by L. Duarte
The air becomes thick, making it hard to breathe. I hear the blare of sirens getting closer and louder, giving me a moment of hope. After what seems like a century, the ambulance screeches to a stop near me. The driver parks so close, I can feel the heat emanating from the vehicle.
“Clear the way.” I hear the paramedics say as they approach.
“Performing CPR on a female, approximately mid twenties. Unresponsive due to an MVA; no pulse and no breathing.” The man in front of me competently informs the paramedic.
“Taking over compressions…” A female paramedic positions her body alongside the nurse, her hands replacing his.
“Are you related to the victim?” The other paramedic begins to palpate her body.
“No, I think he is. But he seems in shock.” The nurse points to me.
“Sir, are you related to the victim?” he directs the question to me.
I shake my head slightly, his face is under a haze, and his voice is distorted.
“Sir, we need you to stay with us,” his voice is domineering and firm. “Are you related to her?”
“I, um, she is my wife,” I stutter. It seems there is a lump on my throat. “She was hit by a car, she stood there, and the car came at her,” I say, with the sensation of an alternative reality sucking me in.
“Air way clear, administer breathing.” They place a mask over her face and blow air into her lungs.
“Applying a hard collar,” another EMT says.
A police officer begins to move the suffocating crowd away from us. There are more paramedics, fire fighters, and police officers arriving, but my gaze locks on Portia’s body. I glance briefly at the red lights in an unwary spin and casting eerie shadows on Portia’s face. I don’t realize I am crying, but when a cold wind bites my skin, I realize my face is drenched from tears.
The EMT rummages through his pocket for scissors, and I see the sharp blades slashing her shirt, exposing her chest. He deftly applies electrodes to her chest. And utters, “Clear for AED.” All hands are off her body. The man who applied the electrodes pushes a button, sending an electrical shock through her body. I stifle a cry when Portia’s body warps. Her upper body jerks, rising from the ground as they administer the electrical shocks.
“Resume CPR.”
I am trembling, and my heart beats too fast. Each pump of her chest hurts my body, slaying a piece of me. I lose track of how many times her chest sinks under the harsh pressure. I cringe at every electrical shock they administer to her body.
How long has it been? I don’t know what to do, my hand itches to reach for hers, but I don’t want to interfere with their work.
Glancing to the side, I see another paramedic assisting the driver out of the car that hit Portia. He wears a red shirt, the same shade as my sweetheart’s blood. He seems distressed, but I wrench my eyes away from the sight of him. Inside my chest, an unbidden anger arises.
I close my eyes; pain and agony permeate inside me. Every inch of my body hurts with a desperate need to urge Portia’s heart to initiate its beat, which will spread life through her barren body.
I remember when Dominick died and I just stood there, unable to prevent the bony fingers of death from claiming him. Reality slams across my face. Certain things in life are beyond our control. Life is a delicate tapestry woven together by cobweb-like threads that are thin and sensitive. Yet, we never give it a lot of thought or proper appreciation.
Please, please God, let her live. I beg. There is nothing else I can do or say. I feel the soul-crushing weight of death hovering over Portia’s body when a word comes to mind: miracle. At times like this, there is no space for being politically correct or proud. It matters not if we deny pledging to a faith. We become believers of a greater power that has the ability of stepping in and performing the unimaginable. And we realize how small and fragile we really are.
So, I gather all my courage to do the only thing I can possibly do. I let God take control over the outcome and decide the ultimate fate of my other half.
My body, relaxed and weightless, wakes to a sweet aroma of flowers on a spring morning. I stretch my limbs, and languidly open my eyes.
The day is bright, and I hear the sound of hummingbirds fluttering their wings very close to me. Oh, how I love hummingbirds! I scan my surroundings and blink my eyes, adjusting to the vibrant and lush colors. Flowers tumble from enormous vases, under the deep green canopies of trees. I have seen this shade of green before, but I can’t focus. I scramble up, relishing the soft caress of the grass under my bare feet.
