certain you would reach it if you just kept running.
I take the stairs instead of the elevator, two at a time, my body bounding down toward the ground, toward the daylight
that is out there, waiting for me. In the lobby, the floors shine with the polish of a new day, and the sliding glass doors open like magic as they sense my body breaking the threshold. I step into bright white, my eyes adjusting to the sunlight. I walk the bleached sidewalk until I see Dylan’s car parked along the street, glossy as a candied apple.
“Well, well, well, aren’t you a sexy little candy striper?” Dylan says as I get in. “So where to?”
“Are you up for a little road trip?” I ask.
“You know I’m up for anything with you,” he answers. He reaches over and gently tucks a stray hair behind my ear. “What do you have in mind? Disney World? I’ll hold your hand in the Haunted Mansion, I promise.”
“Actually, I’ve always wanted to go to Kingsley Lake. Have you ever heard of it?” I call up an aerial view on my phone and show the image to Dylan—a near-perfect circle of blue water surrounded by a dense forest of trees, a full moon shining against a green sky. “It’s the oldest lake in Florida, and it’s got clear water, so you can see all the way to the bottom. It’s in the middle of nowhere, but you wouldn’t mind going nowhere with me, right?”
Dylan doesn’t answer with words, just leans over and kisses me softly on the mouth, and this time it feels even better than it has before, even better than I ever imagined it could.
I type an address into the GPS, the Motel 6 in Starke, six miles west of Kingsley Lake. Dylan puts the Volkswagen in gear, and we head north on Bayshore Boulevard, a scenic route that snakes along the edge of Hillsborough Bay.
The water is opaque, dark denim stretched as far as I can see. I turn the radio up, making it loud enough to drown out the sound of my wildly beating heart.
Chapter Forty-One
I slip from the hotel bed where Dylan is still sleeping, his toes peeking out from the polyester comforter. He’ll wake up later, stretching his arms out to reach for me. His eyes will search the room, and he’ll find the note I’ve left for him, stuck to the mirror on a pink Post-It.
D—
Had to see the lake one more time.
Love, Evelyn
I gather yesterday’s clothes from the floor and get dressed without turning on the light. According to the Florida Department of Corrections website, the prison opens for visitors at 8:00 a.m. so I need to get going. I slide my feet into sandals, grab Dylan’s keys, and walk out the door. Outside the air is sticky, the sun slung low in the sky. I rummage through my bag for mouthwash, take a swig, swish, and spit the green remains onto the concrete of the Motel 6 parking lot.
I punch my destination into the GPS, selecting a route full of back roads—fourteen miles from Starke to Raiford, northwest County Road 229 most of the way.
The road is narrow without a shoulder—just two lanes carved through a forest of slash pines and palmettos. I think about meeting him for the first time, imagine the sensation of my eyes finally meeting his. My chest feels tight, as if the blood is being squeezed from my heart.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, press my foot heavier on the gas. I imagine the first words he might say to me. I’ve had so long to think about it, to conjure up every possible scenario.
I already know what I’ll say to him. I’ve been practicing.
Last night, as we walked barefoot along the edge of Kingsley Lake, I caught a glimpse of something dark, and was sure it was the long body of an alligator gliding across the surface of the water. I grabbed Dylan’s hand and ran from the water and then buried my head in his chest until he assured me it was nothing, probably just a shadow.
“They’ll only hurt you if you hurt them,” he said as he rubbed my back.
There aren’t many houses along this road, just a pair of mailboxes here and there, a few small signs of life. The houses are set back along dirt roads, trees obscuring them from the main drag mostly, but in one spot, there is a clearing, and I can see a white mobile home with red trim around the windows and a rotting wooden deck. There’s a doghouse in the yard but no dog. A little girl’s bicycle, but no little girl.
When the GPS tells me to turn onto FL-16, I’ve almost reached my destination. I see an American flag waving high and a Florida state flag waving a bit lower, the red bars striking against the white. Then finally, a sign, smaller than I’d imagined, the signal I’ve arrived. FLORIDA STATE PRISON: UNION CORRECTIONAL INSTITUTION. I know he’s inside, somewhere within this maze of low buildings that looks more like a school campus than a prison.
For the first time, he and I are in the same place. We are two people living on the same coordinates, breathing the same atmosphere. I lean my face out the window and inhale as deeply as I can.
