The REM Precept

by J. M. Lanham

  The name dropped, along with the remote the nurse was holding. Nervously, she bent down to pick it up at the same time Alex did, the younger Freeman beating her to the punch. He handed it back and caught a look of shock in her eyes. “Hey, everything okay?”

  “Um, yes. Of course. Everything’s fine.” She regained her composure, then said, “Listen: have you heard any of the other medical staff mention that name?”

  “What name, Donny?”

  She nodded.

  “No, not at all,” Paul said. “Why?”

  She turned to Alex. “What about you? Where’d you hear it?”

  Sarcastically, “Um, from the TV?” He turned to Paul, then back to the nurse. “I’m sorry, but am I missing something here?”

  “Yeah,” Paul said. “What’s so interesting about that guy?”

  Paul and Alex looked at one another, confused, then at her, and she gave in. “Look, I’m not supposed to talk about other patients. HIPAA and all. But there’s another patient here in the ICU who goes by that name.”

  Alex asked, “Donny Ford’s in this hospital?”

  Silently, she nodded yes.

  Paul said, “You’ve gotta be shittin’ me. What’s he doing here?”

  The nurse checked her six, closed the cracked door behind her, and spoke quietly. “He was life flighted in late Wednesday. Apparently a cleaning lady found him behind a rental cabin with multiple lacerations, bruises … the whole nine yards. It’s a miracle he didn’t bleed out.”

  “Did he say what happened?” Paul asked.

  “Sort of. He came to last night and kept going on about a mountain lion attack, but the doctors say that’s a load of crap.”

  Paul asked why, but Alex and Natalie already knew. “Because mountain lions don’t live in the south. If you wanna see a big cat you’ve got to go out west or down to south Florida, unless you’re at the zoo. Anyway, that’s the story he’s sticking with, so we’re going to treat him until he’s in fair condition and then he’ll be moved to a regular room.”

  “What about the injuries?” Paul asked. “Do they match up with the story?”

  “Well yeah, they do, but it could have been any number of big mammals. Black bears are all over the place in north Georgia.”

  Alex agreed. “Could’ve been a coyote, too. Those things are getting bad around here. But a mountain lion? In Georgia?” He scoffed. “No freakin’ way.”

  The nurse said, “And you’re sure no one else mentioned that name?”

  “Positive,” Paul said.

  Alex nodded. “Probably just a coincidence.” He pointed to the TV. “Hell, Ford and this piece of work are cut from the same cloth. Probably get lumped into the same conversations all the time.”

  “That may be,” Natalie said, “but I don’t think the preacher’s wanted for murder.” She turned to Alex. “You’ve probably noticed the heavier than normal police presence around here.”

  Alex shrugged. “Figured that was just a security thing.”

  “A security guard is a security thing. There have been two FBI agents who haven’t left his room since Wednesday. Atlanta PD’s been all over the place, too. Last night I couldn’t tell if I was working in a hospital or at a police station.”

  “Hot damn,” Alex said. “The FBI’s here?”

  “Mhmm. But that didn’t come from me, okay?”

  Alex grinned. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  Another nurse cracked the door and whispered something to Natalie. She said she’d be there in a moment, bid Alex and Paul adieu, and left.

  “So,” Alex said, turning to Paul, “what do you make of the one and only Donny Ford being right down the hall?”

  “I don’t know, man. Hell, I don’t know what to make of anything today.” He leaned over inquisitively. “Listen. Alex. You really don’t remember anything from before?”

  “Before what?”

  “Before today. Before they said I was in the hospital.”

  “Before they said you were in the hospital?” Alex repeated, trying to shake the confusion from his head. “Paul, you are in the hospital. You’ve been here since February, man.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I get what you’re saying. The wreck, the coma, all that stuff. But I’m talking about before. You don’t remember the accident you were in? Getting hit by a car? Being missing for six months? The cabin?”

  Alex stood and patted his brother on the shoulder. “I think you need to get some rest, buddy. You’ve had a helluva day.” He checked the clock on the wall, then said, “Getting late, and Michelle should be back any minute. Think I’m gonna head on out, get some shut-eye back at the house. Got work in the morning and all.”