The absence of people and the silence soothe me. For an unknown reason, I feel in need of peace.
“Hello,” a crystal voice greets me. I turn, and two tall men smile at me.
“Hi, where am I?” I arch a brow.
“Follow us, someone is waiting for you.” One of them orders me gently, and guides me through a maze of colorful gardens.
I look around, trying to register the sight of every pretty flower, inhale the mixture of exotic scents, hear every note of the symphony of hums, and sense every soft texture caressing my skin. I smile, realizing that I am incredibly responsive to all the sensory stimulations.
After I blink, the scenery morphs. I step into a white room. The floor seems fluffy and I seem to float, rather than walk. It’s peaceful, ethereal.
“There He is.”
A very young man with olive-colored skin, raven hair, and dressed in white, beckons to me. He flashes me a smile and I see that his teeth are perfectly white. I consider asking him for the name of his dentist.
“Finally, you’ve made it.” He opens his arms, invitingly. I have never seen him before, but I am unable to refuse the warmth of his embrace.
“I’ve waited for you, for a very long time.”
I rest my head on his chest, in an intimate way. “Where am I and who are you?” I finally break free from his peaceful, soothing touch.
“You are where you belong. Home.”
I shake my head, confused. What he tells me is coherent to the way I feel, but my mind tries unsuccessfully to catch up.
“Some people call it heaven.”
“So, have I died?” I frown, but for a reason beyond my reasoning, an endless sense of peace envelops me.
“Yeah, some people say that.”
My head floats with tremendous joy. Really? I thought I would be more upset about the news of my recent death. Surprisingly at ease, I smile at my host. I scramble my mind trying to remember how I got here. Then, a sharp pain slits across my heart. I clench my fist, and bring it to my chest. “Will,” I mumble. For the first time, the complete sense of peace deserts me. I glance up to meet the man’s unchanging, serene expression. His eyes exude warmth as he examines my face.
“Wow. Aren’t you in love with Will?” His lips turn up in a soothing smile.
“Are you God?”
“Some people call me that.” He reaches out his hand and leads me to a white couch.
“What’s happening?” A wall of clouds swirls ferociously alongside us.
“The paradigms are shifting.”
“What you mean?”
“The plates where your life story stands are changing, stretching, and morphing into an open-ended period.”
“Why?”
“Because you and Will found each other and visited Aurora. Now heaven is recalibrating your itinerary to fit with a possible new outcome.”
“A new ending to my life?”
“Yes. Whether you will stay here or not.”
“Oh. I don’t understand.”
“There is a book where all things are registered, where plans and purposes are documented. It includes dates and times of when you are expected to join us.”
I inhale deeply. “I like it here. Amazing since I just arrived, but already, I feel at home.”
“Because it is. You were meant to spend eternity here. But Will has been given a chance to have you back.”
“Is that how it works?”
“Sometimes.”
“Why?”
“One thing we really enjoy is when someone talks to us like we exist. It really moves heaven, you know. On earth, you call it faith.” God smiles and looks at me. “Did you ever hear Will’s thoughts? Of course not. Here, listen. This is a snippet of what you call prayer.”
I hear a quiet whisper slowly seeping through my brain. The sound seems internal, inside my head: “She is my life. I can’t go on without her. Please, let her stay with me. We just found each other. I waited for so long. Please give her back to me.”
Instinctively, my eyes fill with tears. The agonizing sound of Will’s cry disappears. I try to understand what is happening. “So, you are saying that I am going back?”
“Yes and no. What is released on earth is released here. Oftentimes, people forget their incredible power. Will wants you back, Portia. Even though your days were numbered, what Will asks me can be granted to him. But I cannot violate your free will. You were supposed to join us today, it was written long ago, before your time. Throughout your life, an increasingly painful void haunted you. Through Will and the love you have for each other, you have tasted a glimpse of the joy I can offer you. Here you have the promise of never being in pain again.” He smiles.
