Before I Wake

by Robert J. Wiersema

  “You can call me Karen,” I said, as if this were the most normal situation in the world, just a couple of people getting to know one another while a machine breathed for my daughter.

  “Karen, then. Are you doing all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Have you had something to eat? You’re recuperating too.”

  My fingers strayed to the bandage on my head.

  “I’ll get them to bring you a dinner,” he said, making a note in the file. “And later on I’ll see to it that they wheel in a cot. These chairs are a pretty uncomfortable way to spend the night.”

  “Thank you.” I was on the verge of tears again.

  He waved it away. “It’s too bad this room isn’t a little bigger. There’s only enough room for one cot, so someone’s going to have to spend the night in the chair.” He winked at me. “You’ll have to draw straws.”

  I tried to smile.

  “So how’s our other patient?” He leaned over the rail, taking Sherry’s narrow wrist between his thumb and forefinger, timing her pulse with his wristwatch. Untucking the stethoscope from his pocket, he gently folded back the bedclothes and raised the gown she was wearing.

  I stepped back a little, tasting bile. Her body seemed to be a mess of bruises, mottled black and purple, bandaged in places.

  He noticed me staring. “It’s not as bad as it looks. Just bruises, from the impact of the truck and from the fall.”

  I nodded.

  “We’ve bandaged up the worst of the contusions. They’ll clear up pretty quickly. Nothing to worry about there…” He snapped the stethoscope in his ears and leaned over her, placing the cold metal disc just under Sherry’s left nipple. He stared out into the middle distance as he listened, moved the stethoscope and stared into the distance again.

  He nodded slowly as he straightened up, lowering Sherry’s gown and tucking her back in.

  Then he carefully lifted her eyelid with his thumb, moving the forefinger of his other hand slowly across her line of vision before taking a small light from his pocket and following the path of his finger with it.

  He slid the light back into his pocket and made his notations in her file before he spoke. “Well, all of her vital signs are stable. Her heartbeat is a little slow and her temperature is a bit high, but that’s to be expected.”

  “Will she…” The words were out of my mouth before I realized it, and I wished immediately that I could take them back.

  “Will she be all right?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  He took the briefest of moments before he spoke.

  “It’s still too early to say, one way or another. We just don’t know.” He shrugged. “But we are going to do everything in our power to ensure Sherilyn’s full recovery. Everything we can do.”

  I smiled wanly at him.

  “Okay?”

  I nodded. “Okay.”

  “Good. Now I’m going to get you some dinner and we’ll see to it that you get a cot in here.” He turned toward the door but then stopped. “I want you to take care of yourself, okay?”

  I nodded again.

  File of Barrett, Sherilyn Amber

  4/24 18:25

  Notes: bp 90/60, P 54. Pupils sluggishly reactive. Glasgow Coma Scale 6. Low grade fever. Bibasilar rales and increasing oxygen requirements. Possible early ventilator associated pneumonia. Start ceftriaxone and gatifloxacin now.

  S. McKinley

  KAREN

  I pulled the chair to the foot of Sherry’s bed and angled it so that I would be able to see when Simon returned. I looked up every time someone passed the open doorway. Nurses would stop and glance in, ask me if I wanted anything. An orderly brought dinner, covered with a plastic lid, and left it on the table without a word.

  I waited for my husband, listening to the machine breathe for my daughter.

  “Mrs. Barrett?” The man in the doorway was a dark shadow against the bright lights from the corridor.

  “Yes?”

  He took several steps into the room, a tall stranger in a black coat, clutching a battered brown book to his chest. The light from above Sherry’s bed reflected off the smoothness of his head, from the wire rims of his glasses and from the white of his clerical collar.

  “Mrs. Barrett, I’m—”

  “No.” I shook my head. “No. We don’t need you here.”

  He let the hand holding his Bible fall to his side. “Mrs. Barrett—”

  “I’m no longer in the Church,” I said.

