by Alan Chin
People scattered, and a heartbeat later, several officers pounced on J.D. and the gunman. Before I could grasp what had happened, they handcuffed the gunman and hauled him to his feet.
Jared’s face hovered above me as an icy wind blew though my center. I coughed, spraying blood across his lips. He no longer smiled. He lay on the asphalt gasping for breath. His eyes were riveted wide open, as if he were staring into an abyss. He stumbled to his knees, tore the T-shirt from his back, bundled it up, and pressed it to my head.
Shar’s voice pierced the pandemonium. “For Christ’s sake, somebody call an ambulance!”
I lay still, eyes unblinking. In that tropical heat, I felt cold. Seconds ticked away like months. I wanted to move, to pull myself to a sitting position, but I couldn’t. It felt as if great rifts had opened in various parts of my body—back, chest, skull—and my life-force seemed to hemorrhage through them.
I felt a tear drip onto my cheek—Jared’s tear. There was something comical about his helpless expression. Connor appeared on the other side of me, staring down with wide, round eyes. He ripped his shirt off and lifted me enough to press the shirt against my back.
Roy tried to pull Connor to his feet and spirit him away, but he shook off Roy’s hands. He stayed with me, pressing his cheek to my chest to listen, saying I would be okay, that my heartbeat was strong, that he was there, that he would care for me. He would make a fine doctor, I thought, given the chance. I wanted to tell Connor and Jared that it was okay, that the pain was bearable, but I couldn’t speak. Jared curled an arm under my head and across my shoulders.
“Christ, he’s dead.” I recognized J.D. Lambert’s voice.
Jared shook his head. He still held that comical expression. “You’ll be okay,” he croaked. “Don’t leave me,” he whispered. “For God’s sake, don’t leave me.”
An eternity later, I heard sirens, but by then I couldn’t see anything, only a cold blackness. I felt myself being lifted—ascending to heaven? The sudden movement caused what was left of my consciousness to tumble through a vast nothingness, falling, falling, with no place to land.
Chapter 18
I CAME awake. Minutes passed. I could not remember who I was. Everything felt alien, as if the familiar parts of me had disintegrated and the rest were dissolving. I lay suspended in a vacuous inner space, a sphere of unbroken silence. I peeked out at an unfamiliar world with an unblinking stare.
After what seemed a millions years, a gray light bled through windows. When the sun, a blurry spot of weak yellow, edged between the horizon and a thick cloud cover, I realized that I lay in a hospital bed.
The top half of my bed was tilted upward at a twenty-degree angle, giving me a view of tile walls, televisions hung from the ceiling, a bed-table crowded with flowers—all sterile and dreamlike. The air had an antiseptic stench, reminiscent of grappa and so strong I seemed to ingest it rather than inhale it. Six beds filled the room, with curtains that could separate one bed from another, three against one wall and three against the opposite wall.
I lay on my back in a middle bed. The beds on either side of me were unoccupied, but an old man slept across the room from me. He huddled in a fetal position with one arm dangling over the side of his bed.
Coils of tubes assaulted my body: a respirator in my mouth, feeding tube up my nose, and other IV tubes fastened to my neck and arm. A flurry of wires attached to electrodes were stuck to my skin with flesh-colored tape, feeding impulses to a bank of monitors that stood beside my bed, recording my heartbeat, brain activity, blood pressure. I felt like a butterfly pinned to a spreading board.
I had vague memories of waking in a different room: intense lights, beeping machines, that same grappa stench, white coats with human heads wearing green masks all bobbing around. It must have been the intensive care unit, but I couldn’t be sure. The white coats would appear like apparitions, surround me, prod me, take my numbers, ask questions I couldn’t answer, and vanish without any kind of acknowledgement or encouragement. I was never sure if they were real.
I heard muffled sounds. I shifted my head, and shapes came into focus. On the other side of a glass door, Jared argued with a woman dressed in a lab coat covering her green scrubs. An ID tag hung from her front pocket. Her back was straight, her shoulders delicate. She held up an X-ray sheet and pointed to a spot as they both studied it.