“Why do I sense you really, really want me to stay?” I ask. “I don’t even know you that well.”
“But I know you. And love you, Portia, with everlasting love.”
“Why?”
“Up here, we love every single creature that breathes. But we are particularly fond of the unloved ones.”
“It is weird, but there is a sense of a perfect fit. I want to stay. But I also want to be with Will.”
“Your mate sensed long ago that your time was running out. He drew you to him. He found a way to make your paths cross. The will of Will, is unbelievable.” He sighs and then smiles. “The whole universe, obeying supernatural laws, conspired in his favor, bringing you to him,” he says.
“Though you found an anchor to keep you on earth, you can return to dust and your soul to us, the choice is yours,” he adds.
My love for Will cries out from deep inside my soul. But my spirit is peaceful, full, and perfectly complete. I look at God and smile. (Side note: Talking to God is nerve-racking.) He flashes his incredibly white teeth at me. He stands and reaches his hand to me. I accept it. Without me saying a word, he tells me.
“I knew it. Your choice couldn’t make me happier.”
A sharp pain with destructive power cut through my chest, destroying my will to live in a world where the absence of Portia reigns.
“I got a pulse,” an emotionless voice announces. But I swear that, to me, it sounded like a choir of angels declaring life over Portia. Suddenly, I too beat to life and hope returns to my mind, body, and soul.
“Prepare transport to hospital.”
I snap my head on the direction of the man announcing it.
“But is she breathing?” I ask.
“Barely,” he says, already securing her unmoving body on a gurney.
As if on automatic pilot, I crawl inside the ambulance. There is no way in hell I will leave Portia’s side. The small space keeps me close to her flaccid, motionless body. A quiet sob rises in my throat and I begin to weep. As the ambulance speeds away, my hands ache to touch her, but I’m afraid to disrupt the paramedics’ work. I clench my fists, and drop them to my thighs. Quickly, but not fast enough for me, the paramedics push the gurney out of the vehicle.
My heart falters when they disappear behind the doors, and a nurse pushes me back. “Sir, that’s restricted area. You need to fill out the paperwork for admitting her and wait.” My eyes are cloudy and my mind hazy. I need to gather all my wits to register the directions the nurse provides me.
In the ER administrative area, I stand behind a window watching impatiently as a woman behind the desk slowly types the information I provide into the computer.
“Is it Portia McGee, the Hollywood actress?” She inquires unemotionally, through her nasal voice. It seems that Portia’s profession is a disease to be listed and the process to admit her is delaying the woman’s coffee break.
“Yes, is there a problem?” I ask defensively.
“Please wait, I’ll have to call my supervisor.” I tap my foot on the pale linoleum floor. I dry my sweaty hands on my jeans, and inhale a ragged breath of air. I hear her whispering on the phone, something about a protocol. She hangs up the phone, and directs her attention back to me.
“Mr. Miller, when we have celebrities at the hospital, we need to ensure their privacy is not breached. So, if you wait here, you will need to meet with the head of security.”
I shake my head, exasperated with the news. Do I really need to go through this damn process? But immediately, I see two men striding my way.
“Mr. Miller, I am Earl Burton, the director of the hospital, and this is Wayne Jackson, the head of our security team. Please follow us.”
They guide me to a very private and comfortable waiting room. The head of security, whose name I’ve I already forgotten, goes through an endless list of the precautionary actions they will implement. They reassure me that Portia’s privacy will be of utmost priority to their security team. And nothing regarding her medical status will be released to the press through any member of the medical team.
“In cases of someone as famous as your wife, it is common for fans or member of the press to try to gain access to the medical record,” the director informs me.
I simply nod, anxious to end the awkward conversation. My stomach roils. It sickens me that while Portia is fighting for her life on a cold operating table, we are talking of ways to keep her safe from prying scavengers trying to snap pictures or learn details of her condition. Truly disgusting.
