Beyond Dreams

by Marilyn Reynolds

  I smile with relief, a smile as big as it can stretch in my hurt face. “Baby help,” I say.

  What If?

  ***

  Foggy. Gray. Where am I? I try to open my eyes. From far away, a voice breaks through.

  “Did you see that? His eyelids fluttered! I saw it. Didn’t you see it?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Paul, Paulie, we’re here. Don’t give up. Oh, don’t give up.”

  The voice is closer now. It’s my mother. She’s crying. Why? I try to talk but my mouth won’t open. I feel her warm, wet cheek against the back of my hand.

  “Mom,” I say in my head, but I’m pretty sure the word doesn’t come out.

  I hear my grandma’s voice. “Go home, Sylvia. Rest for a while.”

  “I saw it!” she says.

  What’s going on here? I try again to open my eyes, but it’s as if they’re sealed tight.

  “Paul? We’re here, M’ijo,” my grandma’s voice comes to me.

  “You saw it, too, that time, didn’t you? I’m not imagining it?” my mom says.

  “Por el amor de Dios,” Grandma whispers.

  Other voices now, talk of fluttering eyelids. I want to hear more, stay longer, but the fog is back, gray and heavy in my head.

  Something warm, damp, dabbing at my face and around my lips. A gruff, melodic voice says, “Oooh, boy, you gonna wake up with one mean headache. If you wake up. I think you gonna, though.”

  The sound of a washcloth being rinsed, then the warm dampness across my arm.

  “You bad, but you not done. That’s what I think.”

  “What?” I try to say. The washing stops.

  “I felt somethin’ just then. I bet you comin’ out soon.”

  Fading. I fight to listen, to feel the wet cloth against my skin, to stay, but the fog creeps over me, pushing me under.

  My mother’s voice. I try to turn toward her. Nothing moves.

  “Where am I?” I ask.

  “Paul! I’m here. It’s okay, it’s okay,” she says, in the soft tone she always used when I was younger and awakened by a nightmare.

  Another voice. “You rang for a nurse?”

  “Yes. He just tried to say something. I’m sure of it.”

  Cool hands touch my wrist. Taking my pulse?

  “What did he say?” the unfamiliar voice asks.

  “It was a mumble. But I know he tried to talk!”

  Light. Ceiling. My mother’s face hovering over me.

  “Look! His eyes are open!” she says, and now another face next to hers, looking down.

  “Can you hear me, Paul?” the person who is not my mother asks.

  “Yes,” I say, but know it comes out in a whisper.

  She shines a tiny light, first in one eye, then the other. “You’ve been in an accident. You had a head injury. You can’t turn your head or lift up because we have you in a special frame to keep you immobilized. It’s temporary.”

  “What accident?” I try to ask, but the words are stuck again.

  I feel the light pressure of my mother’s head against my upper arm, nuzzling. What accident, I wonder, as the fog overwhelms me.

  The ceiling shines white above. Hospital smells surround me. My mom and grandma are sitting side by side, next to my bed, looking intently at me.

  “You’re going to be all right now, Paul. I know it,” my mom says. Tears are running down her cheeks. My grandma is clutching her rosary and smiling at me the way she did when I first learned to tie my shoes.

  A man’s voice. Someone I don’t know. “How are you doing, Paul?” He’s wearing a white jacket over regular clothes and he’s got one of those stethoscope things around his neck.

  “Do you know where you are?”

  “Hospital,” I manage to croak out.

  “Good. Tell me your name.”

  “Paul Valdez.”

  “I’m Dr. Baines,” he says. “Your neurologist. Can you tell me your address?”

  “2120 South Bridge Street, Hamilton Heights.”

  “I didn’t quite catch that. Can you speak a little louder?”

  I try again, forcing more sound up my throat, through my mouth.

  “Good,” he says, writing something on a clipboard. “How old are you?”

  “Seventeen . . . I’m thirsty.”

  “Which is it—seventeen or thirty?”

  “No. Thirsty,” I say, trying to speak clearly.

  “Mary, would you help Paul drink a little water?”

  Another unfamiliar person. A dark, friendly face.