  He nodded. “I understand. But faith can be a comfort and a source of guidance in these times.”

  I shook my head. “Did my mother call you? Did she?” Calling a priest to come to the hospital was exactly the sort of thing my mother would do.

  “No, I was making my rounds.”

  “Please…I don’t need you. We don’t need you.”

  He nodded as if he had heard that response before. “There’s a chapel here, if you change your mind.”

  He stood there for a long moment, staring at me as if waiting for me to speak.

  I turned my attention wholly to Sherry. Eventually I heard his footsteps receding down the corridor.

  The Church. That was the last thing I needed.

  “Karen?”

  I glanced up again, barely recognizing the woman who stood there.

  “Jamie?”

  When she threw her arms around me and hugged me, I tried to remember how long it had been since I’d last seen her.

  “How is she?” she whispered.

  “I don’t…The doctors don’t know. They say she could wake up at any time.”

  “Oh, Karen.” She kept an arm around me as I turned back to the bed.

  We both looked down at Sherry as her chest rose and fell, rose and fell.

  “It’s been a long time, Jamie,” I said.

  “Couple of years.”

  “I sort of dropped off the map.”

  “You had a new baby. It was natural to want to stay at home.”

  “Is that really how long it’s been?”

  She nodded. “I think the last time we really spent any time was at the baby shower.”

  Jamie had been my closest friend at the paper, my only confidante. “I’m sorry.”

  “It was as much my fault as anything,” she said, gently squeezing my shoulder. “Water under the bridge.”

  “How did you hear about Sherry?”

  “Someone at City picked up the 9-1-1 call on their scanner this morning. Did all the usual follow-up, and when it came back that Karen Barrett had been involved…Everybody’s hearts are with you, Kar.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Are you okay?”

  My hand went to the bandage. “Bumps and bruises. Nothing that won’t heal.”

  “And Simon?”

  “What?”

  “Is Simon around?”

  “Oh, he’ll be back. He had to go in to the office, clear his calendar.”

  “How’s he taking it?”

  “Well, you know Simon.”

  She didn’t. Not really.

  “Can I get you anything?”

  I tried to smile. “No, I’m okay. But thanks.”

  “No big deal.”

  “No, I mean, thanks for coming. You didn’t have to.”

  “Aw, hon, I got here as soon as I could.”

  SIMON

  The cabbie took the corner sharply onto the Johnson Street Bridge, changing lanes and cutting off an Audi next to us.

  Mary had awakened me with a kiss to my temple. So beautiful, the sight of her face as I opened my eyes. I was naked under an old comforter that had probably been on her bed as a teenager, that had accompanied her to university, to law school and now into her apartment overlooking the Inner Harbour. Her apartment.

  I jerked up. “I have to…How long have I been asleep?”

  She glanced over at the clock on the VCR. “An hour or so.”

  “Shit.” I dumped the comforter onto the floor as I
stood. “Why did you—?”

  “I thought you could use the sleep,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  I shook my head. “No, it’s my fault. I should have known better. I shouldn’t have—” The look on her face stopped me from finishing the sentence.

  The cabbie leaned on the horn, cursing under his breath at a cyclist who dared to ride in the same lane.

  “Hey,” I said. “You want to ease off a bit, maybe get me to the hospital alive?”

  He responded with a grumble, turning up the radio.

  The taxi slammed to a stop at a light on lower Johnson Street, throwing me forward. Glancing up, I made eye contact with the cabbie in the rearview mirror.

  Mary had wanted to drive me to the hospital, but I had shaken my head.

  “You’re right, that’d be stupid,” she said.

  “No, it’s not that. I think I just need a little time to myself.”

  “Okay. Just call me when you can, all right?”

  I nodded. “Oh, and listen…”

  I guess she heard the work tone in my voice, because she interrupted me, smiling, to say, “Sheila cleared your calendar for the next couple of days. Tom’s going to argue for a postponement on Kitteridge. Bob Arnold was a little pissed, but everyone understands.” She shrugged. “Won’t be a problem.”

