Annie gasps. Her eyes pop open, and she raises herself up.
“I’m sorry,” she sputters, “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“No problem,” he says with a gentle nod. “You have been here this whole day; I thought perhaps you had fallen asleep.”
“No,” Annie says, sighing. “I was just trying to get Oliver to remember some of the good times.”
She hesitates, certain a man of science will laugh at her plan.
“I know you’ll probably think me foolish,” she says apologetically, “but I thought if I can make Oliver recall the good memories, he’ll be able to move past this bad one.”
“Not foolish at all,” Sharma says. “At the foot of my baba, I learned memories are food of the soul.”
“Really?”
“Yes, and from Maa I learned one must also have food to nourish the body.” He gives an admonishing grin and asks, “Have you eaten today?”
Annie admits she hasn’t.
There is the whisper of a tsk-tsk, then like Max he says she must take care of herself if she is to be strong enough to care for Oliver.
After he has looked in Oliver’s blank eyes and tested his non-existent reflexes, Doctor Sharma reluctantly says, “Perhaps tomorrow.”
As he leaves he gives Annie a nod and wishes her a restful evening.
Annie returns the nod. “You too.”
She has come to like the way he nods. It is less than a hug but more than a handshake.
It is almost an hour after Doctor Sharma is gone when an aid comes to the room with dinner on a tray.
“I think you must be mistaken,” Annie says. “Oliver is on a feeding tube.”
“This isn’t for him, it’s for you.”
“Me?”
The aid clears a spot on the table and sets the tray down. “It’s from the staff cafeteria. Doctor Sharma said you should eat.”
For the first time in what seems a thousand years, Annie smiles.
“Please thank him for me,” she says.
As evening slips into night, the ICU grows increasingly quiet. The phones stop ringing, the endless stream of visitors disappears and only two nurses are left on duty. One of them is settled at the desk with a book in hand.
It is a peaceful silence, one that masks the frantic pace of the daylight hours. Annie listens to the soft hum of monitors and the steady whoosh of Oliver’s breathing machine. These are the sounds of life. Earlier she could feel his heartbeat, but now she can hear it as well. In the stillness of night, even the tiniest sound is magnified.
Annie bends over the bed and puts her ear against his chest. She listens to the thump, thump, thump of his heart. It comes in measured beats, steady and even. He is alive and trapped inside his body. She touches her hands to his face, then traces her fingers along the curve of his cheek. She moves her fingertips to his eyelids, her touch barely more than the tickle of a feather.
“Remember our wedding night?” she says. “When you touched me, I knew there would never be another love such as ours.”
She bends lower and puts her lips to his ear.
“You promised no matter what life had in store for us you’d never stop loving me,” she whispers. “Love me now. Please, Oliver, love me now. Love me enough to fight your way back.”
Tears fall from Annie’s eyes and slide down Oliver’s swollen cheek.
Suddenly she feels the beat of his heart growing faster. She lifts her head and looks at his face. It is still as it was. His eyes remain closed, and there is not even a flinch of muscle.
Seconds later Phyllis, the night nurse, comes hurrying in with a look of alarm tugging at her face.
“What happened?” she asks.
Annie shrugs. “Nothing as far as I know.”
“Nothing?” Phyllis repeats. “That’s strange.” She checks the various monitor connections and feels for Oliver’s pulse. “You sure he didn’t open his eyes or make some small movement? Maybe when you weren’t watching?”
“I’m positive,” Annie says. “I was looking at him the whole time.”
Phyllis shakes her head as if this is a puzzle that eludes her. “I could have sworn…”
“Sworn what?” Annie asks.
“There was turbulence in his heart rate. Something like that usually happens when the patient is stimulated. It’s like an adrenalin rush.”
“I was talking to him,” Annie says. “Could it be—”
Phyllis shrugs. “That’s not usually enough to stimulate the patient, but stranger things have happened.” She turns to leave then looks back. “I’m going to ask Doctor Sharma about physical therapy. I think that might help.”
Annie smiles. It was nothing but a rapid heartbeat, but she wants to believe it was an answer.
The Good Doctor
It is an acknowledged fact that Rahul Sharma is the first doctor to arrive each morning and the last to leave each evening. It has been this way since he became the head of neurology five years earlier. When he arrives at six-thirty the next morning, Phyllis catches him before he gets to Oliver’s room.
“I’m not sure if this qualifies as progress or not,” she says and explains Oliver’s rapid heartbeat. “The duration was only forty seconds, but he went from 89 to 162. The wife said all she did was talk to him, but I’m thinking maybe physical therapy—”
Sharma smiles. “Good observation,” he says and turns into Oliver’s room.
The small straight-backed chair is close to the bed. Annie sits there with her head tilted onto her shoulder and Oliver’s hand clasped in hers. She is dozing. Last night’s dinner tray is still on the table. The soup bowl is empty and half a sandwich is gone. Sharma smiles, then touches his hand to her arm.
Annie wakes with a start.
“I must have fallen asleep,” she says. As she pulls herself up, she feels a kink in her neck and groans then rolls her head to loosen the stiffness.
Sharma gives a polite smile. “You remained here all night?”