She held up another, and another. I was touched by how vulnerable Jared appeared. His face grew pale and translucent. It mirrored the white blurs on the black X-ray sheets.
I heard his voice, though I couldn’t make out his words. Yet I knew that tone; I know all of his voices. That tone meant that Jared was terrified. I watched the woman shake her head as her face molded into an expression of despair. Then she walked way.
Testing myself, I found I could move both arms and all my fingers, but my legs felt wooden. I tried to wiggle my toes, but nothing happened. Probably the sedatives they have me on, I thought. Bandages swathed my head, waist, and chest. A tube pumped oxygen into my mouth.
Pain began to seep through the side of my head, blinding me. My brain tissue sizzled. I closed my eyes against the pain, and a few moments later, I felt something squeeze my hand. Opening my eyes, I watched Jared sit on the side of my bed. He wore jeans, a polo shirt, a black and orange Giants ball-cap, and a wounded smile. He had lost weight in his face. He now seemed shrunken, and sitting beside me in the almost polar bleakness of this impersonal setting, he seemed like a lost child. He lifted my hand—the one with the intravenous drip joined to a vein in my wrist—and kissed it.
I tried to move, and it hit me: fire in my right side. Worse than fire—lava dripping on my skin from the inside out. Pain shot up my spine. I tried to ask Jared what happened, but I only managed a groan.
Jared leaned forward and held me while he placed another pillow behind my head. His unshaven face burned my cheek.
“Hey, lover man,” he said. “You look like a ghost come back to life.”
I tried to speak but the respirator tube in my throat prevented it. I reached up and pulled it out. “The others?” I croaked.
“We were lucky. Everybody’s great except for you, of course. But even you’re lucky. If that bullet had been half an inch higher, we wouldn’t be having this conversation on such a drizzly morning.”
“How long….” My voice trailed off before I could finish my question.
“Seven days in intensive care, two days here.” His chin trembled. He buried his face in my shoulder and hugged me. Every place he touched hurt.
“Oh God, I’ve been so scared,” he groaned.
“I can’t feel my feet.”
Jared reached for words but came up empty. He smiled that wounded smile again and turned to stare out the window at the oncoming storm. “Everything’s fine. We just need to get you home.”
My teeth began to chatter. I felt like my capillaries were carrying ice to all the tissues of my system. Nine days? I heard a pattering at the windowpane. Droplets smattered the glass, sounding like a continuous moan. A shiver rattled the base of my spine, transcending the pain in my side.
Jared ran his hand through my hair while bending to kiss my brow. “I’ll get you another blanket.”
He slipped off the bed. From a closet on the far wall, he pulled a blanket from the top shelf. “You’ve been in and out of consciousness for the last three days, and you’ve had a fever.” He spread the blanket across me. “Doc Galloway was worried that you would slip back into a coma, but now that you’re awake, you’ll be out of here in no time.”
He pulled the blanket up to my chin and tucked its edges under the mattress. Snatching a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped some dribble off my chin. “Now that you’re conscious, we won’t need the feeding tube up your nose. They have some chicken soup in the cafeteria. It’s bland, but it’s hot, and thick enough to grow hair on your balls. Would you like some?”
I nodded.
“I’ll get some while the nurse pulls t
hat tube out. Don’t go anywhere.”
Outside, the wind began to howl, sounding ominous. A crow, trying to escape the oncoming storm, crashed into the windowpane. The sound startled me, and I watched the bird fall to the ledge, struggle to stand, and tumble out of sight. The windowpane flashed. A few seconds later, thunder rumbled through the room.
My mother used to tell me that in China, they believe that thunder is a dragon. My fingers clasped the bed frame as the dragon approached. I envisioned the dragon embroidered on Connor’s shirt, remembering how it seemed to lunge up his spine as he swung his racket. The thunder became sharper, closer, until it hovered above me, breaking open the room and shaking the bed. Everything went white, thunder cracked, rain hurled against the windows. I clung to the bed as if it were a life raft on a stormy sea.