I see an observation tower in the distance, the kind you see in prisons in the movies or on TV, where a guard can watch the inmates while they exercise in the yard. The yard is surrounded by tall metal fencing, barbed wire coiled at the top just in case anyone tries to escape. The idea seems ridiculous at first—why would anyone risk scaling a fence and getting stabbed by barbed wire just to emerge on the other side, bloody and bawling, into the clutches of an armed guard or the jaws of a police dog? But then I remember—when you have nothing to lose, what’s one more risk, one more crime, one more chance at freedom? Perhaps your own two legs can take you farther than you thought.
I park the car and walk to the entrance, where a guard asks me to state my business. “Visiting an inmate,” I say, and my voice sounds younger than I want it to. I want to sound brave and mature, not like a scared child who’s never stepped foot inside a prison, who’s never even seen a gun up close like the one that’s snug in its holster on the guard’s belt.
He motions toward a cluster of people waiting to see a woman behind a glass window. “You’ll head over there and wait in line. She’ll give you paperwork and get you through to processing.” I start to walk away, but he puts his hand up to stop me. “Hang on,” he says. “Folks, just a reminder,” he says. I look behind me and see about a dozen people lined up and waiting. The guard addresses us as a group, using a voice that’s louder than before. “Each visitor is only allowed fifty dollars in cash on them and one car key. Anything else should be secured in your vehicle at this time. You will be subject to pat-down searches and metal detection. No exceptions.” He says it all without smiling and finally puts his hand down so I can go.
When it’s my turn at the glass window, the woman hands me a form to complete and asks for my ID. I retrieve it from my pocket, sliding it through the small opening to her. I try to steady my hand as I fill out the paperwork, but the woman can see my shaking. She examines my ID and then makes eye contact with me for just a second.
I hand the paperwork back to her. She signs it and then pushes a stamper onto a soft black ink pad, making a dark mark at the bottom of the page. She clicks her mouse a few times, and then a small printer spits out a yellow visitor sticker with my name on it. She hands it to me along with my ID.
“Attach this badge to your person, above the waist, please.” I peel the sticker from its backing, pressing it onto my shirt just above my heart. “Walk through that blue door on the right for search procedures,” she says. “Don’t worry, one of the female guards will search you.” I nod that I understand, and she flashes a closemouthed smile as if to say she’s sorry in advance for all of this trouble.
Through the blue door, I enter a large room where a woman counts and records the cash I have on hand, catalogs the jewelry I’m wearing, records the color and style of my shoes. She writes it all down on a yellow legal pad attached to a clipboard. She dons blue rubber gloves and searches through my hair. She asks me to move my bra around, to see if anything is hiding there. She motions for me to stand with my feet hip-width apart and my arms extended. I turn my body into a star while she runs her hands over me and pats my pockets. She grabs a security wand and waves it all around me, scanning my skin for hidden metal objects. She asks me to open my mouth, shining a small flashlight inside.
Once I’m cleared, I walk through green double doors and step
onto the cracked concrete of a fenced-in walkway. The chain link creates a tunnel between buildings, ensuring that visitors stay on the approved path and don’t make a break for it or try to access a restricted area. Before my body can adjust to the humidity, I walk through another set of double doors, back into the chill of the air-conditioned building.
I am met by three armed guards and a metal detector.
“Right hand,” one of them says to me, and I offer it to him. My fingers flutter as he stamps FDC onto my skin in fat blocky letters. Another guard motions for me to walk through the metal detector, and I do. The machine doesn’t make a sound, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding in.
“Clear,” the third guard says in an urgent tone, like a doctor on TV about to shock a cardiac patient with paddles, asking everyone to take their hands off the body so they don’t feel the jolt. “Booth seventeen. Through that metal door.”
I walk through, find my numbered spot, and sit down. I lean one elbow on the stainless steel counter in front of me, my bare skin temporarily shocked by the cold surface. Everything is shiny and metal here—the counter, the stool I’m sitting on, the walls of the privacy booth. The glass in front of me is bulletproof, cross-hatched with thin wire. I stare at my feet and start counting the specks of blue and green on the tile floor. A woman cries softly somewhere. I can’t see her, can only hear her muffled sobs, as if she’s covering her face with a handkerchief or her shirtsleeve.
Girl at the Edge Page 21