  As soon as the light changed, the cab squealed into motion, slamming into the right turn lane, passing the sedan we had been behind, jerking back in front of it. I lurched from side to side. “Jesus Christ,” I muttered, my voice rising as I found my balance. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “You wanna shut up, pal, or should I drop you off right here?” He half-turned in his seat to face me.

  “Just watch your driving.”

  He pulled over to the curb and hit the brakes, jarring to a halt in a cloud of natural-gas exhaust.

  “You wanna get the fuck—” He started as he turned to face me again. I lunged forward and punched him in the nose. There was a popping noise as the cartilage shattered and blood poured onto his shirt front in a gush.

  “What the fuck?” he sputtered, frantically holding his nose, spraying blood with every breath. “I’m gonna call a cop.”

  “Go ahead, Mr.”—I glanced at the license for his name—“Fredericks. Go ahead. You can explain your driving, your recklessness. They’ll probably take your license. Go ahead.” I opened the door and extended one leg to step out.

  “I’m gonna call my lawyer,” he called after me.

  Leaning in, I dropped a five-dollar bill on his seat along with one of my business cards. “Please do.”

  I slammed the door behind me.

  So I was walking to the hospital, where my daughter lay dying.

  Make no mistake—I knew what was going on. I knew how much the doctor was leaving out. “She could wake up anytime…it’s too early to tell…”

  Downtown was deserted except for the prostitutes, the street kids with their dogs and drums, the drug dealers and the junkies. The prostitutes stood brazenly at the curbsides in miniskirts and tank tops, or trench coats that flashed the nakedness underneath. I was subject to close study as I walked past, avoiding eye contact.

  The doctor hadn’t come out and said that Sherry was dying, that she would never wake up, that the damage was too great and there was nothing anyone could do. But I knew. For Karen’s sake, I was grateful for the dissembling. It gave her the time she needed, a chance to adjust, to accept, to say good-bye in her own way.

  Good-bye.

  Oh Christ, what sort of a world…what sort of a person…

  No.

  I choked back the rage I felt building, and the tears. I’d had my time for weakness. I still couldn’t believe that I had run to Mary, leaving Sherry in that bed, leaving Karen hurt—and hurting. That was enough self-pity and weakness for one night.

  The walk to the hospital passed in a blur. I steeled myself before walking through the emergency-room doors, checking my watch. 9:20. I prayed that Karen wouldn’t be too angry. That she wouldn’t ask too many questions.

  She was where I had left her all those hours before, leaning over the bed in a pool of harsh yellow light. She looked up as she heard me come into the room.

  “Jamie was here,” she said.

  “Jamie?”

  “From the paper? You remember.”

  “Of course.”

  “Where have you been?”

  I set my briefcase on the floor beside the bed. “At the office.” I leaned over the bed rail. “How is she?”

  “I tried calling.”

  “You know how hard it is to get a call through once the switchboard closes. Did you try my cell?”

  “I needed you.” She was biting her lip, and I could see that she had been crying.

  “I know. I’m here now.”

  “Did you get everything done that you needed to?”

  “I think so. I might have to go in for a bit tomorrow, but it should be all right.” Such a bastard.

  She nodded. I slipped my arm around her back, shifting as she snuggled into me. “How is she?”

  “The doctor came in just after you left, checked her, said that everything was stable. They’ll do some more tests in the morning. Have you had anything to eat?” She gestured at an untouched hospital tray.

  Mary had made me a couple of slices of toast and a poached egg. The smell of the hospital room was making the food congeal in my belly. “I’m fine.”

  “They’ll be bringing a cot up soon, so one of us can sleep here. I don’t want to go home tonight. I don’t want to leave.”

  “Of course not.”

  “One of us has to sleep in the chair, though.” She gestured at the molded plastic furniture and grimaced.