  He turned to leave when Paul said, “So you didn’t participate in clinical trials for a sleeping pill last year? You’re going to stand there and tell me that you’ve never heard of Ocula? Of the other outliers?”

  Alex answered without looking back, “Naw, man. Don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. Like I said, Paul. Get some rest. You’ve earned it.”

  Then he left.

  Chapter 31:

  The Doctor Will See You Now

  It was early Sunday morning when Paul got word he was getting moved from his bed in the ICU to a regular inpatient room on the eleventh floor; a promising sign that he was making real progress (even if what really had put him in the hospital continued to elude him). Whatever had happened, there was no questioning the fact that his body had been put through the mother of all wringers. And now, he was getting better.

  Well, physically, anyway. The mental side of things was another story altogether.

  He squinted as he looked over to see Michelle curled up and asleep in what appeared to be the most uncomfortable of chairs by the window, blanket draped over her, tennis shoes kicked off and lying on the floor. He thought about how Michelle had assured him countless times that he had been involved in an accident, that he had been in a coma for the last six months, and that none of that “other stuff” he kept rambling on about made any sense. Chalk it up to an elaborate dream, she would say. Maybe ICU delirium.

  But, if this new narrative about the Atlanta traffic accident were true, then what about Asteria Pharmaceuticals? The other clinical-trial outliers? Those little white sleeping pills and dreams and nightmares melting into reality?

  What about Claire and Fenton and Dawa? Nurse Natalie had confirmed Donny Ford was a patient at the very hospital Paul was staying at now; were the others real, too? Or, were they all a part of one incredibly long and lucid dream? Character actors in a coherent series of hallucinations spanning the course of six months for the simple biological reason of keeping his subconscious mind busy while he lay incapacitated in a comatose state?

  The story was plausible, Paul figured as he looked down to evaluate his aching body below. Two bony arms. A pair of chicken legs to match. Ribs showing and pale skin sagging in all the wrong places, topped off with the worst headache he could ever imagine. His hand wandered up to address the itch at the top of his head, but his fingers were blocked by a thick pad of gauze wrapping the top of his skull like a mummy. He dropped his hand and sighed. It made sense. Everything Michelle and Alex and the doctors and nurses had told him made complete sense …

  Or did it? The brain fog was thick now, corroding every rational thought with lingering doubt no matter how many times he tried to shake the condition. He anxiously rubbed his forehead with his thumb and middle finger, desperate to get the rusty mental gears turning, but it was no use. The neurons he needed were caught up in a ceasefire, with no amount of willpower able to start them up again. Why couldn’t he think straight?

  Because you were in a wreck, dummy.

  It made sense, right? Then why did it feel like something was missing? Like something didn’t add up? For a moment he panicked at the thought that something was missing—like a significant portion of his brain—but Michelle had assured him that aside from the swelling and bleeding and multiple surgeries caused by the
wreck six months earlier, everything in that thick skull of his was intact and on the mend.

  Then, a revelation. He reached for the remote and turned the television to the weather. There, in high-definition, was the date:

  SUNDAY, AUGUST 29, 2021: 88 AND SUNNY. HIGH 92. LOW 73. TEN-DAY OUTLOOK …

  August 29th. Six months after the wreck. Or, six months after being kidnapped by Ryan Tanner and flown to Costa Rica—

  “Good morning, Mr. Freeman,” a nurse said as she breezed in the door and made her way to his bedside. He nodded cordially without taking his eyes off the screen. Dates match in both stories … no help there. The nurse asked, “Have you had breakfast this morning?”

  “Huh? Uh, yeah. I ate something.” He leaned over as best he could and reached for the nurse’s arm to pull her in closer. Quietly, “Listen, you’ll be honest with me, won’t you?”

  She jerked her arm back. “I understand you’ve been through a lot, Mr. Freeman. But please don’t touch me.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Paul retreated as he let go. “I just—how long have you worked here?”