  “Little sips,” she says, as I feel a straw at the edge of my mouth. I try to reach for it, but my arms are stuck on something. I suck gently at the straw. My mouth feels funny, like my lips are big as a camel’s. I take another sip and she pulls the straw away. “Only a little,” she says.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “An accident. Can you wiggle your toes?” the doctor asks, pulling the sheet back.

  I wiggle my toes.

  “Good.”

  “Why can’t I move my arms?” I ask, scared. There’s so much I don’t know.

  “Try,” he says, watching me carefully. I try, but they don’t seem to go anywhere.

  “You’ve got movement,” he tells me. “We’ve got you pretty much immobilized for now, until your head heals. You’re in what we call a halo. Do you feel like an angel?” He smiles at me. I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about.

  “What’s wrong with my head?” I try to ask, but I’m too tired to get the words out, and then I’m pulled back into the foggy place.

  “Good signs here,” the doctor says as I drift away.

  “Come on. Take a sip of broth. Start gettin’ strong again.”

  I feel the straw, sip, and get a taste of something warm. I force my eyes open.

  “I knew you was in there,” she says. “Didn’t I say he was in there?”

  “We knew, didn’t we, Mary?” My mother answers, smiling down at me. I try to smile back, but my lips are big and stiff.

  “Are you in pain, M’ijo?” she asks.

  I think about that, think about my immobilized body. “My legs,” I say. “My back.”

  “You’re all bruised up, but nothing’s broken,” she says. “We’ve been so worried about this head injury, but the doctor thinks you’ll be fine, given a little time.”

  “But what happened?”

  “It was a drunk driver,” she says, her voice filled with bitterness.

  “But where? When?”

  “You’ve been unconscious since Friday night,” she says.

  “Today’s Wednesday. We thought we might lose you.” She chokes back tears.

  “But . . .”

  “Don’t worry about anything, Paul. Just rest and get well. It’s okay,” she says, rubbing my arm.

  I move my feet. But how do I know they’re moving? I can’t move my head to see anything but the ceiling and a glimpse of people sitting next to my bed or standing over me.

  I’ve heard of people who feel like they’re moving their legs even after they’ve been amputated. What if it just feels like they’re moving and nothing’s happening? God! My heart pounds at the thought.

  “Watch my feet, Mom,” I say.

  “You’re moving your feet and your legs, Honey.”

  “Sure?”

  “Positive,” she says. Then she gets a little mirror from her purse and holds it in a way that I can see my feet move.

  I wake with a start. I am trying hard to figure something out. Now my grandma is in the chair where my mom was before. She smiles. “Dr. Baines says you’re gonna get well.”

  Something is trying to get up through the murk and fog. What is it?

  “GABRIEL!” I yell, trying to rise from the bed.

  “Shhh. Don’t worry,” my grandma says.

  “Where’s Gabe? . . . Abuela?” She doesn’t look at me. I close my eyes and try to remember.

  Unconscious since Friday. What was F
riday? Don’t know. Thursday? Track meet. I remember that. I ran second in the 800 meter. Gabe took first in the 100 meter. We won the relay, so Hamilton High did okay.

  The week before, when Gabe and Eric were both out with the flu, we sucked. But Thursday was good.

  God. Everything hurts. My mouth feels like it’s filled with cotton. I’m so tired. What was after Thursday?

  I am jarred awake by a nurse, a guy, who takes my blood pressure, temperature, pulse, and checks my eyes with one of those little flashlight things. “You had a close call,” he says.

  “Where’s Gabe?” I ask.

  “Who?”

  “Gabe. My friend who was with me.”

  “Oh. I don’t know. I just got back from vacation yesterday.”

  I remember that I had a test in Spanish on Friday morning. I hate that class. I thought it would be easy, because I already knew some Spanish from my grandma, and from Gabe’s family. I didn’t know I’d have to take tests on a lot of grammar stuff.