After they leave, I try to organize my jumbled thoughts. I decide to call Dan because I desperately need him and his unwavering faith. Also, I call Stefan, so he can notify Portia’s family, and Niki and Tarry. Through a cloud of tears, I wander across the room. I am unafraid if people think I am mad. I huddle behind a small sofa by a large glass window. I feel like a wild animal in need of refuge.
Lost in my fear and agony, I don’t respond when Dan and Maritza sit next to me. Dan whispers for a long time, what I think are prayers. After some time, he squeezes my shoulder and gets up. From the floor, I watch the vast sky. Thin clouds swell with darkening silver-gray moisture and roll closer, indicating the coming of a storm. At some point, Mr. McGee enters the room. From a distance, I hear him speak with Dan. He approaches me, but I deliberately ignore him.
“Hi, I am Doctor Jacob Suzan; I am here for a brief update on Portia’s status.”
My head snaps to face the doctor. My heart constricts. I sprint up. “I am her husband,” I breathlessly inform the doctor.
“Excuse me, there has to be a mistake. I am her father, and Portia is single,” Mr. McGee utters.
“You would know me, if you paid the slightest attention to Portia. But as you told your own daughter, Portia is not enough of a family member to participate in a goddamn Thanksgiving dinner.” My nostrils flare when I look at his broken expression. I think I hate the man. I identify the weakness of character by the way he pitifully glances at his wife. He appears full of regret. Hypocrite. She needed you then, not now.
“They got married last week. In fact, I married them.” Dan turns to the doctor and informs. “I am Reverend Dan Miller, and this is my son Will Miller.”
I make a mental prayer, thankful that Dan is wearing his collar, which most people tend to respect.
“Well…” Dr. Suzan glances at Mr. McGee, searching for approval. Mr. McGee nods in agreement.
“An initial medical evaluation and a full body MRI indicate that Portia has a fractured clavicle, a fracture to her left tibia, five broken ribs, a strain in her wrist, a laceration of her kidney, a punctured liver, and a collapsed lung. Since she can’t breathe, she has been placed on a respirator.”
“What do
es all this mean? Is she going to be OK?” Mr. McGee asks.
“She has severe internal bleeding that needs to be contained, which right now is our priority. Once we stop the bleeding, she will undergo a series of surgeries to repair the damaged organs.”
“Is she going to be OK?” I croak.
“We are doing the best we can to keep her alive. I came to give you an update on her current status. But, if you will excuse me, I have to go back to the operating room. A nurse will give you updates as the surgery progresses.”
As if seeing through fuzzy lenses, I see the doctor disappear behind the door. I can’t get myself to talk or even look at Portia’s family. Dan places his hand on my shoulder.
“She will come through,” he says.
Inhaling deeply, I gag, not because of smell of bleach and disinfectant that abrades my nostrils. The grim smell of death pervades the hospital. I scramble back to the corner, and drop to the floor.
I close my eyes, and block out every voice on the room. I think of my wedding night with Portia, tangled together under the open sky back in our meadow. I go to Aurora. I mentally cry out, in the hopes that Portia will hear my mental plea and find her way back to me. I don’t know how many hours I spend curled up, but at some point, the room buzzes with familiar voices. I identified Mel, Lucas, Tarry, Niki, and Stefan.
From time to time, someone nudges me to offer food or a drink. Unable to restrain myself, I growl in response. Finally, I hear a doctor enter the room and announce the end of the series of the surgeries.
I leap up. My eyes search his face for a clue of Portia’s status. Impassively, I wait for the doctor’s report. In those few seconds, I feel as if I’ve aged ten thousand years.
“We were able to stop the internal bleeding; Portia has gone into surgery to repair her injured lung and liver. Her kidney suffered minor lacerations but will heal without surgery.”