  “I’ll take the chair.”

  “No, you take the cot. I probably won’t sleep anyway.”

  In the end, neither of us slept. The cot stayed folded up where the orderly left it. We stood at the bedside all night, not speaking, watching our daughter dying before our eyes, though only one of us knew it.

  HENRY

  I walked downtown from Hillside Centre, through James Bay, then along the water and back into downtown. I needed to keep moving. I kept checking behind me, half-expecting the police or the mother of that little girl to be following me, but no one seemed to notice me. There was no eye contact with anyone, no strange looks.

  But everywhere I went I could feel her with me. I could feel the little girl I had hit in the crosswalk hovering over me. I could almost see her.

  It felt like I was drifting, but I wasn’t surprised when I found myself outside the hospital. It was where I had been heading all along, without even realizing it.

  The little girl’s mother was sitting in the waiting room, a bandage around her head. A man sat on the vinyl bench next to her. They each held a coffee cup, and they both looked up when I came into the waiting room. I took a step back, but she had no way of recognizing me.

  They both turned away. I was completely alone, a ghost, a spirit haunting their lives.

  A doctor brushed past me, and the two of them stood up as he came over to them.

  I didn’t hear too much of what he said. Coma. Accident. Their names.

  Simon. Karen. Sherry.

  Sherry was the little girl’s name.

  It was late in the afternoon before I even thought of Arlene and the kids. Would the police have come to the apartment looking for me? Arlene must be worried sick. For a moment I thought about going home, or at least calling to let them know I was all right.

  But I didn’t.

  I wasn’t.

  Victoria New Sentinel

  Thursday, April 25, 1996

  Hit-and-Run

  Girl, 3, comatose following accident

  Police Seek Driver

  ~ City Desk ~

  The family of three-year-old Sherilyn Barrett waited anxiously last night for a change in their daughter’s condition following a hit-and-run accident on Hillside Avenue yesterday morni
ng. The girl has been in a coma since being struck by a vehicle while crossing at a marked crosswalk near Hillside Centre with her mother, Karen Barrett.

  “It’s really too early to tell,” said a hospital spokesperson yesterday afternoon. “We’re optimistic.”

  Police are requesting that anyone who may have seen the accident please contact their local detachment to assist in the investigation. Police are also seeking Henry Denton, 24, for questioning.

  KAREN

  “Can I take a look at that file?” Simon asked, gesturing to the folder that Dr. McKinley was holding loosely at his side. The doctor was looking freshly pressed in clean greens. It seemed we were his first stop of the morning.

  He hesitated just a beat before handing it over. “Let me know if there’s anything in there you can’t read, or would like me to explain.”

  “Simon does a lot of personal injury work,” I explained. “He’s good with charts.”

  The doctor glanced at me, then busied himself checking Sherry’s breathing.

  Simon rustled through the pages, taking it all in, nodding fractionally as he moved from point to point.

  “What do you think?” I asked, lowering my voice as if the doctor couldn’t or shouldn’t hear us.

  “Just what he said. Too early to tell.” He closed the file.

  The doctor looked up from where he leaned over the bed, listening through his stethoscope. He held up one finger, holding our attention and our silence for the few seconds it took him to finish. Then he folded the stethoscope and tucked it into a pocket.

  “I’m a little concerned with Sherilyn’s lungs,” he said.

  A new sense of dread took hold.

  “Her breathing seems a little…moist. I’m worried that she might be at risk for pneumonia.”

  Simon and the doctor exchanged a look.

  “What’s going on?” I asked. “What aren’t you telling us?”

  “It’s the pneumonia we’re most concerned with right now. If she gets it…there’s really nothing we can do.”

  I started to speak, but he held out his hand to stop me. “I’m increasing her antibiotics. We’ll do everything we can to stave it off, but while she’s on the respirator she’s at risk for opportunistic infection.”