  Then what? Oh, yeah, I went to Gabe’s house after track practice to help set up for his grandfather’s eightieth birthday. Gabe’s family is like my family, and the other way around, too. Since I was three it’s been just me and my mom and grandma. I always wanted a bigger family, and I got it when we moved in next door to the Sandovals, back when I was nine. There are five kids, a mom and dad and a grandma and grampa over there. The two oldest kids live somewhere else now, but it’s still a lot more lively at Gabe’s house than it is at mine.

  Anyway, Gabe and I cleaned up the backyard—mowed the lawn and trimmed back some low branches that people could run into if they weren’t careful. We took his mom to the liquor store to pick up the keg. The three of us crammed into Gabe’s little Toyota truck.

  “Better ease up on the tamales, Jefita,” Gabe said to his mom.

  “Big is beautiful, M’ijo, and don’t you forget it,” she laughed, scooting her butt back and forth, crowding us both.

  Gabe’s always teasing his mom about being fat, but I notice he’s never chosen a thin girlfriend. And believe me, Gabe has his choice. Girls are always hanging around him, playing up to him. Not me. They hardly notice I’m there.

  Were we in Gabe’s Toyota, I wonder. Who was driving?

  My head hurts. I need water. How bad off am I really? What if I can’t walk? God, don’t let that be.

  My mom is sitting by the bed, reading. My grandma is next to her, crocheting. When Mom notices I’m awake she puts down her book. “The doctor says they can take you out of the brace later today. The swelling in your brain has gone down.”

  “Was Gabe hurt?” I ask. Grandma nods her head yes and looks back down at her crocheting.

  “Is he in this hospital?”

  “No, he’s somewhere else,” my mom says.

  “How bad is he hurt?” I ask.

  “Listen, Honey, don’t worry about Gabe right now. Just concentrate on getting yourself well.”

  My grandma looks up and sighs, “Sylvia . . .”

  “Not yet,” my mom hisses.

  And then I know. I don’t remember, but I know. Gabe is dead. I let the fog come back in. I don’t fight it. Maybe, when I wake up, we’ll be at the birthday party in Gabe’s backyard, with the smell of meat cooking on the grill and the laughter of all the aunts and uncles and cousins filling the night, and Gabe and me horsing around with the others. Like always.

  Dr. Baines is standing over me, fiddling with the contrap­tion that’s been holding my head still.

  “Your CT scan looks good,” he says, loosening something and jiggling the “halo.” Pain shoots from the front of my head to the back of my neck. Bright light jumps around behind my eyes. Damn!

  “It’s okay,” he says. “The slightest movement will be a jolt at first. We can kick up the intravenous pain medication if it gets to be too much for you.”

  He eases the brace off and the sharp pains turn to dull aches. Very carefully, I turn my head toward my mom who is standing on the opposite side of my bed. For the first time I notice all the flowers and balloons crowded into my room.

  “We’ll be getting you on your feet later this evening,” the doctor says.

  “No two milers yet, though,” Mom says.

  “You a runner?” Dr. Baines asks.

  “800 meters, 330 low hurdles, distance events, you should see this guy in action,” Mom says.

  Thoughts float through my aching head—me and Gabe prac­ticing passing the baton for relay events, the wind against my face and the pounding of my feet against the track, the burst of strength that comes just when you think you can’t go any farther.

  “I used to run track in school,” the doctor says. “Now the best I can do is a 5K a couple of times a year.”

  Why are they talking about track? Sooner or later I’m going to hear what I’m trying not to think. Gabe’s dead. Who was driving?

  “You’ve got tons of get well notes here,” Mom says, holding a stack of cards in her hand. “Shall I read them to you?”

  “Sure,” I say. What does it matter? Read the cards, don’t read the cards. Gabe’s dead.

  By Friday morning I am free of tubes and monitors and able to walk to the bathroom by myself. My mom and grandma come in just after I’ve had breakfast. My mom works at Nordstrom’s, in their credit office, and my grandma works in the kitchen at a convalescent hospital near our house. I guess they’ve missed a lot of work lately.

  “The doctor says you should be out of here in another couple of days,” Mom says, smiling.

  “I’m ready,” I say. It’s still a little hard to talk. My mouth is all swollen and three of my teeth are loose. I hope I can keep them.