Annie nods. “Yes, and thank you for the dinner. I really appreciate it.”
“You are most welcome.” He nods.
He goes to Oliver and starts his examination. Again he waves the tiny flashlight back and forth in front of Oliver’s eyes; still there is no reaction. He then takes Oliver’s arm, lifts it into a bended position and straightens it. He repeats this motion with the other arm and the leg that is not in a cast.
He then turns to Annie. “I would normally chastise you for not going home to have proper rest.” A slight smile curls the corner of his mouth. “But it appears you may have done some good here.”
He explains that while a quickening of the heart can be nothing but an involuntary muscle spasm, it can also be an indication of awareness.
“Awareness is the first step to consciousness,” he says. “A baby step at most, but better than nothing.”
Annie gives a broad smile. She sees this tiny bit of hope as huge.
“That means Oliver heard me,” she says.
“That is only a possibility,” Doctor Sharma warns. He knows he should impress upon Annie this is only a remote possibility, but perhaps he also wants to believe her faith can move mountains.
~ ~ ~
Ethan Allen and Laura arrive shortly before noon. They rent a car and come straight from the airport. Laura’s eyes are red and puffy. It is obvious she has been crying. She is first into Oliver’s room.
The moment she sees him, her hand flies to her mouth and she muffles a gasp. Her eyes fall on Annie and she says, “I didn’t realize he’d look so—”
Annie puts her finger to her lips and gives a soft hushing sound. She motions to Oliver then mouths the words, “He can hear what you say.”
Laura gives a knowing nod, then leans over Oliver and kisses his cheek. “Mommy’s here, sweetheart,” she says. Although she tries to give her words a lighter sound, her voice is nasal and clogged with pushed back tears.
Ethan comes and stands beside her. He wraps his arm around Laura.
When he speaks his voice is level; it has no telltale sign of sorrow but the sorrow is there. It is in his eyes and steely set of his jaw.
“Annie tells us you’re getting the best of care,” he says. “That’s good.” He hesitates and lets his eyes come to rest on Oliver’s face. “I know this is one shitty battle you’re fighting; but, son, you’re a Doyle, and Doyle men are tough.”
He swallows, trying to rid himself of the lump in his throat, then bends and kisses Oliver. There is so much more he wants to say, but he can’t get past his grief long enough to say it.
Annie motions for Laura and Ethan to follow her. They step outside the room and the moment they are beyond hearing range, Laura breaks into loud sniffling sobs.
“I’m sorry,” she says, “I just wasn’t ready for—”
“None of us were,” Annie says.
She explains her theory of using memories to open up a pathway through Oliver’s blocked subconscious.
“We don’t know what’s in his mind right now,” she says. “But we know what was there. All that stuff is still in there, we just have to make him remember it.”
“Sounds like it could be worth a try,” Ethan says.
“Oh, it definitely is.” Annie tells them what happened last night. “I’m almost positive he heard what I was saying but couldn’t break through that block in his subconscious.”
Laura dabs her eyes then asks, “So you think remembering his life will bring him out of this coma?”
“Yes, I do.” Annie nods. “The problem is I only know his memories of this past year.” She looks at Ethan. “You know the story of his entire life.”
Laura turns to Ethan.
“You should be the one,” she says. “Oliver’s always been so close to you. You’ll know how to get inside his head and see things the way he’d see them.” She gives a bittersweet smile and says, “I’m his mama and I’ll be his mama until the day I die, but you’re the influencer in his life.”
~ ~ ~
That afternoon, Laura takes the rented car and goes to Memory House. She and Ethan will stay there for now.
Ethan remains at the hospital and spends the afternoon talking to Oliver. He speaks of college years, law school, the days of being a lawyer and the day Oliver received his appointment as a judge.
“I can’t imagine any daddy being more proud of his boy than I was of you that day,” he says. His words are soft, gentle and filled with the sweetness of memory.
In his eyes, however, Annie can see the sadness of loss. It is there, just as it is in her heart. In time the weariness can be heard in his voice. The memories, regardless of how sweet, are like drops of water falling on stone; in time they wear away his resolve.
“You look tired,” she tells him.
“You too,” Ethan replies.
This brief moment of conversation is interrupted when a young man in scrubs taps on the frame of the door.
“Physical therapy,” he announces, then walks in.
“I think you have the wrong room,” Annie says.
He glances down at the clipboard. “This Oliver Doyle?”
“Yes, but…”
“Oliver Doyle,” he says, “that’s right.”
He moves to the bed, pulls back the sheet covering Oliver, then turns to Annie and Ethan. “This is gonna take thirty-forty minutes; you can go for coffee if you want.”
The expression on Annie’s face is one of outrage. “Are you out of your mind? Can’t you see my husband is comatose?”
“Of course I see,” he says. “That’s why he’s getting therapy.”
“Is it supposed to bring him out of the coma?” Ethan asks.
The therapist lifts Oliver’s right arm and starts to bend it back and forth. “No. But it helps with muscle atrophy. Rehab’s a lot easier for patients who have had ongoing therapy.”
“Did Doctor Sharma order this?” Annie asks.