A nurse shuffled in, thin as a pencil, with bright red hair that had to be a bad dye job. She seemed very businesslike, which had a calming effect. Her nametag read Sara Walker. She asked if I thought I could eat solid food. I assured her I’d eat a horse if she’d take the fucking tube out of my nose. She managed a grin as she proceeded to remove it. She took the respirator from my mouth and set me up with yet another tube that hung beneath the end of my nose and sprayed oxygen up my nostrils. Between bouts of thunder, she asked if I was feeling any unusual pain. I gave her the rundown. She nodded and told me the doctor would see me soon.
The rain’s tempo increased, which underscored the sound of my chattering teeth. I glanced at the nightstand crammed with flowers. The most striking one was a sea-blue vase that held roses bursting through a cloud of baby’s breath. The roses, tall and proud, were the color of blood and were arranged in a bouquet style. A cream-colored card with handwriting on it leaned against the vase. I squinted to read the print, but it was too far away.
“Those are from your mother.” Jared strolled into the room carrying a tray. “The card says, ‘Get well, son’.”
“Always a woman of few words.”
He placed the tray on a table and wheeled it toward me. The tray held a deep bowl, a spoon, and a napkin. A savory aroma infiltrated the room, causing my stomach to knot. I realized that under my pain raged a ravenous hunger.
“She’s been here every day; your dad, too.” Jared draped the napkin over my chest. He sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the spoon. “He’s been giving me hell every visit.” He dipped the spoon into the tawny-colored liquid.
With Jared so close to me, I caught the scent of whiskey on his breath and realized that he had taken a shot or two while he was getting the soup. Needing a stiff belt to brace his courage was a bad sign. I began to pity him, thinking that he had already fallen back into his old drinking habits. Pity spun into sadness, washing through my center with a frosty air.
I took the spoon in my mouth and swallowed. The heat felt glorious, but the broth was tasteless. “Why was he giving you hell?”
Jared drew another spoonful, blew on it, fed me.
“For not backing down when they told us about the death threats. He’s right. I can’t believe I did something so profoundly stupid. I just didn’t believe that sleazebag Diefenbach.” Jared loaded the spoon again and held it for me. “Honey, I’m so sorry.”
As Jared filled the spoon, I asked, “Did Lambert tackle the gunman, or did I dream that?”
“We owe him our lives. Who would have thought?”
The room snapped white. I swallowed broth as a clap of thunder shivered my bed.
“There’s something else,” Jared said.
He hesitated, so I knew it was bad news. “I know,” I said, helping him out. “This was what Roy needed to bounce me. He’s taking full charge of coaching Connor.”
Jared looked away, so I knew I was right. “Doesn’t matter,” I said. “We’ll do it on our own.”
He dropped the spoon and gave my hand a squeeze. “We’ll talk about that later. Right now you need to get your strength back so we can get you home.”
His touch intoxicated me, but the pain was still present.
“Can I have some of that whiskey you’ve been hoarding?”
“Now you’re talking,” Shar’s voice echoed from the doorway. “I’ll make a liquor run and pick up a bottle of Jamaican rum.”
“Hold on, Shar,” Jared said. “No booze until Doc Galloway says so.”
Connor and J.D. Lambert followed Shar into the room. J.D., in a T-shirt and black leather jacket, wore his Elvis drag. Under other circumstances, I would have had to suppress a grin.
Everybody smiled and touched me, but the smiling faces were obviously façades. Shar gave me a long hug. Her hair fell over my face, and her perfume tickled my nose until I had to stifle a sneeze. Looking past her straight into J.D.’s eyes, I thanked him for saving our lives.
“Sorry I didn’t get there a split second sooner.”
I couldn’t resist the kindness in his voice. For the first time, I felt him reach out to me in friendship. “Doesn’t matter,” I croaked. “Once I’m on my feet, we can all put this behind us. I’m just glad nobody else was hurt.”
A silence grew loud. Everyone stared at Jared. There was something cowardly about that silence.
I turned to see my mother and father standing at the doorway. They seemed to be holding each other up, and when they moved to my bedside, they moved as one. Mother bent and kissed me on the forehead. Dad took my hand in his big paw, not letting go.