  “You know, I’m not sure that’s any of your business.”

  “No, you’re right. It’s not. I was just wondering if you’ve been here the whole time.”

  “The whole time? What do you mean?”

  “The last six months. Since I’ve been in this apparent coma. Have you been here from the start? Have I really been lying in this bed for six months?”

  She started to open her mouth when Michelle said with a stretch and a groan, “And what are we discussing on this fine morning? Because it better be coffee.”

  Paul answered as if he’d been busted talking nonsense again (as Michelle had put it several times), “I was just asking the nurse about her work experience.” He faked a laugh and joked, “Have to make sure she’s qualified, am I right?”

  Michelle said, “I worked here for five years, my dear. Trust me, everyone here’s more than qualified to do their jobs.” Michelle smiled and thanked the nurse for the patience displayed in response to her husband’s strange behavior.

  “You’re too sweet,” the nurse replied before dismissing herself to make the rest of her morning rounds.

  Michelle scooted a rolling stool over to Paul’s bedside, crossed her arms on the rail, and rested her chin. Paul asked, “Aaron at his grandmother’s?”

  “Yeah. She’s been a lifesaver over the last six months. Really stepped up to help out with Aaron, with stuff around the house, the works. Who would’ve thunk it?”

  “Does this mean we have to visit her more when I get out of here?”

  “Probably. But don’t worry. If you play your cards right you can probably milk this whole coma thing for the next decade.”

  Paul chuckled and groaned all in one breath. “I think I like the sound of that. Room service. Sponge baths. I could even get one of those little bells to ring when I need—”

  “Don’t push it, pal,” Michelle said with a half grin. She looked into each his weary eyes, pausing the playful banter for a moment before saying softly, “Listen. I know there’s a lot of stuff that doesn’t make sense right now, Paul, but I don’t want you to dwell on it too much. It makes perfect sense for you to be confused and agitated and frustrated. No one just magically wakes up from a coma; that’s Hollywood nonsense. In reality, it’s a process that takes time. Days, even weeks of drifting in and out of consciousness before your grip on the real world finally starts to stick again. Things may not be clear now, Paul, but you’ve made excellent progress. I promise, you’ll get your mind back.”

  Paul reached up and took Michelle by the hand. There was a time when the softness of her touch had been all it took to put his mind at ease. But that was before he had let doubt and distrust consume him. Even now, those negative feelings seemed intolerable, the rousing suspicion that he was being lied to crawling over his skin like an itch that had to be scratched. And, for a split-second, he almost made the same mistake he had made six months ago. Only this time, instead of wrongfully accusing the love of his life of slipping him a mickey, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was no accident; there was no coma; that his own wife was part of some grand scheme to hide the truth about Asteria and Ocula and all the bad actors that had set the stage for six of the hardest months of Paul’s life.

  Then he looked into Michelle’s eyes. Those big, beautiful, hazel eyes, brighter than the sunlight that formed a glowing halo behind her. She was everything Paul could ever have hoped for in a wife, and he wasn’t going to ruin it now. Not this time.

  “I believe you,” Paul said. “I don’t know how things’ll get better, or when. But I believe you. And I trust you and I love you and I hope you can forgive me for all the bullshit I’ve put our family through—”

  She stopped him through misty eyes and said, “I love you too, Paul. But please, don’t get upset now. You just need to get some rest, okay?” She urged him to sink back into his pillow, and within a few short blinks he could bear the heavy weight of his eyelids no more.

  She kissed him on the forehead, and he drifted off to sleep.

  ***

  “How long’s he been out?” the nurse asked.

  “Couple of hours,” Michelle said. “We can probably try and wake him.”

  “That would be good, because the neurologist wanted to go over a few things with him post-op before they send him upstairs.”

  “That’s fine,” Michelle said as she leaned over to whisper in Paul’s ear. “Paul, honey? Can you wake up for a little bit? The doctor wants to speak with you.”