“Yep,” the therapist answers and moves to bending Oliver’s wrist back and forth.
Annie smiles and tugs Ethan Allen out of the room.
“You know what this means?” she whispers.
Ethan gives her a puzzled look. “Not exactly.”
“It means Doctor Sharma believes Oliver is going to get well,” she says. “He’s looking down the road at rehabilitation.”
While the therapist works with Oliver, Annie and the man she now calls Dad walk down the hallway together. They go into the sunroom at the end of the corridor. On the table there is a pot of coffee with paper cups stacked next to it.
“Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” Ethan says with a laugh.
“That would be nice,” Annie replies.
He has his black; she has hers with powdered milk and imitation sugar because that’s all that is there. She wrinkles her nose. “Not nearly as good as my dandelion tea.”
“I’ll stay with Oliver,” Ethan volunteers. “You go home and get some rest.”
Annie shakes her head. “No, thanks. I’m staying here until Oliver regains consciousness. I’m not going to take a chance on him opening his eyes and not seeing me there.”
Ethan puts his arm around Annie and gives her a hug. “Oliver’s lucky to have you.”
“I’m lucky to have him too,” she replies. “Some day when this is all over we’ll look back and…” Her voice trails off. Laugh is the wrong word. They’ll never laugh about it. Cry, perhaps, but by then it will be over, so there will no longer be a reason to cry.
Finally she thinks of the right words.
“We’ll thank God we’ve survived,” she says.
“Amen to that,” Ethan says.
When they have finished their coffee, they walk back to the room. The therapist is still working with Oliver.
“It’s late,” Annie tells Ethan. “Go back to the house and stay with Mom.”
Ethan tries to convince Annie she is the one who needs rest, but she refuses to leave.
“It’s very quiet here at night,” she says. “It’s a good time for me to be alone with Oliver.”
No amount of insistence changes her mind, so in the end Ethan goes and leaves her to spend another night sitting beside Oliver.
At seven-thirty Doctor Sharma comes for his final check on Oliver.
As he prods the skin of Oliver’s cheeks, he says, “Ah, less edema. This is good.”
“Does that mean Oliver is getting better?” Annie asks.
“It means the pressure on the brain is less,” Sharma says. “Getting better I save for when he is awake.”
Annie smiles. “You believe like I do, that Oliver is going to get better, don’t you?”
Rahul Sharma has a serious face, and despite the goodness of his heart he seldom has the look of a happy man. The corners of his mouth take on an almost imperceptible curl.
“I cannot know if this is true or not true,” he says, “but I can tell you the unselfish love such as you have for Mister Doyle deserves reward.”
He gives his customary nod and leaves.
A short while later Annie’s dinner is again delivered on a tray. And later that evening two porters bring a lounge sleeper to the room. The nurse comes, and they rearrange the machines to make room for the chair.
That night Annie sleeps beside Oliver with her hand closed around his.
Laura Doyle
I can’t imagine a hell worse than seeing your child lying there more dead than alive. Any mother would say the same thing. It makes no difference whether he’s three or thirty; he’s still your baby. When I saw Oliver looking as he did, I could feel my heart break apart inside of me.
It wasn’t easy to walk away and let Ethan be the one to stay. But when it comes to remembering the things that were important to Oliver, I knew his daddy would be the one who’d be best at it.
When Oliver was a boy he was practically tied to my apron strings, but once he got to be twelve or so he belonged to his daddy. Whatever Ethan did, Oliver wanted to do. It didn’t matter if he was cleaning out the garage or watching a
football game. If Ethan was going to the hardware store, Oliver would run behind saying, Wait up, Dad, I’ll go with you.
If anyone has a memory that can bring Oliver back, it’s Ethan.
Or perhaps Annie.
I know she loves Oliver as much as I do. When a man finds a woman who loves him as much as his mama did, then he’s got himself a true treasure.
I don’t know how Annie came up with this idea about giving Oliver back his memories, but it sounds reasonable enough.
One thing for sure is she’s got an active imagination. Oliver once told me Annie finds memories in places where no one else would even think to look. I pray she’ll find the memory that will bring Oliver back to life. If she does that I’ll fall down and worship her for the rest of my days, so help me God I will.
The Ultimatum
The day after the recliner is delivered, it is as if Annie herself has moved into the hospital. Doctor Sharma stops suggesting she go home to sleep and accepts that she will be there for the duration. Every afternoon a lunch tray is delivered to the room and every evening a dinner tray comes. There is no note, no explanation; only a ticket from the staff cafeteria with her name and Oliver’s room number.
Annie can tell the writing on the ticket has the same crooked slant as Rahul Sharma’s notes, but when she tries to thank him he shrugs and claims to have no knowledge of it.
Martha Macomb, the long-faced ICU nurse who works Monday through Friday, sees Sharma paying for the ticket with Annie’s name on it. She scowls and says, “Why don’t you just tell her you’re the one sending her the meals?”
Sharma puts his finger to his lips as if this is something to be hushed.
“A good deed,” he says, “is not a good deed if it is done with expectation of praise.” He nods and walks away.
“Well, I’ll be,” Martha says in amazement.
The Loft Page 14