Mother shook her head while trying to hold back her tears.
“Son,” Dad said in a gentle voice, “I still don’t understand this thing you have with Jared, but that doesn’t matter anymore. I want you to know, we’re here for you. Whatever it takes, we’re going to lick this thing together.”
I wanted to tell him that I didn’t understand why I loved Jared either and how much I appreciated their being there for me, but I knew I couldn’t keep my voice steady. I nodded as I took deep breaths, fighting back tears. I needed to focus on something else to keep my feelings from erupting.
I turned to Jared and asked, “How did he get the gun past security?”
“He didn’t pass through security. He’s a right-wing Christian fundamentalist who accompanied an advisor to the Governor’s office, so their limo entered without being inspected.”
I grappled with the realization that someone involved in government could do such a thing.
“Well, forget about all that,” Shar said. “As soon as Doc Galloway lets you out of here, you and I are going to get to know each other. You’re my new thesis project. I’ll be cracking the whip to get you into some kind of shape, so be prepared.”
I stared at her, hoping that she was kidding but knowing from her tone that she was not.
“I’ll need intense physical therapy?”
Jared snipped off a tiny white bloom of the baby’s breath from the bouquet at my bedside. He held it in his palm, as if gauging its weight. The frown lines cutting across his forehead conveyed the message even before he said, “Things are different now.”
Connor turned away to hide his tears. A cloud of panic grew in my stomach.
“So what you’re telling me, in your tactful way, is there are more tests to do before anybody knows how bad it is, but I will most likely never walk again.” My voice went harsh, and I hoped beyond reason that he would say no, that it was something different, something trivial.
He hesitated for a heartbeat, giving the earnest impression that he didn’t know where to begin. He lowered his eyes, dropped his head. “Yes.”
I had never heard that tone in his voice before. It made the shock even more terrifying. He crushed the flower in his palm and dropped it on the floor, snuffing the life out of it with the toe of his shoe like I’ve seen so many people do with cigarette butts.
My mother shifted impatiently. Father gave me a gritty smile that seemed to say, “Things will turn out fine, you’ll see.” When that failed to have its intended affect, he said, “The good news is that, other than the damage to the spinal cord, the r
est of your body was hardly injured. Superficial wounds. Rest assured these doctors will do everything they can.”
“Which right now doesn’t sound like much,” I said, more bitterly than I intended. “Does it?”
It was an unfair thing to say to a man who had come three thousand miles to hold my hand, but I think he understood. At any rate, his voice went soft. “No, I’m afraid it doesn’t. Nevertheless, there is hope….”
“Thank you,” I said, using a voice that seemed to come from far away. I wasn’t sure what I was thanking him for, but I said it again. “Thank you.”
The room went silent. The man in the bed across the way began to rave and fling his arms about as though he were quarreling with someone. I gazed at the figure in the hospital nightgown staring back at me with senseless eyes and voicing an endless parade of crazy words.
I had a moment of mental paralysis. When I woke from it, I heard Jared say, “Yes,” and he began to explain about the lower spinal cord and motor functions, so I must have asked him a question, although I hadn’t realized it.
I closed my eyes and tumbled into that silent void once again.
Chapter 19
A SINGLE nightmare punctured my sleep. I woke several times, drifting on the edge of consciousness for an hour or so, only to sink back into the same ordeal.
In my dream, I crawled on my belly through blackness dense as chowder, groping along an uneven tunnel that seemed to zigzag through the base of a mountain. At least it felt like the weight of a mountain pressing on me. I slithered over damp, jagged stones without any idea of where I crawled. I knew that I had to keep moving. Heat, rising from what must have been an underground lava stream deep under the mountain, bathed me in sweat, but I shivered anyway. The cave began to ascend. I heard the sound of water dripping into a pool slowly, one drop at a time. I inched toward it. As the sound grew louder, I began to smell the stench of dampness and excrement and rotting flesh. That’s when I realized that I was lost in Grandfather Lin’s WWII cave.