  The blinds were open now, and it must have been midday, because Paul could feel the warmth of the glaring sun heating his feet under the thin white sheet. It didn’t make his light-sensitive eyes easier to open, either.

  “Can you get the blinds?”

  “Sure,” Michelle said. She walked over to close them when the doctor walked in.

  “Hello, Mr. Freeman? I’m Dr. Cline, and I’ll be going over a few things regarding your surgery today.”

  What did he say? Groggy and confused, Paul rubbed the sleep from his eyes and asked, “Doctor who?”

  “Cline. Stephen Cline.”

  Stephen Cline. Why does that name ring a bell …

  His eyes finally opened wide, and there by the bedside stood Stephen Cline, hand extended, warm smile stretched across a stubbled face. Paul lunged to the other side of the bed, his back hitting the rail, a death grip on a wad of sheets. It was the fastest he’d moved in six months. Trembling, “What’s he doing here?!” He turned to Michelle. “Did you know about this?”

  “Paul, please. Calm down. He’s just the neurosurgeon. He wants to talk to you about what happened.” She extended a hand to Paul and he flinched away, moving back toward Cline, then to the middle, helpless and unable to find a safe place on the bed. The walls were closing in, and his head was swimming.

  Dizzy. So dizzy now …

  He blinked hard and opened his eyes again. Nope. Still there. He could feel Michelle’s hand on his forearm, but her body was a blur.

  “Michelle. Please. Don’t let him near …”

  A nurse emerged from the cracked door and the blur that used to be Cline stepped back to whisper something in her ear. Then he walked to Michelle’s side and stood by her.

  “GET. AWAY. From. Her …”

  The room was spinning now, the fluorescent light above him looking more and more like a child’s mobile, swaying hypnotically above him amongst the inaudible chatter in the room. And though he put up a valiant fight, Paul’s consciousness slipped right through the fingers of his outstretched hand, desperate to keep CIA Station Chief Stephen Cline away from his wife.

  His arms dropped, and everything faded to black.

  ***

  It must have been dawn or dusk when Paul came to; the dim twilight that traced the edges of the blackout curtains over the window made it difficult to tell. He instinctively felt his face, then the top of his head
. The bandages were still there.

  Shit. This place again.

  A yawn and a rub of the forehead later and things slowly started to clear up, as they eventually did after these episodes. He looked around the room and could tell right away that the scene had changed. The walls were no longer white, but a light shade of green. Fewer monitors and machines, too. To the left of the bed was a foldout recliner with a ball of covers and an unfluffed pillow lying on the cushions. Michelle must’ve gone home to take a shower, Paul figured. Hadn’t seen Alex in a minute, either, but Paul wouldn’t expect him to stick around for every (unpredictable) waking moment.

  The haze continued to lift as Paul looked to the right and noticed the light blue cubicle curtain surrounding another patient bed on the other side. Someone must be in it, because when he looked across the room he saw the other television was tuned to some travel show featuring aerial shots of islands and jungles and tropical wildlife. Paul quickly looked away. He could spend the rest of his life without seeing another jungle and he’d be just fine.

  A knock at the door, and in walked the nurse. “Good to see you up and at ’em, Mr. Freeman.”

  Paul nodded, still groggy but well aware of what his stomach was trying to tell him. “Think I can get something to eat?” he asked.

  “I was just about to ask you if you were hungry.” She handed him a printout of the breakfast menu.

  It was breakfast. Morning. Another day, vanished into thin air. It seemed like losing blocks of time was something Paul was going to have to get used to.

  Sighing, “Got any eggs? Bacon? Maybe some coffee?”

  “Wow, someone’s really got their appetite back.” She slid a pen across his tray table. “Just circle what you want there and I’ll place an order in the kitchen. I’ll have to check and see if coffee’s acceptable, so if not just go ahead and circle a backup or two.”

  Paul got to work on his assignment and immediately noticed how weak his grip was on the pen. He made a fist, then stretched his fingers and repeated the exercise until the pins and needles subsided and a little strength had returned with the blood flow. But even with his newfound grip, he couldn’t get the damn pen to work.