  I’m sitting up in the raised hospital bed, propped up against pillows, watching TV. I feel like shit. Mom turns the TV off and she and Grandma each sit next to my bed, looking very serious. My mom takes my hand.

  “About Gabe . . .” she starts.

  “I know,” I say, hoping I don’t have to hear the words.

  “Are you getting more of your memory back?”

  “No. I just know he’s dead. You would have told me if he was okay. I know from what you’re not telling me.”

  “You couldn’t help it,” Grandma says.

  “Who was driving?” I ask.

  “You were,” Mom says. “But the other guy was so drunk, he went speeding right through a red light. There were plenty of witnesses. He’s in jail now. It was his third drunk driving offense. He didn’t even have a license.”

  “What car were we in?”

  “Yours,” Mom says. “And a good thing. If you’d been in Gabe’s little truck, you’d both have been killed.” She pauses, choking back tears. My grandma sits, head down, not looking at either of us. After a while, Mom continues. “The Dodge is totaled, but it wasn’t fully crushed . . . It’s a good thing you were wearing your seatbelt.”

  “Gabriel was thrown out of the car,” Grandma says, still looking down.

  Mom says, “I know you don’t remember the accident, and I hope you never will, but believe me when I tell you there was absolutely nothing you could have done to avoid being hit by that drunk.”

  “Gabe wasn’t wearing a seatbelt?” I ask.

  “No,” Mom sighs.

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I’m really tired,” I say.

  “We’ll be back this evening,” Mom says. “I’m going to spend a few hours at work today. Call me there if you want.” She pauses, looking at me. “Do you remember my number there?”

  “Yes,” I say, but when I try to think of it I draw a big blank. She leaves the number for me on a piece of paper beside the phone. I slide down in the bed, turn on my side, and will myself to sleep.

  “Time for your bath,” Mary says.

  I turn over and open my eyes. She is beaming down at me.

  “Can’t I just take a shower?” I ask.

  “No, Baby, you still too shaky-shaky.”

  I lie still whil
e she washes me all over. I like Mary, but there are some things a guy would rather do for himself.

  In the late afternoon Mr. and Mrs. Sandoval come into my room and pull chairs up next to my bed. They sit close to each other, holding hands. With her free hand Mrs. Sandoval reaches for mine.

  “I’m so glad you’re better, M’ijo,” she says, her eyes filling with tears. “For a while, it looked like we’d lost you both.” Mr. Sandoval, always the quiet one, glances around at the flowers and balloons.

  “Where were we?”

  She looks at me, blankly.

  “The accident,” I say.

  “Comer of Fourth and Sycamore,” Mr. Sandoval says, look­ing directly at me for the first time since he sat down. “You boys didn’t have a chance. My strong, happy boy died because somebody had too much to drink.”

  We are all three silent, not looking at one another for a long time. Then Mrs. Sandoval says, “He didn’t die for nothing.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “His heart, his lungs, his liver, they’re all helping someone else who needs them,” she says, crying openly now, gripping my hand so hard it hurts. I don’t pull away though. She can crush my hand to pieces for all I care. “Part of Gabriel is going on,” she says.

  I’m trying to understand. They’ve cut Gabriel up and given pieces of him away? I mean, I know that sort of thing is done, but Gabriel?

  “He would have wanted it,” Mr. Sandoval says.

  “We just came to tell you that, Paulie,” Mrs. Sandoval says, calling me by my little boy nickname. “We wanted you to know Gabriel didn’t die for nothing.”

  I feel my chest swelling with sorrow and I fight back tears. My mom walks into the room and the Sandovals stand up.

  “Don’t go, Dolores,” Mom says, but Mrs. Sandoval tells her they only planned to stay a few minutes anyway. The two moms hug each other. Mrs. Sandoval bends over and kisses me on the forehead, and then she and Mr. Sandoval leave.

  “My heart goes out to them,” my mom says. I think how Gabe’s heart has really gone out to someone. I close my eyes and wait for the fog to come.

  ***

  The first week I’m home, practically everyone I know drops by my house. Eric and the guys Gabriel and I usually ran relay with come over after a track meet to cheer me up.